Reviewing ‘Raphael: Sublime Poetry’ at the Met
A meal largely of hors d’oeuvres and leftovers.
Yonder’s a work now, of that famous youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
(’Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and through his art—for it gives way
— from “Andrea del Sarto” by Robert Browning
In Robert Browning’s poem “Andrea del Sarto”, the eponymous High Renaissance painter (1486-1530) delivers a lengthy diatribe to his wife, lamenting his lesser popularity as compared to contemporaries whom he considered to be less accomplished than himself. Among these, del Sarto singles out Raphael, arguing that the artist from Urbino succeeded because of the maxim, “less is more”. Would that The Metropolitan Museum of Art had taken such an editorial approach to its latest, rather ungainly exhibition.
“Raphael: Sublime Poetry”, which opened recently at The Met, is the first-ever major American retrospective on the life and work of Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino (1483-1520), the multi-faceted Italian Renaissance painter, architect, and designer known simply as “Raphael”. The exhibition represents a major curatorial undertaking, having taken eight years to bring to fruition with the temporary loan of objects by or associated with Raphael from collections around the world.
That no museum in the United States has attempted a show on this scale until now may seem surprising, given Raphael’s importance in art history, but as we shall see there are reasons why this is the case.
Raphael has always been considered one of the “Big Three” artists of the High Renaissance, alongside Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) and Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564).
Beloved during his own lifetime by the papacy and the aristocracy, thanks to his good taste, courtly manners, and dedicated work ethic, Raphael’s influence only increased in the centuries following his death from illness at the age of 37. His portraits were copied by artists as different from one another as Rubens, Rembrandt, and Ingres, while his frescoes and altarpieces were closely studied in the art academies, which held them up as paragons of artistic perfection for students to imitate.
Even the smallest of Raphael’s drawings were eagerly sought after by discerning collectors.
By the end of the 19th century, however, the unflinching devotion of the art establishment to a kind of frozen perfectionism, inspired by but often lacking the innate grace of Raphael, unsurprisingly led to his rejection by younger practitioners and patrons.
With the advent of the mass production of consumer goods, bad reproductions of Raphael’s work were slapped on everything from greeting cards to biscuit tins to spittoons, which were often “enhanced” with saccharine pink and gold embellishments.
As with any art or design trend, oversaturation eventually led to the dismissal of what inspired it. By the end of the 20th century Raphael, if remembered at all in the popular imagination, was known primarily as the eponym of an anthropomorphic turtle who practices martial arts.
The initial impression one gets of The Met show is of its immense size. Spread through the temporary exhibition galleries are well more than 170 objects, the majority of them by Raphael himself, along with a selection of associated pieces created by his contemporaries or followers.
Following a roughly chronological path, the visitor begins with Raphael’s antecedents and earliest works in Urbino, continues through his so-called “Florentine Period”, and concludes with his artistic maturity and greatest renown following his permanent move to Rome.
In addition to painting both sacred and secular art, Raphael worked in a variety of media, and examples of these appear in the show as well: everything from architectural renderings to schematics for ceiling mosaics to tapestries woven from his designs.
Early on, however, it becomes apparent that there is something slightly off regarding the claims of this exhibition.
Museums often seek to entice visitors by creating what the art press will refer to as a “blockbuster” or “once in a lifetime” experience, which is understandable given what goes into putting on a show of this kind. Yet for an event marketed as gathering together some of “the artist’s greatest masterpieces and rarely seen treasures”, the show is extremely light on the former and rather heavy on the latter.
This sense of trying to do more with more, while at the same time achieving less with less, is particularly frustrating given that Raphael has always been the favorite artist of this reviewer.
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There are 33 paintings in this show, the majority by Raphael. A decent number, given that some of Raphael’s paintings are in a delicate state of preservation and cannot travel, and others are, understandably, the crown jewels of institutions who do not want to send these pictures a great distance away for several months. It is miraculous that The Met managed to snag the loans of any Raphael paintings at all, particularly from collections located outside of the United States.
The problem is that, with a few exceptions, the majority of the paintings in this exhibition are either second-rank works or hold, at best, a primarily academic interest.
Take the Madonna and Child, probably the area of sacred art for which Raphael is most justly famous. Virtually none of the great Raphael Madonnas are present in this exhibition.
Missing are major masterpieces such as the “Madonna del Granduca” (1505) and the “Madonna of the Chair” (c.1513-14) from the Pitti; the “Madonna of the Goldfinch” (c.1505-06) from the Uffizi; “La Belle Jardinière” (1507) from the Louvre; or Raphael’s greatest depiction of the subject, “The Sistine Madonna” (c.1513-14) from Dresden.
The only significant example of this genre in the exhibition is the “Alba Madonna” (c.1511) tondo from the National Gallery of Art - though, as a fellow denizen of D.C. remarked, “Seems silly to go all the way to New York to look at something I can see whenever I want.”
The painting’s importance lies in its demonstration of how completely Raphael absorbed what he had observed in the work of both Leonardo and Michelangelo, such as the misty landscapes of the former, and the figural monumentality of the latter, which he then fused together with his own sense of style. The painting serves as the centerpiece of the show, and it was enlightening to see it displayed alongside some of its preparatory drawings, thereby adding to the understanding of Raphael’s thought process and working methods.
The subject of drawing, however, brings us to a critical problem with this exhibition. There are a lot of Raphael drawings in this show: dozens and dozens (and dozens) of them. Some are double-sided, and displayed on stands so that one can see both the front and back of the sheet on which they appear. Several are so darkened by age or so faintly executed that they are very difficult to see.
In many cases the drawings serve as stand-ins for important pieces that are noticeably absent.
The Borghese did not lend “The Deposition” (1507) for example, so there are some sketches of the figures in the picture, alongside the cartoon used for the final piece, as well as a sculpture that sort-of looks like it.
There is also a group of beautifully finished studies for the heads of the Apostles in “The Transfiguration” (1516-20), perhaps Raphael’s greatest religious painting. The drawings are arranged in such a way that one expects to turn the corner and see the altarpiece itself – except that it is still at The Vatican.
Strangely and seemingly unnecessarily, there are also many drawings of secondary works that are not in the show.
Returning to the theme of the Madonna and Child, the surviving portion of the cartoon for the “Tempi Madonna” (1508) in Munich is in this exhibition, for example. The painting itself is not a major Raphael, though it has always been a personal favorite.
The emotional and physical intimacy between the figures, the realistic sense of movement as Mary catches Jesus in her arms, and even just the notion of the God of the universe allowing Himself to be picked up and carried in such a fashion by someone whom He created, have always deeply moved me. I was pleased to see the cartoon, but given that the painting itself is neither in the exhibition nor hugely important, why include the drawing at all?
Similarly “The Bridgewater Madonna” (1507), from the Duke of Sutherland’s collection, is not in the show either. It is another so-so Raphael and, as I have never particularly cared for it, I did not notice its absence at first. Yet a preparatory sketch for the figure of the Christ Child in this picture appears in the exhibition, even though the painting itself does not.
Again, one has to ask: why is the drawing here?
For an exhibition that seeks to cover the entire length and spectrum of Raphael’s career, rather than take a deep dive into his work as a draftsman (though he is among the greatest who ever lived), the presence of so many drawings seems excessive.
This begs the question: is the show attempting to make up for, in the sheer number of objects it contains, what it lacks in the number of actual masterpieces? Not being privy to any inside information, it is difficult to say, but perhaps the answer lies with a trip down institutional memory lane.
Having mounted major exhibitions on Leonardo and Michelangelo over the past two decades, it was only fitting that The Met would seek to put together one on Raphael, as well. However, both “Leonardo da Vinci: Master Draftsman” and “Michelangelo: Divine Draftsman and Designer” were, as their titles suggest, shows dedicated to drawing, even if each happened to include a few other art objects as well. Whether or not this is the case, the Raphael exhibition feels as though it, too, might have started out life as a drawing show but, for reasons that are unclear, it subsequently morphed into something much larger, which demanded the inclusion of paintings.
Among these, and arguably the most sublimely poetic work in the entire exhibition, is Raphael’s “Portrait of Baldassare Castiglione” (c.1514-15).
The Met has graciously provided a bench where one may sit across from and contemplate the picture, or at least as best as one can between waves of tourists quickly snapping photos of it and noisily moving on. Though often described as one of the greatest portraits from the Italian Renaissance, that distinction does not go far enough: it is quite simply one of the greatest portraits ever painted.
Count Castiglione was, among other things, an aristocrat, author, and diplomat, most famous for writing “The Book of the Courtier”, a guide to good manners and good society which has never gone out of print since it was first published nearly five centuries ago.
Raphael became close friends with Castiglione in the early 1500’s at the court of the Duchy of Urbino, when both were ambitious young men climbing their respective ladders. That friendship endured and was continually renewed by correspondence and visits for the rest of their lives, even after their respective paths took them in different directions.
Part of the appeal to Raphael’s portrait of Castiglione lies in how, even without knowing the backstory, it is clear that the artist had a great deal of respect and personal affection for his subject.
The elegantly attired Castiglione, with his black velvet turban-beret and gray squirrel fur-lined jacket, is deliberately shown against a neutral background, making this a painting directly at odds with the bright, sometimes garish colors that one often associates with the Renaissance. It is an image entirely in keeping with the writer’s idea of sprezzatura, a kind of quietly effortless grace in which one stands out by not calling undue attention to oneself.
The only strong note of color in the entire picture is to be found in the perceptive yet kindly blue eyes, where Raphael has captured the faintest note of melancholy, and which prove the old adage that there is no substitute for seeing a great work of art in person.
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Having had our moment of poetry however, in admiring beautiful works such as the Castiglione from the Louvre, or the “Young Woman with a Unicorn” (c.1505-06) from the Borghese, or the (somewhat damaged) “Ecstasy of St. Cecilia” (c.1514-17) from Bologna, we quickly return to being served a meal composed largely of hors d’oeuvres and leftovers.
As Raphael’s famous series of “Stanze” (c.1509-1520) murals in the Vatican obviously could not be brought to New York, a side gallery in the exhibition contains a projection room that displays three-quarter scale digital images of these works.
The images cycle through so that the decorative program of each of the four frescoed apartments appears on the walls of the gallery for about 20 seconds or so. The lighting in the gallery then fades to black, before the digital projections of the next fresco cycle are displayed.
This installation is both poorly executed and in poor taste. The colors as projected are too dim, the resolution is too blurry, and the cycling between the Stanze is much too fast.
One has no time to consider Raphael’s intentional juxtapositions of frescoes such as “The School of Athens” with “The Disputation of the Blessed Sacrament” for example, intended as a kind of dialogue between the pagan past and the Christian present, before the images disappear and are replaced with the next series. It also smacks of the kind of pop culture event where Van Gogh’s artistic expressions of mental illness are transformed into an immersive backdrop for the taking of selfies.
No need to worry however, if like me you find this installation unhelpful: there are plenty of preparatory drawings for the frescoes displayed just outside of this gallery, natch.
Moving along through the exhibition past more drawings, and past paintings not entirely by Raphael (or not by him at all), on the back wall of the largest gallery the visitor comes across three Raphael-designed tapestries on loan from the royal collections in Madrid. The textiles are in superb condition, with their colors still vibrant, and are based on originals which Raphael designed for the Sistine Chapel between 1515-16.
Impressive and interesting as they are however, they were part of a “second edition”, woven for the King of Spain in the 1550’s — long after Raphael’s death.
In the final gallery of the show is the painting known as “The Vision of Ezekiel” (c.1517-18) lent by the Pitti. It hangs in a room festooned with…you guessed it, more drawings. By its title, this curious little picture, only somewhat larger than a sheet of letter paper, purports to show God surrounded by the four winged creatures from the first chapter of the Book of Ezekiel.
The painting does not quite conform to Ezekiel’s description however, nor is it clear why someone chose to commission such a small picture of a rather grand subject. This renders it more an object of curiosity than a “masterpiece”, in keeping with the overall tone of this exhibition.
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On the occasion of his friend’s untimely passing, Castiglione penned a Latin sonnet comparing Raphael to Asclepius, whose healing of the sick brought joy to many, while at the same time exciting jealousy amongst the gods who ultimately brought about his downfall. From the perspective of Castiglione and many of his peers, Raphael’s extraordinary gifts had helped to bring about a kind of artistic healing in Rome following centuries of decline and ruin – albeit, at the cost of the artist’s own life: Sic, miser, heu, prima cadis intercepte juventa,/Deberi et morti nostraque nosque mones.
The Golden Boy of the Renaissance might have died, but Castiglione felt certain that Raphael had left a rich legacy behind him, one that would be treasured in perpetuity. Unfortunately, it is difficult to imagine the average museum visitor coming away from this exhibition bearing the same impression.
I had heard the hype over this exhibit and was so grateful for this detailed review--we'll save plenty of gas money by sitting this one out. Thank you to the author!