“What if Raphael just made it up?” I asked.
“Making up stories the way you think of it simply didn’t happen in those times, Javier,” he corrected me. “In the time of Raphael, the closest thing to inventing a story was to discover one—everything was based on something real, something that had happened. That’s why even the great Raphael would always work on commissioned projects and under supervision. He had a reputation for being a sophisticated painter, who took care to include context in every one of his paintings. In other words, he followed what was there, what existed. And being so well read, Raphael was knowledgeable about several disciplines, such as archeology, theology, and philosophy, and he liked to use a variety of texts as sources.”
“Well, if I follow what you’re saying, then this painting derives from a secret source. It has a hidden message that goes against the orthodoxy of the time.”
“Exactly!” The Master replied enthusiastically, his exclamation momentarily breaking the silence of the gallery. One of the guards appeared, book in hand, to give us a disapproving look before disappearing into the depths of the next gallery, no doubt annoyed at having his reading interrupted.
Fovel went on, undeterred.
“Look—we live in a time when no one seems to care anymore about the messages that art offers us. We’ve been made to believe that the only things that are important about a painting are the technical ones: the aesthetics, the methods and pigments used, the facts and circumstances of the artist’s life. And all before asking why the artist decided to create the work in the first place! When we take this materialistic view of art, trying to divine a painting’s message can seem like something speculative, or ephemeral, but it’s not. In truth, it’s paying attention to the spiritual core of the painting, to its true essence. Nonetheless . . .”
He paused.
“Yes?” I said, turning to him.
“Nonetheless, to be able to get at that core, you have to bring a certain humility to the task. When all is said and done, really miraculous art—as this piece most certainly is—can only truly be appreciated by a person with a modest sensibility. Those who insist on filling their heads with impressive facts and figures are missing the point—which is that art like this only works when it astonishes you.”
“That’s easy enough to say,” I countered, “but art is subjective. Not everyone is amazed by the same things.”
“True,” he replied. “But the great masters nonetheless made use of certain subtle codes in their paintings, which signal the presence of a hidden message.”
“What kind of codes, Doctor?”
Fovel seemed to relish the question—straightening slightly before responding.
“Well, for example, what the figures in a painting are looking at. In The Pearl, have you noticed where the baby Jesus is looking?”
“Y-yes, of course . . .” It was as if he’d been reading my mind.
“When a genius like Raphael paints the Savior gazing out beyond the borders of the canvas, he’s showing us that the painting incorporates the magic of the mystical world. He is leaving it to the viewer to imagine what it is that is capturing the infant’s attention. Thus giving rise to reflection on the supernatural.”
“Did many painters use that particular code?” I asked.
“Indeed they did, my boy,” he replied. “This museum is full of examples; you don’t have to go any farther. Take Francisco Ribalta’s St. Francis Comforted by an Angel. Right away you can see that the saint’s gaze is aimed above the apparition that the artist has portrayed. Here, the code is telling us that what has the friar so astonished is something supernatural, something that lies beyond the edge of the canvas.
“The same thing is true with Murillo’s St. Augustine between Christ and the Virgin. If one day you look for it in these halls, notice how the divine figures who inspire the saint’s visions are actually behind him, leaving St. Augustine with no obvious point on which to fix his gaze. In one sense, Murillo is telling us that St. Augustine is using the eyes of his soul,4 as it were, to witness what is sacred, rather than his mortal eyes. Back in the time of these painters, everyone knew and respected this language of symbols, which is easy to understand, even for us, and which Raphael used so masterfully in The Pearl. You see?”
Before going on, my new and unexpected philosopher of art lifted his eyes from the painting and glanced quickly around the gallery. I had the impression that he wanted to make sure we were still alone.
“By the way, my boy,” he began, “are you religious?”
I hesitated before responding.
“In a way, yes, I suppose . . .” I muttered, sounding embarrassed.
“There you go—just like Raphael! Or like the bishop of Bayeux. There’s no need to be embarrassed by that! On the contrary. They were all also religious in their own way. Neither one of them was your usual orthodox, observant Catholic.”
“Well, I’ve spent my whole life studying the secrets of the paintings in this museum, and you can’t understand most of them unless you also understand a number of other essential things, such as what their creators really believed in, and the context in which they painted these works. Many paintings, like this one here, were created specifically to transmit or to keep a record of certain ideas which, at that time, would have been too dangerous to write down.”
“Dangerous?”
“Extremely so, Javier.” Doctor Fovel gestured toward the card on the wall that explains the painting to museum visitors. The text was dispassionate, clinical, advising the reader that the painting was in part the product of one Giulio Romano, a disciple of the Raphael school, and that one could discern in the painting the influence of none other than Leonardo da Vinci.
Fovel turned to me.
“What are the essential facts here? Both The Pearl and The Holy Family with an Oak Tree, which is also in this museum, were painted in Raphael’s studio in 1518. What that little card does not tell you is that at that time, all of Europe, and Rome in particular, thought that the Christian model of the world was on the verge of collapse. The church’s influence seemed to be waning. As corruption and nepotism established themselves more firmly in the Vatican, Islam was rapidly gaining ground. The Curia—the Vatican court—was more than a little nervous about its future.
“Extraordinary things were happening everywhere: the discovery of America, new theories of astronomy that questioned the medieval geocentric view, the French invasion of Italy in 1494, Luther’s revolt against the pope, even fear of the end of the world—a great conjunction of the planets in 1524 convinced many at the time that this was imminent. All of these things were very much on people’s minds, including the painters’. Many people went around believing they were living through the end of days. And you see, if you don’t know all that, it’s impossible for you to get the deeper meaning of this painting.”
“That’s quite a task!” I exclaimed.
“It does seem enormous. But for the moment, all you really need to know is that, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, there wasn’t a cleric, nobleman, or pope unaware of all the prophecies and portents going around. Raphael’s case was especially notable. At the time he painted The Pearl and The Holy Family with an Oak Tree, he was thirty-five and at the peak of his career. His vast talents and knowledge of astrology were displayed on the ceilings of Pope Julius II’s private apartments, where he had painted the glorious School of Athens frescoes, filled with exquisite details that revealed his great erudition.
“But you should also know that at the same time he was painting these,” he said, gesturing toward the paintings in front of us, “this maestro of Urbino was working on one of his great masterpieces: a portrait of his mentor, Pope Leo X, with the cardinals Giulio de’ Medici and Luigi de’ Rossi. Are you familiar with it?”
I shook my head, embarrassed.
“No matter.” He smiled affably. “You’re going to want to see it with your own eyes. It’s a fantastic example of what I call ‘prophetic art.’ A kind of art that in those days, only Raphael dared to practice openly, attracting the most distinguished clients to his studio. Wait until you see it—the painting I’m talking about is now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. It depicts the pope seated behind a table, his hand on an illuminated Bible, with a small bell and eyeglass beside it. It appears to be a simple group portrait, and a very sober one at that. However, when Raphael painted it, Pope Leo had just barely escaped an assassination attempt unharmed. Once you know that, you can understand why he has that mistrustful look, which again seems to be directed beyond the edge of the frame.”
“Ah! So you think he is looking for his assassins, is that it?” I said in a low voice, hoping to impress him.
“Well, as it happens, Javier, his assassin’s identity was no secret. A Cardinal Bandinello Sauli confessed. It seems he had intended to poison Leo X because his personal horoscope and several Vaticinia Pontificum—papal prophecies that were quite popular then—suggested that Sauli was to become the Holy Father who would regenerate the entire church. And of course Sauli wanted to be pope instead.”
“But popes don’t believe in horoscopes or prophecies!” I protested. “In fact, the church condemns astrology.”
Doctor Fovel smiled in the face of such naïveté.
“You’re not serious? Are you aware that the first stone block for St. Peter’s Basilica was laid by Julius II on April 18, 1506, because his own personal astrologer had designated that as the most cosmically propitious date? Or that in the corner of the very same salon in which Raphael had painted his famous School of Athens frescoes, as a kind of permanent horoscope, he also painted a celestial globe showing the constellations exactly as they were on November 26, 1503, the date of Julius’s coronation as pope?”
This display of memory bewildered me. Seeming satisfied with my reaction, the Master continued.
“I see—you don’t know anything! Well then, let me explain why I say that this portrait of Leo X was intended to be prophetic. Just two years before Sauli tried to poison the pope, another notable painter, Sebastiano del Piombo, depicted the same would-be assassin in a painting that is very similar to Raphael’s. It was painted in 1516, and in this version, Sauli is shown sitting in a very regal pose next to another illuminated Bible and another small bell. And just as in his intended victim’s portrait, several of his close advisers surround him. Obviously, the cardinal was preparing to become pope,5 and this portrait was part of his public relations campaign.”
“So why wouldn’t Sauli go to Raphael to have his portrait done, if he was the most valued painter of the time?” I asked.
“Well, my boy, that’s an excellent question. It’s possible that he did. The one painting in the world that can clear up that question is right here, in the Prado. It’s called Portrait of a Cardinal. It’s one of Raphael’s undisputed masterpieces, perhaps one of the most important paintings in this museum. With extraordinary realism and in exquisite detail, it depicts a cardinal with a severe look who, amazing as this may sound, has never been identified, even by experts. And it’s not the only great portrait in the Prado with an unidentified subject. For example, there is El Greco’s Nobleman with His Hand on His Chest. While most people agree that it could be a portrait of Cervantes,6 we don’t actually know who it is for certain.”
“Those are big-time art mysteries!” I was impressed.