I stopped by the Courtauld one afternoon in 2002, when I was visiting London for a meeting and had a couple of hours to fill. I had never been inside the building, which is one of the great buildings along The Strand, where once upon a time the aristocrats of England all had their homes. The Bouts "Christ Crowned With Thorns" was the first painting that saw you as you entered the mediaeval section down in the crypt - sadly they have moved it to another part of the room, but back then it really was the first painting that saw you, even before you saw it; a pair of desperately sad eyes and a mouth half-open in astonishment, that simply invited you to transform it into poetry. Over the next two hours of wandering the many galleries, I did precisely that.
To listen to an audio recital of the poem, click here
The gallery website says of the painting:
Follower of Dieric Bouts
Christ Crowned with Thorns
c. 1475
Oil on panel
32.3 x 23.8 cm
The Courtauld Collection
This image, Christ Crowned with Thorns, from the Circle of Bouts represents the sixth station of the cross (the representation of Christ’s final hours). Both the subject and size of this work are indicative of the viewer’s devotion. In part, the intensity of this image results from our reaction to the blood and tears emanating from the figure, which is further emphasized by Christ’s penetrating gaze, engaging the empathy of the viewer.
Bouts was a successful Netherlandish painter of the fifteenth century. He had an extensive workshop and many followers who replicated this popular type of devotional imagery. This image was often joined with the Mater Dolorosa to form a diptych. The size of these images made them portable and accessible for private devotion.
Ecce
Homo
I
am Christ, watching, listening.
Not
the
Christ,
but
Christ by a follower of Dieric Bouts -
Flemish
school, born 1415, Haarlem;
“Christ
Crowned With Thorns” the eponym -
crucified,
or painted, circa 1475,
the
last regenerative act of both our lives.
Christ
in a red smock
with
shouldered ringlets for payot;
a
noble Christ
unvanquished
by death,
neck
tendons taut as nails,
the
pose heroic without hubris -
Christ
as I would wish to be depicted
except
for the crown of thorns,
composed,
it seems, of coral,
or
some stale marzipan purchased in the Arab souk
behind
the Via Dolorosa,
green
as moss upon a static stone;
and
all these tears,
crystallised,
caramelised, an excess of tears,
tears
designed to rise to pathos
but
falling - as tears should - to bathos,
pouring
from the stigmata of over-bloodshot eyes.
The
other Christ -
a
Della Francesca by the languid look of him,
all
alabaster arms and skin like frankincense -
the
Christ on the far wall,
(my
altar ego, if you’ll forgive the pun),
some
Tuscan fresco disimmured,
some
Italianate triptych in the taste of Monte Cassino;
he
does not watch the world, as I do,
he
looks away -
histir panav,
the Rabbis call it,
turning
His countenance aside and letting evil enter -
two
blind eyes like Pontius Pilate’s,
two
tearlessly white eye-sockets
turned
inwards on his self-absorption,
a
God of insipid Love,
self-love,
a
God more focused on his inner pain
than
on the boredom of eternity
or
the careworn need for solace of humanity.
Not
me.
I
am all face.
Two
open eyes, staring at you, judging.
Countenance
turned to shine on you,
to
be, and bear, your burden.
Watching.
Listening.
*
The
tears though are not mine - I never cried -
but
each artist has the right
to
paint his personal Crucifixion.
The
tears are for you, my modern worshippers.
How
shall I address you?
In
the modern style, in slogans, soundbites?
You,
the canons of commercialism
(or
do I mean the clerics? the communicants?),
pacing
in reverential silence
the
wood-floored cloisters of this Courtauld Gallery
(it
was never like this in the Temple -
all
blood and bartering,
all
stench of zealotry and incense;
but
usury is still usury;
I
still dream of driving the merchants from the marketplace).
You,
the mendicants of materialism,
the
bored, the pseud, the popish, the pontificating,
the
bedesmen and the iconolaters,
(the
death of God is a death in language too,
words
genizahed like the Word itself).
You,
the awe-struck and the fascinated,
the
pious and the pompous -
all
Mankind eventually walks before me.
You
who have come here for a space of silence in the city,
for
a stamp in the passport
of
your journey towards adulthood,
to
venerate Madonna for her line and form,
the
angels for their chiaroscuro,
the
saints for their grisaille,
the
benefactors for the sheer scale of their benefactions,
the
messianic Cortauld for his model of munificence…
You
came to pass judgments, didn’t you?
Well
I, Christ, I too came to judge.
Along
with forgiveness and the shouldering of sin,
this
is my designated role,
this
eaves-dropping on your secret conversations,
this
being an icon on your wall,
this
watching as a mirror watches,
this
reflecting you back upon yourselves,
this
making my judgements upon your judgements,
I,
the helmsman of your inner voyage,
witness,
scapegoat,
paradigm
of paradise,
Ecce
Homo.
*
Eternity
in this underworld yields to deep thinking
(forgive
these digressions;
I
so rarely get the chance to speak
and
one thought feeds another
as
my teacher Rabbi Gamliel once said).
I
am struck (for example)
that
a gallery hosts paintings without contexts,
so
a picture becomes a sculpture,
an
object frozen in time and space,
integral
only to itself,
shorn
of its narrative and its relationships,
displaced,
reduced
- yes, I’m sure I do mean that - to eternity.
Gone
the votive candles, the ringing angelus,
the
susurrations from confession booths,
the
ambient Gregorian, the pacing priests,
the
hammering of nails into the master masonry
as
builders pave the spiral path to God
(O
but I love these puns - reliques,
in
the style of midrash, of my Rabbinic training;
though
you no doubt would call them Joyceian).
We
who anyway were just
the
mediaeval Piagetian paraphernalia of prayer
(that’s
the sort of language game I mean;
Kohelet
and King David would have been applauding;
the
Word, they would have said,
is
still alive, original, incarnate),
the
atmosphere-engendering wall-hangings,
the
aides to spiritual intensity
and
the adornments of some Lady Chapel,
we
are all that now remains,
hung
in the wrong Temple,
icons
to the wrong divinities,
prayers
unpronounceable,
mere
Art.
Gone
the flesh - we are the bones.
Gone
the edifice - we are the ruins.
Gone
the intent - we are the intensities.
In
place of God - Man.
And
which side of that equation will you place me on?
Aye,
there’s the rub!
*
I
am less racked by nails here
than
ever I was on Calvary.
One
stabbed through my back, like Judas,
and
then the rope he also used to hang himself;
but
here I hang much longer
than
those three short hours of eternity.
Here
I hang all day and every day
(except,
of course, Bank Holidays and Christmas -
a
charming irony),
tormented
Jesus, scourged and speared,
though
perhaps the torment you are witnessing
is
less my torment
than
the epiphany of the artist’s torment
in
the making of me
(I
mean, of course, the earthly artist,
not
the divine creator)...
I
wonder if those modern picklers in vinegar,
those
dadaists of the formaldehyde cow,
also
took their cue from Roman sponges?
Nor
is this quite the underworld I had expected,
though
it is subterranean enough,
gloomy
as a Yom Kippur yeshiva.
It
lives, of necessity, in limited daylight,
in
shadows cast by chandeliers,
a
deliberate absence of illumination.
(Here
is a most Scholastic paradox:
too
much light would harm the surfaces;
too
much light also reveals too much interior).
The
walls are deadened by paint and fingerprints
(the
paint the same green as my thorns),
by
the conflicting echoes of adjacent paintings
(I
must say I find it rather disconcerting
to
be surrounded by so many and such nude Madonnas),
and
little white plaques
(mine
no doubt reads IMRI)
like
labels on a jar of Scopus olives
(thirty
shekels pitted, more with stones).
This
is no longer living Art
(though
the Psalmist would adore my echo-lines,
my
use of the parenthesis as counterpoint).
This
is a shop of shadows,
a
sarcophagus entombed in a museum
(the
Italian who said that
looked
a lot like Cerberus himself).
This
is history
become
theme-park.
And
though I long to have the rock rolled back,
to
make hejira from this whiteless sepulchre,
the
truth is
that
you cannot steal my body from this tomb
because
the eye of God protects it on closed circuits,
the
arms of God contain it
in
a grip invisible that screams at any touch,
(I
have often wondered
how
far history would have been affected
had
Joseph of Arimathea
taken
these same precautions at his tomb);
why,
even my eternal corpus
is
kept at mummy temperature by humidifiers,
though
doubts have been expressed by certain Thomases
over
the radioactive damage of electric light.
But
I am safe here,
enwombed
and entombed,
no
longer living Art nor living God,
no
longer myth nor legend;
but
an item in a catalogue,
a
world-wide web-site,
the
apotheosis
now
of
the profit
not
the Prophet.
I
can’t say it’s the worst fate
that
ever befell Man or God.
*
In
the upstairs rooms -
Lely,
Sassoferrato, Rubens, Brueghel -
religion
is replaced by human vanity,
which
is to say veneration for the Creator
by
the cult of the created,
art
purloined into the service of self-aggrandisement,
the
great (and especially the smaller would-be great),
the
good (and generally the genuinely not-that-good),
crying
like tormented Jesuses:
“O
me! O look at me!”
from
a gilt frame twice life-sized.
Marvellous
paintings - but at what price?
“I
am Lorenzo Lotto by your leave...”
(you
would need to win the lotto to acquire him!);
but
in truth he is a gloomy, melancholy man,
not
unlike my master Hillel
or
that glum, dejecting John the Baptist,
all
charcoal and ashes,
Jeremiac
black on a black background -
and
note the humanising skull
in
the bottom left-hand corner,
hinting
at Calvary-Golgotha, the Hill of Skulls,
but
failing, in ebony and ravens,
even
to tilt a nod at Resurrection.
Or
take the works of Thomas Gainsborough
on
the floor below the room of the Impressionists
(I
have no gripe about Impressionism -
all
that light, that life-enhancing, Mediterranean light),
but
Gainsborough,
a
synonym for Mammon if there ever was one,
alabaster
plagiarised no doubt from the Della Francesca,
all
those porcine porcelain faces,
all
that Hanoverian photographic art
informed
by the slow aperture and fast shutter techniques
of
Anthony Van Dyck.
Idolatry!
Graven images! Treyf!
Blessed
are the vain and wealthy
for
they shall be transmuted into icons,
hung
up for the edification of the servile classes,
masters
and mistresses resplendent on the wall,
the
lower castes cap-doffing in the gallery...
What
is extraordinary is only that the Gainsboroughs
are
not portrayed in red smocks,
with
shouldered ringlets,
their
fingers counting rosaries,
and
crucifixes on their nail-taut tendons.
*
Five
o’clock approaches,
time
to shut up this shop of shadows.
Today,
alone, I have watched four thousand of you,
hajis
circling round and round the black-stone walls
of
this false Temple filled with diptychs, triptychs,
altar-pieces,
icons, frescos,
with
plaster imitations of erstwhile marbles,
and
for some reason ivories and faiences from Limoges
(the
sacred art of Europe, 1300-1500,
so
it says upon the door);
I
have watched you, listened to you,
I,
“Christ Crowned With Thorns”,
and
you, uncertain how to celebrate this shrine of God-in-Art
and
I confess
(I
never did to Caiaphas, but will to you)
I
am as much bewildered as amused.
Why
are you worshipping me here,
you
who never visit me at home,
you
who never bend the knee,
you
who never sing the litany or liturgy?
Why
- what form of indulgence are you seeking?
You
who study the semiotics of the labels
in
order to glean the semiotics of the paintings,
reading
the easier of what you think
are
two parts of the same work,
learning
a name, a date, a brief interpretation,
believing,
with most perfect faith,
that
now you understand,
that
now you can speak with confidence
at
dinner with the intellectuals,
that
now you have achieved
a
kind of symbiosis with the divine.
And
what if I were to tell you
(I
always was a rebel, a discomforter)
that
my label is all wrong,
that
I am neither IMRI
nor
“Christ by a follower of Dieric Bouts”,
but
Bouts himself, that follower of Van der Weyden,
that
I am not 1475 but actually 1463,
that
I am only a cartoon for the Resurrection
hung
- yes, hung - in the Munich Pinakothek?
Would
all that data cause transfiguration
in
your lack of understanding of me?
You
who would take home the memory
of
this rare occasion of intensity,
a
photograph,
a
thread from my cloak or shroud,
a
postcard,
a
relic,
a
souvenir.
You
who speak of the great value of these paintings,
and
mean capital,
not
culture.
You
who read the donors’ plaques
as
iconistically as you read the labels on the paintings.
You
who are enamoured by the names of names
(but
not the Name),
and
do not understand philanthropy,
like
Art,
is
best left egoless?
Why,
why are you here?
"Ecce Homo" is published in "Welcome To My World, Selected Poems 1973-2013", The Argaman Press. Click here to purchase the book.
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