Fabric and Faith : A Review of ‘Zurbarán’ -

Wandering though the seven rooms of this exhibition it is as though we have come face to face with Shakespeare’s ‘Seven Stages of Man’. Life, death, realism and miraculous imaginings collide on canvas, shaped by swathes of pigment and thin coats of varnish.

Upon entry we first encounter Francisco de Zurbarán’s ‘The Crucifixion’. This painting was commissioned by the Dominican monastery of San Pablo el Real in Seville in 1626. Zurbarán’s work gleamed so brightly in the dimly lit monastery that when viewed through a grill, early audiences perceived the painting to be a work of sculpture; the figure of Christ illuminated, emerging like a spectre from the shadows.

Now hung on the pitch painted walls of the National Gallery – tinted especially for this occasion – a similar effect is achieved. (Despite the unfortunate mismatched lighting – too bright, too high up throughout.)

The National Gallery presents Zurbarán’s first comprehensive exhibition in the British Isles as a varied and tantalising viewing journey simply entitled ‘Zurbarán’. Hailing from Seville, this Spanish master may not be as celebrated outside of Spain as per the likes of Goya and Valazquez, yet this exhibition illustrates how his work can stir a deep response – even in our contemporary age.

Several themes run through the fabric of this exhibition. Seville of yesteryear is successfully portrayed as a major trading hub. We see how it was fortified by cultural cross-overs and Islamic entanglements and what bearing this sometimes had on Zurbarán’s choice of costume for his sitters.

Zurbarán’s father was a cloth merchant and we also learn that our son of Seville even had a hand at trading silk himself in Madrid. These factors certainly resonate with Zurbarán’s ability to capture the texture of fabric so meticulously, so illustriously – from glossy and smooth to rough and crumpled.

The stark walls of charcoal add a contemporary edge to Zurbarán’s magnificence. His subjects, often depicted in dark, mysterious settings, appear quite unsettling in their brilliantly coloured costumes – or all flesh and muscle as in the case of ‘Hercules’.

Reunited for the first time in over 100 years, an altar piece soaring 15 meters high depicts scenes from the life of Christ in exquisite detail across three panels. From the robes worn by the Magi to the Christ child’s features and the cloud of cherubs upon which Mary hovers, an extraordinary subject and story is brought to life.

As with the theatrical Crucifixion painting, in sixteenth century Seville such dazzling palettes loftily installed in places of worship would have offered a vibrancy verging on the miraculous.

In the next room we reach out in vain – we believe we could literally touch the fabric of St Francis’ cowl, its form stiffened around the saint, so long has he knelt deep in contemplative prayer. With his hands clasped together over a skull, St Francis’ face is partially obscured by shadow, adding a dimension of mystery and even foreboding. In fact, the series of paintings presented along this wall form a procession so dramatic and eerie that they could easily be film stills.

We may detect a faint itching sensation when looking at the rough, scratchy texture of St Francis’ robes. Complete with a tear upon the sleeve – single threads matted – this tiny, easy to miss detail springs the entire austere composition to life.

Meanwhile, a rich brocade of scarlet follows the valleys and curving peaks of Saint Casilda’s billowing court dress. It seems completely plausible in our mind’s eye to reach out and feel the velveteen swish of her skirt with our fingertips, so nearly it escapes the canvases’ flat plane.

We already know the hefty weight of this fabric, its dense weft and weave, all creases and folds tenderly, sumptuously rendered by Zurbarán’s brush. The Muslim princess looks our way, as though acknowledging our twenty first century gaze and confronting us in our amazement. But our amazement is not just at the beauty of her outfit!

Zurbarán captures a moment so bewitching it seems to verge towards something more from a Grimm’s fairytale than a passage in Father Butler’s ‘Lives of the Saints’. In this painting a religious transformation occurs in front of our very eyes. Upon accusation of betrayal, the bread rolls concealed within in St Casilda’s lavish skirts intended to feed Christian prisoners tumble out, turning into a cascade of red roses. A miracle indeed.

A little further along in the exhibit we may find glee at imagining our fingers plunging in and picking up the lanolin from the warm, candy-floss fleece of the lamb in ‘Agnus Dei’. Hoofs bound, balanced on a cold stone ledge, this lamb is all innocence in its snowy whiteness. Realism verging on the sublime.

Although the lamb is a well known visual metaphor for Christ, we are also presented with a scene of Zurbarán’s own invention: Jesus depicted as a child playing in a domestic interior. He has pricked his finger on a needle; Mary sits nearby and sheds tears so realistic as to take our breath away.

But it is not all works of Catholic storytelling in ‘Zurbaran’. We lick our lips at the look of the luscious oranges in ‘Still Life with Lemons, Oranges and A Rose’. Carefully arranged to create a sense of flow and a triangular composition, three distinct and separate motifs emerge from the rich sheen of the backdrop as though offerings placed upon an altar. To the left, lemons are orchestrated on a pewter platter so that they point to different directions. They lead us into the work and towards the delicate neroli blooms atop a basket of voluptuous oranges, before pointing us further towards a second reflective platter bearing a single pink rose and a white cup of water.

Generous proportions, rough, knobbly looking skins and the thought of a juicy promise tempt us to pluck and peel one of these citrus fruits, to taste the sweet and bitter piths within. An allusion to Easter and the new life of Christ’s resurrection, this seductive piece is haunted by the seriousness of a religious ceremony – yet it almost feels like a tease! A ‘zest’ of faith. Zurbarán having us on.

In the neighbouring work a segment of this piece is revisited as though a preparatory study, or a cropped detail a little like an edited photograph. The thornless rose lies quietly on a silver platter alongside the cup of water in the encroaching darkness. This stark simplicity symbolises the Virgin’s purity and would have been well understood by devout Spanish viewers in the seventeenth century. Today, this smaller painting offers an attractive minimal aesthetic as though a foretelling of contemporary works of architecture and pared down interior design.

All this is before we even turn to the veined, impossibly translucent grapes painted by Zurbarán’s son, Juan. An unexpected treat!

‘A Plate of Grapes’ was painted when Juan was merely nineteen years of age. The inclusion of this piece along with several others by Juan is a touch of curatorial flair which turns this exhibition into something more along the lines of a celebration, a homage to Zurbarán’s greatness – wholehearted and impressive – rather than a straight-up retrospective.

Further still lives of urns, only recently discovered, impart a foretelling of not only Chardin, but of Morandi, their simplicity and honesty reflected in the smooth slip of the bone china and terracotta. Equivalents to the solo saints, these still lives take on personality and storytelling even in their inanimate existence.

But it’s the final painting perhaps, following on from the ‘Colossal Head’ (evoking parallels with Chuck Close, Jenny Saville and even our selfie-centred universe) and the ghostly imprint on Veronica’s towel that Zurbarán finally reveals himself to us. An artist, with brushes at the ready, paints a canvas placed upon an easel beneath Christ’s crucifixion, a humbling yet unforgettably inventive scene.

Possibly a depiction of St Luke, could this work tell of the painter’s worth as Zurbarán saw it? Is this painting a signifier of the devotional nature of his faithful endeavours, or a cosmic imagining beyond the metaphysical? (Alternatively, could it be that Zurbarán thinks of himself as some sort of time travelling prophet?)

It is then that we are struck with the thought that what we are really seeing is the work of the first surrealist. Human scale is sized up, a colossal head mesmerises our imagination, the crucifix floats out of the darkness while the serene, silent still lives seem weirdly, oddly out of place. Even the rose on a platter seems like a foreshadowing for Dali’s meditative rose floating between heaven and earth. We experience Man not only in all his guises as once outlined in Shakespeare’s sonnet, nor solely the religious qualities and luxurious exuberances of sixteenth century Seville. Here in ‘Zurbarán’ are the threads which eventually weave their way into the visual culture of the future.