The Sacred Made Real

In 17th century Spain, a powerhouse of Roman Catholicism, concern about the Protestant Reformation in Northern Europe prompted a desire to reconnect with the ordinary Catholic worshipper. An artistic counter-offensive was mounted, in which sculptors and painters worked together to translate the sacred into tangible works of art, characterised by intense realism. This realism was often grotesque in form and flew in the faces of Protestant reformers who would have thought the works idolatrous. The Sacred Made Real juxtaposes well known Spanish painters of this period, such as Velásquez and Zurbarán, with sculptors virtually unknown outside Spain, for exampl, Juan Martinez Montañés and Pedro de Mena.

The sculpture produced in this period was carved in wood and then polychromed, requiring tremendous skill. At the time sculptors and painters worked closely together and this led to a new style of painting in which there was an emphasis on naturalism and the three dimensional. Entering the gallery is almost like entering a tomb: paintings and sculptures of Christ, Mary and the Saints are bathed in a gloomy light, heightening intimacy between viewer and work. A sculpted head of John the Baptist by Juan de Mesa greets you in the first room, mouth ajar in a grim half smile and anatomically correct down to the perfectly severed windpipe and meticulously painted teeth. Approaching Francisco de Zurburan’s Christ on the Cross the overwhelming impulse is to genuflect in adoration. The sense of reverence and awe the 9ft 6in masterpiece instills in the viewer verges on the miraculous. Christ emerges from an impenetrable black background, his body depicted in superb almost sculptural detail and illuminated by bright light. Here is Christ’s sacrifice spotlit for all to see.

Gregorio Fernández’ Dead Christ seems less a sculpture than a real corpse in its grotesque naturalism. Jesus has just died and is lying down, his flesh tinged blue, the sacred mystery of his sacrifice revealed. No detail is spared, the effect of coagulating blood in his deep wounds is achieved by painting the bark of a cork tree, his eyes are glass and his teeth made of ivory. Pedro de Mena’s sculptures, Christ as the Man of Sorrows and The Virgin of Sorrows present states of physical and mental torture with such delicacy and grace it is difficult not to join the figures in their weeping. Christ’s hands are bound together elegantly, his body is covered in scars and wet blood runs freely down his torso, soaking into his loin cloth. The viewer is encouraged to walk around the sculpture and the back is every bit as finely painted as the front. Christ does not avert his gaze but engages the viewer directly confronting us with the horror of his sacrifice. The desire to touch and comfort him is overwhelming. Mena’s Virgin Mary has her lips slightly parted as she issues a cry of lament and glass tears course down her face as she contemplates the death of her son.

The wooden sculptures and paintings in this exhibition succeed in inducing the same emotional reaction in the viewer as they did four hundred years ago, and even the most ardent of atheists could not fail to be moved.