Antonello da Messina: an unjustly neglected Old Master
The painter Antonello da Messina (1430-79), despite his great achievements, has not had the recognition and reputation he deserves. Influenced by the Netherlandish artist Jan Van Eyck, he created pictures with minute details and subtle gradations of light and colour, and gave tranquil expressions to the subjects of his portraits. He was also an influential artist. He introduced Van Eyck ’ s innovative techniques of oil painting into Italian art, and had an especially strong impact on the Venetian artist Giovanni Bellini.
Little is known about the life of Antonello, who does not have a distinct historical personality. His birth date is uncertain and there is no baptismal certificate. He was born in Messina, Sicily, the son of a mason and contractor, got married and had children, and his son Jacobello became a painter. Since he came from a distant island cut off from the mainland, with no major artistic tradition and no famous art teacher, he went by sea to Naples to absorb the culture and environment, and to make his name in a centre of art. From 1445 to 1455 he studied in the workshop of Niccol ò Colantonio. Antonello spoke the Sicilian dialect, seemed like a foreigner and had to learn to speak correct Italian. (Even in the twentieth century, when the most important writers came from Sicily, many Italians still called the impoverished Sicilians Nordafricani .)
Antonello worked in Venice during 1475-76, and made a brief visit to the Sforza court in Milan in the summer of 1476. On the 450-mile journey from Naples to Venice, on horseback and foot in difficult terrain and harsh weather, Antonello had to obtain permits to cross different territories, deal with local currencies and contend with robbers who preyed on travellers. He returned to Messina and died there, aged 49, losing several decades of potential creative life. After his death, his widow remarried.
There are no letters by or portraits of Antonello. His work was severely damaged by external events and suffered all the ills that art is heir to. As Peter Humfrey writes in Painting in Renaissance Venice (1995), “ Documents record a number of works painted in Sicily between 1457 and 1465, but none of these has survived, and his earlier career remains obscure. ” Many of his pictures have been damaged by extensive cracking and flaking. Only fragments have survived the partial destruction of his influential Madonna and Saints altarpiece in San Cassiano, Venice.
Many other works were destroyed in the Sicilian earthquake of 1693 and the massive Messina convulsion of December 28, 1908. His polyptych of San Gregorio was subjected to a disastrous restoration in 1842. Another major work, the half-destroyed Annunciation , remained isolated and hard to reach, on a rocky dirt road in rural Sicily, until the end of the nineteenth century. His superb but rarely seen Crucifixion is rusticated in a remote town in central Romania. An important Ecce Homo, sent to Vienna for restoration, disappeared in World War II. Most of his surviving paintings remain in Sicily and Italy. For four centuries Antonello ’ s fame, along with numerous lost works, had vanished.
Giorgio Vasari ’ s influential Lives of the Painters (1550) threw scholars off the scent for hundreds of years by asserting that Antonello had actually visited Van Eyck in the Netherlands: “ Arrived at Bruges, he became very friendly with Giovanni [Jan]. . . . He was willing that Antonello should see the method of colouring in oil, and Antonello did not leave the country until he had thoroughly mastered this method. ” Since Antonello was still a child when Van Eyck died in 1441, he could not have learned the technique of oil painting directly from the Master. Sabine Hoffmann writes in The Renaissance Portrait (2011) that “ Antonello would have had an opportunity to study original works by Van Eyck at the court of Alfonso I [in Naples]. ”
In his popular picture Antonello and Giovanni Bellini (1870), Roberto Venturi imagined their personal encounter. Bellini, disguised as a nobleman, penetrates Antonello ’ s studio to have his portrait painted and cunningly observes his rival at work. Wearing a red cloak, clasping his hands and standing behind Antonello in a Pre-Raphaelite faux-medieval setting, Bellini stares intently down at him. Antonello, wearing red tights and pointed shoes, is bent over and absorbed in mixing the secret and magical new medium. As late as 1979 Germain Bazin, in his apparently authoritative La Peinture au Louvre, claimed that in 1475 Antonello “ learned oil painting techniques in Bruges under Petrus Christus, ” a follower of Van Eyck.
The layers of translucent and luminous pigment in oil painting—intimate, vibrant and precious—were more flexible and detailed than tempera, and created sharp outlines and vivid flesh tones. In Antonello da Messina (2019), Giovanni Villa states that the artist “ was not just brilliant and isolated but capable of absorbing and synthesising .” The innovative Sicilian provided the crucial link between Van Eyck and Bellini, introduced original form, colour and light, and infused new life into Venetian art. Humfrey convincingly concludes that “ devotional painting in Venice in the last quarter of the fifteenth century was profoundly influenced by Antonello ’ s art, either directly by the works he left behind him, or indirectly by way of Giovanni Bellini. ”
Yet Antonello earned only a dismissive footnote in Bernard Berenson’s extremely influential Italian Painters of the Renaissance (1907). Berenson emphasises his own brand of personal connoisseurship and, weirdly, contrasts him with Cézanne, who’d recently died in 1906 and enjoyed a great reputation: “Antonello’s tactile values are not to be compared with those of a Piero della Francesca or of a Cézanne, nor are they superior to those of Giovanni Bellini. He is appreciated above all for his portraits, although they seem on the whole less fascinating as works of art than his [Virgins and Madonnas].” A major but provincial Messina exhibition in 1953 finally brought this little known painter to the attention of a wider public.
Antonello ’ s portraits of men were painted in the 1470s on walnut or poplar wood. They are all quite small, about a foot square, and unrevealingly titled Portrait of a Man. The subjects are seen close-up, at chest level and in three-quarter view, with their well-lit faces emerging from a dark background. They are often separated from the viewer by a stone parapet; and a wavy Latin cartellino announces, with the date , Antonello messaneus me pinxit ( “ Antonello da Messina painted me ”). He does not provide the elaborate costumes and symbolic attributes of princes and potentates that define the subjects ’ social standing or profession. But his innovative psychological treatment includes a piercing, puzzling gaze, with the left side of the face in shadow, and a minute depiction of eyelashes, hair and stubble. The identities of these vivid men from prosperous Venetian families remain forever unknown.
Portrait of a Man (1470, Cefalù , Sicily) reveals an enigmatically smiling middle-aged man. He wears a black cap with tufts of hair curling beneath it, and a black cloak open at the top and secured by two thin black bands over a white linen shirt. He has a swarthy complexion, strong nose, bristly cheeks and chin. His eyebrows are slightly raised, and creases appear across his cheeks and around his engaging smile. But it ’ s impossible to know what incident has provoked his amusement.
In Portrait of a Man (1473-74, National Gallery, London), his most lovely and expressive portrait, the sitter wears a red fez-like cap with a fringe of hair showing beneath it. He ’ s dressed in a brown pleated jerkin with a thin strip of wavy white shirt above it. He has heavy eyebrows, large eyes looking to his left, a creased nostril, and firm lips and chin. His expression is more stern and severe than that of the smiling man.
The Louvre’s Portrait of a Man (1475) has a helmet of carefully cut heavy brown hair that touches his eyebrows and descends around his neck. He has widely spaced eyes, a projecting nose and a slightly protruding full lower lip. His scarred upper lip, pugnacious expression and challenging expression puts the viewer en garde . He ’ s traditionally called Il Condottiere , but there ’ s no evidence that he was ever a warrior.
Portrait of a Man (1476, Turin), known as the Trivulzio portrait, is named after the marquis who once owned it. This man ’ s elaborately pleated tunic has a high stiff collar fastened with a cloth knot. A long cape that hangs down across his chest is attached to his capuccio , or cap, that fades into the dark background. The cap tilts above the wart on his forehead and the springing tufts of his eyebrows. His heavily lidded right eye seems smaller than his wider left one. His chin is slightly raised, and he has an engaging expression that invites the viewer into the picture.
There ’ s no record of a response from any of the sitters. But as Leon Battista Alberti wrote of precious portraits in De Pictura (1450): “ Painting possesses a truly divine power in that not only does it make the absent present, but also represents the dead to the living many centuries later, so they are recognised by spectators with pleasure and deep admiration for the artist. ”
The Madonna in Madonna and Child (1470-71, National Gallery, London) has tight flat brown hair parted in the middle, high arched eyebrows, closed narrow eyes, thin lips and pale powdery skin. These features give her an exotic oriental appearance that resembles the standing porcelain statues of Chinese court ladies. Two floating angels, with bladelike wings attached by decorative pins, are about to crown her with a golden diadem encrusted with gleaming rubies, sapphires and pearls, and enhanced by a jewelled breastplate and bracelet. She has a high forehead and graceful neck, and a diaphanous veil around her heavy cloak, embossed with more precious jewels. The lifeless, doll-like curly-haired Christ child wears a heavy velvety brown robe. He holds an open seeded pomegranate that symbolises his eternal life and gazes reverently up at the Madonna. But the painting is weakened by the lack of an emotional connection between the mother and the bambino she supports with her long delicate fingers.
The hero of Antonello ’ s Saint Sebastian (1478-79, Dresden) has a strange, insouciant , effeminate appearance, as if the four arrows piercing his chest, belly and thigh (the last one attaching his leg to the tree trunk) had nothing at all to do with him. His thick red hair descends to his eyebrows and falls below his shoulders. He stands with bare feet on the decorated tiles, is tied to a tree trunk with hands behind his back, and tilts his partly shadowed face to the right. His skin is soft, pale and hairless, and no blood seeps from his wounds. His under garment, tied with a string, shows the bulge of his private parts, a bit of realism that contrasts with the idealised view of the saint.
The Venetian background is more interesting than the patient saint. Sebastian is framed by three tall square buildings, one with a flower box on the balcony. The cloudy blue sky appears through the high arches and above the stone bridge behind him, and a thin slice of blue peeks out between his right leg and the tree trunk. Two pairs of attractive young women, suitable consorts for the young saint, are seated on a balcony hung with two Turkish carpets and look down at him. A loutish drunken soldier, with open mouth and wide nostrils, lies prone below them, and an elegant woman in a bright blue dress stands behind him, holding a baby. Opposite the woman, two other soldiers, armed with sword and spear, are fashionably dressed in tunics and tights. All the citizens in this picture ignore the theatrical martyrdom of the isolated saint who must bear his suffering without sympathy or help.
Ecce Homo (1468-70, Genoa) refers to the Latin words spoken by Pontius Pilate when displaying the bound and scourged Christ to the hostile crowd. He has a thin fringe of beard and long brown hair that curls to the edge of his shoulder. The suffering Christ, a powerful contrast to Sebastian, is crowned with spiky thorns that pierce his flesh and draw blood from his forehead that runs down his bare chest and mingles with his tears. A thick knotted rope hangs around his neck that will drag him along the Via Dolorosa. His poignant, downturned mouth suggests that he ’ s unaware of his imminent salvation and, as a mortal man, seems to ask: why are you torturing me?
In Antonello ’ s magnificent Crucifixion (1465, Sibiu, Romania) , Christ is nailed to the Cross with His arms spread and head bowed as blood runs down from the spear wound in His chest (see above). A faint halo surrounds His distinct features, and a heavy white cloth is wrapped around His loins. The two tormented thieves, seen in profile and facing each other across from Christ, contrast with the comparatively calm acceptance of His human sacrifice and celestial reward. The thieves hang from pollarded trees with arms stretched above them, hands bound and feet placed on a conveniently projecting stump.
The thief on the left has a sucked-in abdomen; the thief on the right, bent back like a bow with his head dropped and eyes lifted to the sky, has a distended belly. Both mortal men have deep gashes in their lower legs and suffer extreme agony. Renzo Villa notes that the two thieves are “ anatomically perfect and dynamic in their torsion. ” Five grieving mourners stand below the tortured men, the skull and bones of earlier victims scattered at their feet as memento mori. Mary Magdalene can ’ t bear the suffering and covers her eyes with her hands; the two Marys weep and console each other; the Virgin prays with clasped hands to end her son ’ s torment; Saint John, hands raised in supplication, turns away from the unbearable scene.
Antonello portrays the Crucifixion on three planes to place Christ in a more significant context. The five saintly mourners stand in the foreground. The three crucified men in the centre are placed against a background of pale cloudy sky, with menacing crows preparing to attack the still-tormented thief in the tree. In the middle ground the winding river forms another subtle cross, below the victims ’ bare feet. Renzo Villa writes that the recognisable view of Messina shows the monastery of San Salvatore and a host of busy people: “ wayfarers and heavily laden pack-mules walking along a winding road; women carrying large baskets on their heads, flocks of sheep, boats and bustling crowds. ” The fort of Matagrifone guards the harbour and the Aeolian Islands northwest of Messina appear in the distance.
In Saint Jerome Penitent (1465-68, Reggio Calabria) the pale, bald, bearded and bare-chested, self-mortifying saint kneels before a sculpted Christ that ’ s attached to the vertical part of a cross on a bare-branched tree. A stone-like brown lion crouches peacefully next to the saint, who survives in the harsh high rocky landscape that has no sign of food or water. Jerome has discarded the symbols of his past: two leather bound books and his cardinal ’ s distinctive red hat and cloak. The ascetic has completed his translation of the Bible and now, much older and close to death, devotes himself entirely to God: to solitude, silence, austerity and contemplation.
Saint Jerome in his Study (c.1475, National Gallery, London) is Antonello ’ s masterpiece. The much younger, solid, learned saint lives in comfortable and luxurious quarters to translate the New Testament from Greek into Latin. Seen in profile at the centre of the painting, he sits erect in a round-backed wooden chair. He ’ s richly dressed in a cardinal ’ s regalia with white-sleeved shirt, red cap and heavy velvety robe that falls in folds to the ground, and his wide-brimmed red hat rests on the chest behind him. Personal objects humanise the farsighted saint, who holds an open but illegible book at arm ’ s length.
His shoes lie on the elaborately tiled floor. His feather pen and inkpot appear on a wooden lectern set three steps up on a raised stage. Decorated jars and boxes, some manuscripts and a substantial library of about thirty books are scattered on the shelves above him. His long blue-trimmed white shawl hangs on a nearby wall peg. He ’ s surrounded by objects and animals: potted plants, a gleaming tin basin, a crouching cat, a pheasant and a peacock. An alert, de-thorned and shaggy lion paces the tiled corridor on the right, like a familiar household pet.
A miniature but rich landscape appears through a wood-framed window on the left and a high vaulted arcade on the right. The walled town and the tranquil river with two men in a rowing boat, watched by tiny figures on the shore, lie beneath the soft green hills. Small birds in a luminous sky fly outside the window above the saint. It ’ s a perfect and peaceful setting for his serious work, all painted with exquisite detail. The texture and colour of wood, cloth, leather, tin, tile and feathers are superb. Antonello ’ s brilliant use of Flemish oil painting exemplifies William Blake ’ s belief that “ the more distinct, sharp and wiry the bounding line, the more perfect the work of art. ”
Jeffrey Meyers, FRSL, has published five books on art: Painting and the Novel , The Enemy: A Biography of Wyndham Lewis , Impressionist Quartet, Modigliani: A Life and The Mystery of the Real: Alex Colville. Thirty of his books have been translated into fourteen languages and seven alphabets, and published on six continents.
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