Graduate Work

Gothic Infections (essay assignment #1, 4 pages)
By Scott Hays

The ‘Sublime’ Nature
of an El Greco Painting

Edmund Burke in his book, A Philosophical Enquiry, makes the argument that a person’s imagination is less restricted and more inspired by language than by art or architecture. The subtlety of language, he suggests, can offer multiple, perhaps even deeper meanings while the visual by its very nature constricts the audience’s imagination. Doubtless, there’s some truth to this observation, but I would make the argument that a painter with incomparable talent and vision can often create a work that actually exceeds the sublime narrative of, say, a Gothic novel. Ann Radcliffe herself even makes this assertion in her book The Mysteries of Udolpho.

Consider this scene of Madame Montoni’s nocturnal burial in the crypt of Udolpho:

“The fierce features and wild cress of the condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last relative and friend.” (pgs. 377-378)

Clearly, there is a sense of the sublime here, as Radcliffe’s images generate inexpressible emotions of terror and horror for Emily—and grief for the departed—as she and others descend through the castle (with the corpse of her aunt) towards the grave in the lower vault of the chapel within the castle walls. It’s a creepy scene, and the effect is one of “suspended animation—of bodies frozen in painterly attitudes,” writes Terry Castle in his introduction to the Oxford World’s Classic’s The Mysteries of Udolpho. (pg. xv). The operative word here is painterly, an adjective used to describe something as typical of a painter. Castle seems to be suggesting that the scene itself could have been painted with the same creepy effects.

Radcliffe herself makes this same assertion in the sentence just prior to the above passage of the nocturnal burial in the crypt:

“At the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the dark pencil of Domenichino perhaps, could have done justice to.” (pg. 377)

Domenichino (1581-1641) was an Italian Baroque painter whose subtle compositions and delicate colors were heavily influenced by the Frenchman Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665). Here Radcliffe seems to admit that mere words cannot convey a proper sense of the sublime, allowing readers to stay safely and pleasurably removed from a scene where the body of Madame Montoni’s is let down into the earth. Only an artist with Domenichino’s painterly skills, she seems to suggest, could have done justice to such a scene. The irony here is that Radcliffe then attempts to describe a scene (“The fierce features and wild cress. . .”) which she readily admits can only be conveyed properly by the dark pencil an artist’s sketch.

Now consider, for a moment, a painting by the Spanish painter Domenikos Theotokopoulos (1541-1614), otherwise know as El Greco (The Greek). El Greco was a master painter who felt an urge to tell sacred stories in a new and stirring manner. His bold disregard for natural forms, ever straining to the Heavens, his intense and unusual colors, his passionate and dramatic visions, all combined to create a style distinctly sublime. For example, his oil on canvas titled The Opening of the Fifth Seal of the Apocalypse (1609-14). Here in one painting is a story straight from the Revelation of St. John, the beginning of Christ’s judgment of unbelievers on the earth during the Tribulation period. The fifth seal presents the martyrdom of saints throughout the world who must plead for God’s judgment on their unbelieving oppressors (the Antichrist and his followers).

“And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the sounds of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held. And they cried with a loud voice, saying How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost though not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth. And white robes were given unto every one of them.”
(Revelations 6:9-11).

St. John himself stands on one side of the painting in visionary rapture, straining upward in sort of a prophetic gesture. The nude figures are the martyrs who rise to receive the heavenly gift of white robes. Notice the lopsided composition of the painting, the elongated figures, and the creepy blend of intense and unusual colors.

Surely no written description could ever have expressed with such an “uncanny and convincing force this terrible vision of doomsday,” writes E.H. Gombrich in his book The Story of Art (pg. 373). And yet if you’re a Christian viewing this particular painting, you somehow feel safely and pleasurably removed from a future where the very real saints call for the destruction of this world. Sublime? Definitely. Less compelling than the words themselves? Definitely not. (And the Christian would further argue that both “art” and “words” are inspired by God, therefore equally as compelling.)

Although I agree there’s some truth to Burke’s observation that language often has the ability to convey multiple, deeper meanings than the visual world of art and architecture, the opposite can also be true; that a painting, for instance, has the ability to inspire intense emotions where mere words would fail. El Greco’s The Opening of the Fifth Seal of the Apocalypse overwhelms the senses, moves us to stand in terror of an image with Biblical proportions. We can read the Revelation of St. John, yes. But only through the sublime nature of a painter extraordinaire like El Greco can we feel the moment.

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