Mijn God, mijn God, waarom hebt U Mij in de steek gelaten? (Ps. 22:2; Mt, 27:45)

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Do you still remember the ‘Martyrdom of Andrew‘ by Otto van Veen in St. Andrew’s Church? It was the painting with the athletic executioners, the Roman commander and the women. Here you can see how Rubens drew inspiration from his teacher some fifteen years later (1609-1610).

The diagonal composition makes the scene more dynamical. In the centre, a cross with an undressed man dominates the triangular structure; on the side panel, the Roman officer sits high on horseback and opposite, the faithful women are mourning; mind you, the dog is also present.

It was the astute maecenas Cornelis van der Geest who commissioned the young painter, who had just returned from Italy, to decorate the high altar in his parish church. This St. Walburga’s Church doesn’t exist anymore; it stood nearby what is now the Steen, on the banks of the River. Van der Geest lived in the neighbourhood (also disappeared). We have interior views of his crowded art room and of the church interior.
It was on-the-spot, in the church itself, that this ‘Raising of the Cross‘ was painted, 4.60 m high and 3.40 wide plus twice extra 1.50 m width. According to the liturgical calendar, it had its premiere on September 14, 1610, the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross. This day commemorates the consecration of the Church of the Sepulchre in Jerusalem.

With this work, Rubens introduced into our art the Italian chiaroscuro, a play of mostly ‘hard’ shadows to bring out the light; we’ve seen this also in St. Paul’s Church, with the ‘Madonna of the Rosary‘ by Caravaggio.

On the central panel, the painter accentuates this technique. This means we have to put aside our modern taste for sobriety, for a moment, and not let ourselves be influenced by the abundance of characters.

Remember that you are in a country around the Mediterranean Sea, at noon; the intense sunlight casts harsh shadows. Technically, it allows the artist to create depth on the flat surface of the wooden support planks. The snow-white Jesus stands out against the dark foliage. At the front, the light falls on the muscles of super-athletic executioners, modelled as if they were sculptures. A separate spotlight is on the armoured soldier. Because he is the only one who looks at the executed person, it is assumed that he’s the one who is inviting us as spectators to watch, and be touched by the suffering of this innocent.

Now take a look at the panel on the right: you are looking the sun in the eye. However, an eclipse of the sun begins, as the evangelist Luke wrote (Lk 23:45). Dark clouds begin to gather; does that make the shadows a bit softer? In any case, shadows are in the foreground on this panel, in backlight. The remaining brightness is located in the perspective. Observe how that light still plays on the front horse’s mane.

Further on in the biblical story, the nameless Roman officer comes to the fore. He is the first non-Jew to testify:

When the centurion and those who were with him, keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were filled with awe, and said, “Truly this was the Son of God!”
(Mt 27:54)
Truly, this man was the Son of God! (Mk 15:39)
Certainly, this man was innocent (Lk 23:47)

It is in the painting ‘the Lance Sting’ now at KMSKA, but originally in the chapel of the Friars Minor, now Academy, that we can witness this sequel to the present story.

In the Cathedral of Our Lady hangs in the south transept: Descent from the Cross.