The audacity of Christian art: Unspeakable images: When words fail | National Gallery

There isn’t a single image of Christ in the canon of Christian art, which can adequately express what Christians believe about him. However, a painting can point beyond itself to the mystery of the Incarnation and encourage the viewer not to take the image at ‘face value’ but to engage with the paradox it presents. One of the most radical ways in which an artist can do this, is by creating empty, or ‘blank’ spaces within the image, often at the place where divine activity is most indicated. Rather than trying to depict the divine activity itself the artist leaves the image open to the viewer’s imagination and contemplation. In Filippo Lippi’s painting of the Annunciation, we saw how the wall blocks our view of the horizon – of infinity – and shows us that we cannot see into the mystery of the Incarnation. Cima da Conegliano’s painting of The Incredulity of St Thomas also uses a blank space as an indication of divine activity. We’re looking at the resurrected Christ, but his ascension is not far ahead. Cima has left unfilled a large space of blank wall above Christ and our eyes are drawn upwards to the heavenly blue and gold ceiling above, in a trajectory which mirrors Christ’s coming ascension. Cima is pointing us towards the next part of the story in a painting which contains its own future. Such images are rare, but there are other ways in which an artist can create ‘openness’ in a painting. Ambiguity is a form of openness precisely because it defies neat definition, easy answers, or the sense that the viewer ‘knows’ what the painting is ‘about’. Unfinished paintings can have a similar effect. Although this might not have been the artist’s original intention, it might help to explain why unfinished paintings can often be particularly compelling. We’re back in the Conservation Department and this is Michelangelo’s 'Entombment', painted around 1500. We can speculate about why Michelangelo left it unfinished but its fascination – at least for viewers today - might actually be enhanced by its incompleteness. The composition and the figures are highly ambiguous, and the unfinished passages emphasise this. It is not clear, for instance, exactly how Christ’s body is being supported, and the forward projection of his legs and their curved position creates an impression of weightlessness completely at odds with the dead weight of a corpse. The body is being carried to the grave but this space is not yet convincingly painted. And in a rocky outcrop on the right beyond the figures we see what at first sight looks like the outline of another tomb in an unfinished passage, but which actually depicts figures carrying the slab to cover Christ’s grave. Both grave and slab are blank. The figure of John the Evangelist in red is complete and that of Christ himself is almost finished but the remaining figures are in various stages of completion. Joseph of Arimathea’s head seems to float above his unpainted cloak, and the figures to Christ’s left have only the outline of hands. the whole painting attains an almost dream-like state because of its incompleteness. The seated Mary Magdalene was probably intended to be shown holding the jar of ointment which is her traditional attribute. But she had already anointed Christ once while he was alive, and in some accounts Christ’s body was not fully prepared when he was first placed in the tomb, because of regulations about the Sabbath. So the absent ointment jar strangely works both as a reminder of the earlier anointing, but also of the unfinished nature of the burial itself. Even more poignant is the absence of the mourning Virgin Mary, her outline on the right seems almost erased by grief. The unfinished nature of this painting is a powerful reminder that Christ’s burial is not ‘the final word’ – his Resurrection and Ascension are still to come. Although it was not intended to be viewed like this, its unfinished state offers its own form of theological commentary on its subject, and opens it to the viewer’s own response. The mystery of the Incarnation is presented here as a mystery. Something we begin to understand – just as we begin to make sense of the figures, their clothes, their gestures – but which, at the point of being grasped, eludes us again. Throughout this series we’ve been exploring some of the ways in which Renaissance artists have responded to the problem of painting Christ’s humanity and divinity in a way that really engages the viewer with this mystery of the Incarnation. And we’ve seen how elements of surprise and ambiguity can prompt us to ask questions about what we’re seeing Religious art, like religious language, can never fully encompass what it tries to express about God. But by disorienting our sense of place, confounding timescales, pulling back the curtains to reveal new depths within an image, or tripping us up with snails, these artists acknowledge the exceptional difficulty of their task. As we wander around the National Gallery’s collection, looking at different artistic schools and periods, admiring the beauty of these paintings, it can be easy to forget just how audacious Christian art is. But if we really want to understand these pictures, we need to remember that they are expressions of religious faith, and that they are attempting something truly extraordinary. Whatever one believes about Christ, the idea that it might be possible to paint a figure who is both a human being and God is an astonishing one. And whether we’re thinking about the original viewers for whom these paintings were made, or contemporary visitors to the National Gallery, we’re being challenged to look more deeply into the paintings. And, ultimately, we’re being brought up against the limits of our own comprehension.