1 of 6
The paintings of New York artist Makoto Fujimura defy reproduction. No camera can even approximate the depth and energy of his fusion of abstract expressionism, minimalism, and nihonga, which depends on crushed mineral pigments like azurite and malachite as well as hammered gold and silver leaf. So perhaps it is not surprising that even when engaging, in this essay, with one of the most-reproduced paintings in history, everything depends on a personal encounter. That incarnational approach to both creativity and criticism makes Mako a fitting author of the final essay in our year-long exploration of the question, How can followers of Christ be a counterculture for the common good? For those readers interested in learning more about Mako's life and work, his story is one of six on the just-released DVD from the Christian Vision Project, intersect | culture. In our next issue, we turn to the Project's next theme, global mission, and the question, What must we learn, and unlearn, to be agents of God's mission in the world?
"Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?" Nathaniel asked. "Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?" Nathaniel asked. "Come and see," said Philip.
—John 1:46
The glass door automatically shut behind us as the guide motioned us to enter the inner chamber. We waited, and as another door opened, the cool, dry air enveloped us; a contrast to the July heat in Milan. The courtyard of St. Maria delle Grazie sparkled outside in the morning sun, and I wondered if Leonardo da Vinci stood upon the same rocks that I saw here, 500 years later.
Because of the Da Vinci Code phenomenon, I had received several inquiries about commenting on the book and the movie, and my mind seemed to wander back to the same problem: "I have never seen Leonardo's The Last Supper in person. How could I comment on something that I have not seen?" Yes, I own a magnified version of a photograph of the painting (see plate B), represented in a magnificent book from the University of Chicago Press (440 pages of delight). And I have pondered the image as I have thought much about Andy Warhol's series by the same title. Yes, I had seen reproductions of Leonardo's The Last Supper. But I never had stood under it. So I came to Milan, Italy, to stand-under a painting.
"If you want to 'understand' something," said my friend Bruce Herman, "you have to be willing to 'stand under' it." Bruce, an art professor at Gordon College, went on to cite C. S. Lewis' Experiment in Criticism:
We sit down before the picture in order to have something done to us, not that we may do things with it. The first demand any work of art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way.
Lewis makes a distinction between "using" art and "receiving" art. He argues quite persuasively that "'Using' is inferior to 'reception' because art, if used rather than received, merely facilitates, brightens, relieves or palliates our life, and does not add to it."
Why is it important to experience a work of art firsthand? If we base our conclusions merely on what an "expert" has said, or on our own limited assumptions, we will never be able to "surrender" to the work and discover for ourselves what it has to say.
Here's what I discovered standing under The Last Supper: the most important visual catalyst for the painting is not the effeminate John, nor Judas, nor even Jesus himself. The key figure in kick-starting the visual movement of the painting is Philip.
It is Philip's outstretched, distressed body and his cinnabar robe that we see first in the painting's visual theater. The whole painting is first experienced via Philip's body. Our eyes go first to him; afterward they traverse to Jesus, the center of the work. Jesus' mouth is slightly opened (discovered to be so through recent restoration efforts) and his hands are making powerfully emotive gestures. Leonardo was capturing the moment of Jesus' announcement: "I tell you the truth, one of you is going to betray me" (John 13:21).
share this page
RSS Feed
