Caravaggio’s Taking of Christ is overshadowed by violence, in its pre-existence: in the life of the artist himself, in its subject matter – the violent arrest of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane – and finally in the Irish leg of its history. Already by the time The Taking of Christ was painted in 1602, Caravaggio’s life was overshadowed by his own tempestuous personality: he was a brawler spoiling for fights, something which culminated in a murder four years after the work was painted. This same violent energy marks the painting – three soldiers in full armour, the deceitful Judas seizing Jesus, and St John who flees the scene in horror-filled panic. Strangely enough, it was violence which brought the painting to Ireland and ultimately to the National Gallery. On September 15, 1920, District Inspector Percival Lea-Wilson was shot dead on the streets of Gorey by the IRA. His widow, Dr Marie Lea-Wilson, purchased the painting – then not known to be an original Caravaggio – at an auction in 1924 and apparently found solace in contemplating it, and subsequently gave the painting to the Jesuit Order in the 1930s in gratitude for its support for her after her husband was killed. Only in the 1990s was it found to be a lost Caravaggio.
In the painting, then, we find six characters, all with their faces turned to the left-hand side, and pressing energetically – and in one case, desperately – on Christ, who alone of the figures is facing the other way. Furthest – significantly – from Christ is St Peter, modelled on Caravaggio himself, holding a lamp, peering over the heads of the other figures with a slightly detached expression of curiosity.
Then there are three soldiers with their faces peeking out of their burnished helmets, one gripping with two hands the end of St John’s red cloak and the other two bearing down on Christ with martial determination. The armoured, almost robotic arm of one of the soldiers stretches out almost to the neck of Jesus. Behind Jesus, a disciple (John or perhaps Mark?) appears about to flee from the very canvas itself, such is his wild panic, mouth wide open in a cry and arms thrust forward.
And then, framed by John’s swirling cloak above their faces and the arms below, is the dreadful kiss of Judas. Perhaps the most chilling detail in the painting is those dark, hollow eyes under the tortured, furrowed brow of the betrayer as he gazes into the face of the man he is sending to certain death. He desperately grips Jesus’s shoulder with his left hand, and one wonders if we can detect in that grasp the desperation of a soul trying to halt its slide into perdition.
At the centre of this swirl of terror, desperation, and violence is the face of Christ, marked by profound sorrow, to be sure. The treacherous kiss of Judas appears to repulse Jesus, who leans back slightly under it. Jesus appears to sustain the weight of the torrent of sin pressing down on him from those figures before him: the slightly indifferent Peter, the violent soldiers, and the desperate Judas, all pushing Jesus slightly backwards.
But what makes the serenity of Jesus all the more apparent are his hands. They contrast with all the other hands in the painting, especially John’s, extended in terror, and Judas’s, clasping in desperation. Christ’s fingers are interlaced in a gesture of prayer, as if he had been caught unawares by Judas while praying and had had no time to unclasp his hands. He cannot use those hands, so bound, to defend himself from those who are seizing him. But the apparent weakness of his interlocked hands no doubt gives Jesus his superhuman calm and a divine strength to resist this torrent pressing down on him. Perhaps the painting is really all about prayer. Only moments earlier Jesus had pleaded with two of the characters who are present here – Peter and John – to pray, pray, lest they enter into temptation. They had not prayed, but Jesus certainly did. And so, despite the immense suffering and sadness revealed by his face, Christ absorbs the full weight of human misery with such profound serenity. One can see how Dr Marie Lea-Wilson drew solace from this painting, and no doubt so did the troubled artist himself.
.jpg)
.jpg)
