In black and white, architecture transforms into pure form—sharp lines and intricate textures stand out, while windows become portals to another world. The absence of colour forces the eye to focus on structure, light, and shadow, revealing the timeless beauty of built environments.
Looking up at the National Art Gallery in Ottawa, the stark contrasts of its glass and stone façade come to life in black and white. The sharp edges and sweeping curves of the architecture create a powerful dialogue between light and shadow, revealing the gallery’s majestic presence.
Looking up at the Maman statue outside the National Art Gallery in Ottawa, its towering, spider-like form becomes an intense study in contrast. The black and white frame emphasizes the intricate details of its legs and body, casting dramatic shadows that evoke both awe and vulnerability.
Ecce Homo by Caravaggio (?) at the Prado. I can hear the security guard now!
On my recent trip to Madrid, I had the chance to see the newly unveiled Ecce Homo at the Prado, a painting believed to be by Caravaggio. However, I find myself skeptical about its attribution. The dating places it in his later period in Naples, but stylistically, it resonates more with his earlier works, if at all. The strong use of light and shadow is reminiscent of Caravaggisti more than Merisi’s, and the way figures are treated, suggest echoes of his youth rather than his mature style. This disconnect raises questions about the complexities of dating and attributing art, especially works from such a turbulent time in Caravaggio’s career.
Ecce Homo—”Behold the Man.” A phrase uttered by Pilate, but in painting, it’s more than just a biblical moment. It’s an image of suffering, exposure, and recognition—or lack thereof. There’s something uncomfortable about these depictions: Christ, beaten and humiliated, made a spectacle before the crowd. He is both king and victim, sacred yet mocked. Artists have returned to this moment for centuries, not just to retell the Passion story but to wrestle with deeper questions about power, vulnerability, and what it means to really see another person.
The phrase Ecce Homo—“Behold the Man”—captures a profound theological paradox within the Passion narrative. Pilate’s words (John 19:5) seem to present Jesus both as the King of the Jews and as a humiliated criminal, crowned with thorns rather than a royal diadem. The inscription above Christ’s head on the cross (John 19:19), “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” amplifies this irony. While Pilate’s statement could be seen more as a political gesture in the context of Roman authority and a question of Jesus’ messianic claims, the truth embedded in this moment transcends his intentions: Christ’s kingship is revealed through sacrifice, not earthly power. This tension invites deeper reflection on how we understand divine kingship—not as dominance, but as a vulnerability that paradoxically holds all power.
In Western Catholic painting, Ecce Homo serves as a profound visual commentary on the tension between Christ’s divine kingship and his earthly humiliation. Artists such as Caravaggio, Titian, and Rembrandt have captured the scene with an intensity that underscores this paradox. Christ, bound and crowned with thorns, is portrayed not just as a suffering man but as the focal point of redemption. In these works, the duality of his nature—both human and divine—becomes palpable, encouraging the viewer to confront their understanding of kingship, suffering, and salvation through the lens of Christ’s sacrifice.
The Ecce Homo theme, originating in early Christianity, traces a complex philosophical journey through humanism and beyond. In the Renaissance, it highlighted suffering as central to human dignity, a paradox of vulnerability and strength. This duality of human frailty and resilience persists in philosophical thought, provoking reflection on the nature of suffering, redemption, and the complexities of the human condition. The theme continues to influence thinkers, encouraging deeper exploration into how suffering shapes both individual and collective existence.
This tension in Ecce Homo is revealed through the way artists have engaged with the subject, using “picturing” as a tool to convey both divine kingship and human suffering. In the Renaissance, artists like Titian or Bosch often depicted Christ’s suffering with an air of quiet dignity, where his gaze, whether meeting ours or turning inward, suggests both presence and contemplation. In contrast, Caravaggio and the Baroque artists push the emotional intensity of the scene further, employing stark contrasts of light and shadow to amplify the rawness of Christ’s ordeal. These depictions do not merely visualize suffering; they invite the viewer to feel the violence, to hear the mocking crowd, to experience the visceral reality of Christ’s vulnerability. This technique shifts the act of “picturing” into a more embodied experience, bridging the divide between observer and the scene, compelling the viewer to confront the deeply human, yet paradoxically sacred, nature of the moment.
Nietzsche, of course, couldn’t resist borrowing the phrase, twisting it for his own purposes. His Ecce Homo wasn’t about suffering at all, but self-affirmation. A way of saying, “Here I am, on my own terms.” In a way, that’s the opposite of the Ecce Homo in painting, where Christ is stripped of control, turned into an object for others to judge. But maybe that contrast is the point. The paintings ask something of us—not just to look, but to decide what we see.
While the Lost Caravaggio: The Ecce Homo Unveiled exhibition at the Prado presents a newly discovered painting, I remain skeptical of its attribution to Caravaggio. Regardless of its origins, the theme of Ecce Homo remains a profound reflection on Christ’s suffering and kingship, deeply intertwined with theological exploration. This rediscovery encourages a broader dialogue about how this moment of humiliation, vulnerability, and sacrifice has been visualized across centuries. For more information, visit the Prado’s website.
Really enjoyed this work by Virgine Brunelle the other night at the National Art Centre. After a pretty awesome meal at 1Rideau I sat down for a sensory explosion of both visual and audio sensations.
In Fables, Virginie Brunelle creates a visceral exploration of chaos and resilience, where contemporary feminine archetypes collide in a raw, primal dance. Drawing from her background in violin, Brunelle intricately weaves rhythm and movement, pushing the boundaries of traditional dance. The performers’ bodies, mostly naked and raw, amplified by their breath and cries, move through a sonic landscape composed by Philippe Brault and performed live by Laurier Rajotte on the piano, embodying a world in turmoil yet yearning for hope and humanity.
A particularly striking element is the immersive audio experience in the opening set, where a cast member swings a microphone close to the dancers, amplifying their physicality. This not only heightened the intimacy of the piece but also allowed me to feel the dancers’ movements—every breath, every collision becomes a tactile experience. Very immersive. The live soundscape intertwines with the dancers’ raw physicality, drawing the audience deeper into the emotional urgency of the piece. This fusion of sight and sound creates a profound connection, turning the stage into a space where chaos, music, and movement converge in a shared sensory reality.
Blending digital mapping and ancient history is a pretty exciting project from my perspective! Each map entry is a fascinating story, Rome is a city of both yesterday and today but this is a treasure trove of information about the city itself in the Augustan age.
Madrid’s architecture is a testament to the tides of history that have shaped this vibrant city. From the austere grandeur of its Habsburg-era buildings to the flourishes of Bourbon elegance, each structure reveals the ambitions and artistry of its time. The intricate details of Baroque façades echo the opulence of Spain’s Golden Age, while the orderly Neo-Classical designs of later centuries reflect a yearning for rationality and order. Iconic buildings like the Prado Museum, with its majestic neoclassical facade, and the nearby Thyssen-Bornemisza and Reina Sofía galleries, highlight the city’s devotion to both art and architecture, blending the historical with the contemporary. Together, these architectural landmarks form a living chronicle of a city that has been both the seat of empire and the cradle of modern creativity.
The Teatro Real, Madrid’s grand opera house, exemplifies this interplay of art and history. Built in the mid-19th century, it survived the upheavals of revolution and restoration, bearing witness to the cultural resilience of the city. Inside, music and performance have bridged generations, making it a temple to Spain’s enduring artistic spirit. Nearby, the Edificio Capitol on Gran Vía tells another story: one of modernity and innovation. Its Art Deco curves and illuminated signs capture a moment when Madrid looked to the future, embracing cinematic glamour and urban dynamism.
At the heart of this city’s historical and artistic identity stands the Cervantes Monument in Plaza de España, a tribute to Spain’s greatest literary voice. The bronze figures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza stride forward on their eternal quest, embodying not only the timelessness of Cervantes’ work but also the universal struggle between idealism and reality. Here, surrounded by Madrid’s layered architectural legacy, history and art converge, reminding us that each era contributes its own verse to the city’s unfolding story.
I wanted to see a flamenco show while I was in Madrid and the one I went to was highly rated and close to my hotel. An evening of flamenco in Madrid is an experience that immerses you in the heart and soul of Andalusian culture. As the first notes of the guitar ring out, the air fills with an electric energy, drawing you into the world of passionate rhythms and intense emotion. The setting was cave-like, great for the acoustics. The dancers, with fiery eyes and graceful yet powerful movements, seem to pour everything into every step, the click of their heels echoing like thunder.
I just returned from a pretty awesome trip to Spain, ostensibly to see the “Caravaggio” at the Prado in Madrid. More to come on that. My sleep schedule is off so I decided to import all of my camera photos and start editing a few. I will post food in a separate post but Caelis was fantastic as were several local small restos near my hotel in the Eixample district, just north of the old Gothic quarter. I also included some pics from MOCA where Banksy, Basquiat and Kusama can be found, quite the treat! The Sagrada Familia was fantastic although incredibly busy with crowds. I couldn’t imagine it in the summer tourist season. I liked the Picasso gallery but, TBH, I found its selection to be limited to his Blue period. The various “views” of Velasquez’s Las Meninas at the Prado were, however, sublime. The architecture of the city is amazing, not just the churches but also the various buildings that you see just wandering down the streets. The Gaudi buildings were pretty spectacular too.
In his influential book Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy, Michael Baxandall explores how this specific scene of The Annunciation serves as a lens through which to understand broader themes of Renaissance art, including perspective, naturalism, and the relationship between the viewer and the artwork. As someone who grew up with an Annunciation and a Last Supper in the living room, these two compositions form important parts of western visual culture and iconology, in addition to images of Mary as theotokos in the Eastern visual cultures for people like Gorky.
I have been working on both the prompts and the images for the past several days but here is my Annunciation from Arshile Gorky and Kent Monkman. It took many iteration of both text prompting in my language model and many iteration in midJourney. I won’t bore you with the details but I wanted to blend the style with the symbology or the language that the artist used in their work. The colouring is all from the text to image application.
In the Gorky I was going for his later bio-organic style and it was the lines and shapes in the top that reminds me of the Dove and the verticality of the “rays of grace” that are found in the western iconography in addition to that wonderful dark triangle that reminds one of the room in the background, another symbol in the western tradition meaning her purity of spirit.
The colours were pure Gorki, greys but with his vibrant use of colour, drawing inspiration from Byzantine mosaics and Armenian manuscripts, which imbue his abstract works with a rich, emotional depth and a connection to his cultural heritage. So many surprises, like the shapes that could be shadows? Wow!
The Monkman was more difficult but it was the AI image application that was the problem, it always wanted to put the annunciation characters front and centre as it normally does, unlike how Monkman puts characters as much smaller in the overall landscapes. I was amazed at how this image portrays the angel Gabriel as an energetic force of nature (I didn’t prompt that), moving away from the colonialist tendency to anthropomorphize religious figures (again, I didn’t prompt this).
I also love how the flowers worked themselves into the foreground and I couldn’t get the right background no matter what I did. It kept on giving me Lord of the Rings mountains 🙂
