The Italian old master Parmigianino (1503-40) is one of those artists for whom the label “old master” feels ill-fitting. He’s too youthful a presence — too fresh, lively and weird — to sit comfortably in the past. He died young as well, aged 37, so there was no time to slow down or grow wise. If art were a classroom, Parmigianino would be the boy with his finger up who’s always screaming: “Please, Sir.”
I encountered him in depth while making a television series about art’s wildest movement: mannerism. Lasting from about 1520 to about 1600, mannerism was both a revolt against the rules of the Renaissance, which preceded it, and a precursor of the baroque age, which came next. The giants of mannerism were tricky to keep up with, but Parmigianino was the trickiest. Boy, did he enjoy breaking the rules.
In Florence, his masterpiece, the so-called Madonna with the Long Neck, features a Virgin Mary who must have giraffe blood in her, so absurdly extended is her spine. When he was 20 and already a remarkable talent he painted a self-portrait by looking into a convex mirror that made his head look tiny and his arm huge. In his native Parma his frescoes are so sexy they should be adorning pagan temples, not Catholic churches.
All of which makes him an artist worth seeking out and paying special attention to. So thank you, National Gallery, for making that possible by unveiling his Vision of St Jerome, a monster of a painting, nearly 12ft tall, which the gallery has owned since Georgian times but which disappeared from view ten years ago. After a giant restoration it has finally re-emerged — bright, clean, grabby, extraordinary.
It’s on view in one of the secluded spaces at the top of the stairs. As the doors swing open there’s an immediate sense of something unusually bright and crisp looming up ahead. What a strange thing it is. Awkward. Tottering. With something of the Marvel comic about it. When it was unveiled in Rome in 1527 it must surely have turned heads and prompted grunts of surprise.
A huge John the Baptist, with action hero muscles and a kung fu pose, leans out of the picture into our space and points upwards with an absurdly long finger at the Virgin Mary and Jesus floating down to earth on a lumpy cloud.
Slumped on the ground behind the giant John is a comatose St Jerome, who may be experiencing the sacred vision we have before us but who looks as if he’s been hitting the grappa and has fallen over in a hedgerow. In the whole of art, in all the zillions of altarpieces out there, there cannot be many depictions of religious events as wayward and wacky as this.
Apart from making the painting feel excellently pushy and alive — that’s mannerism for you — the restoration has revealed gorgeous details. See the funny little cross the Baptist holds, made from a split bit of bamboo. Or look at the games being played here with light. How the divine light of Jesus descending from the heavens has fallen on the heel of John’s right leg; how it illuminates the vegetation under his pointing arm.
It’s brilliantly done, but also hugely significant. The reason why John points upwards with an absurdly long finger — not just here but in many portrayals of him — is because he is singling out Jesus as the Messiah who has come down to earth to save us. It’s the “Behold the Lamb of God” moment recorded in the gospel of St John: “The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, ‘Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.’” Jesus, our saviour, is just up there. John is pointing him out.
Quite what Jerome has to do with it all is unclear, but his slumped presence adds another note of strangeness to what is already a weird, gripping and spectacularly inventive masterpiece by one of art’s one-offs.
There will, of course, be the usual howls of complaint and accusations of destruction from those who want their old master art to remain dark and foggy. Ignore them. What we have here is Parmigianino’s idiosyncratic vision yanked out of the past and given a new lease of life as something vivid, alert, punchy.
The restoration has done pleasing things to vegetation in the picture: that abundance of greens. It primed me for a visit to the White Conduit Projects gallery, where a small and delicate show has opened devoted to flowers.
White Conduit Projects is the antithesis of a typical white cube. Located in a converted shop on the edge of a busy street market, shows here always feel honest and thoughtful. With winter and its darknesses coming down on us it’s nice to be reminded of the wonder of flowers. Mind you, they can be deceptive.
Tomoko Yoneda photographs the demilitarised zone that separates North from South Korea. It has become a haven for wildlife. At first sight her view of the vegetation looks natural and carefree. Then you notice the razor wire entangled with the brambles. And sense the presence of the land mines.
Tania Kovats makes art from the dahlias that grow in her garden. She let’s them dry out and watches their juices seep into the paper and turn it brown and splodgy. Issues of decay and ageing are obviously being addressed here. A gallery text tells us that the artist has her own menopause specifically in mind, and is confronting us with symbols of it. The show is called: Say It with Flowers.
★★★★★
Parmigianino, at the National Gallery, London WC2, to Mar 9; Say It with Flowers, at White Conduit Projects, 1 White Conduit Street, London N1, to Jan 26
