top of page
Search
  • hunttl

Unlocking the History Behind Quentin Metsys's "Pieta" at Catholic University

By: Christopher Vitale



Quentin Metsys, Pieta, late 15th or early 16th century, oil on wood



I was a little anxious when I was informed that I would be required to select and study an object of Renaissance art from the Catholic University Archives Special Collections. I knew that I would be writing this blog post on my chosen object as well as a visual analysis paper, so in all honesty, I felt that there was a lot riding on my decision of which object to hone in on. In the spirit of full disclosure, I do have a confession to make. As I browsed the catalog in my worried attempt to make a final selection, my initial and primary concern sounded something like this: “Which object is going to be the absolute easiest to write a lot about?” Truthfully, that was the principle criterion that had originally shaped my decision-making process. However, in my hurried observation of the images attached to each entry on the object list, some more meaningful — and perhaps less shameful — thoughts began to run through my mind.

I reflected that I am a studio art major after all, so maybe it would be a good idea to choose an object that relates to my artistic practice. I strongly identify as a painter, and specifically as an oil painter, as this is the particular area of interest that my artistic endeavors tend to gravitate towards. To put it in oversimplified and awfully cliched language, painting is truly my passion. Another mental fruit that my reflection produced was my realization of the spiritual nature of this project. Before all else, I am a Roman Catholic. Expressing and engaging with my religious beliefs is both the foremost joy and the pinnacle duty of my life. I knew that my choice of artwork would offer a profound opportunity for spiritual rumination and exercise. It was this marriage between my artistic attractions and my religious objectives that yielded the ultimate result of my selection: the late 15th or early 16th century Pieta by Quentin Metsys, a stunning work of Christian-based Northern Renaissance oil painting.

The object’s file from Special Collections reveals a significant amount of historical information relating to the Pieta which serves to help me gain a better understanding of the provenance history of the piece. Of particular interest to me is a handwritten letter that is included at the front of the file and which provides insight into the beginning of the painting’s involvement with Catholic University. The letter is addressed to Bishop Thomas J. Shahan, the fourth rector of the University and an auxiliary bishop of the archdiocese of Baltimore, and was sent by Rev. Arthur T. Connolly on December 17, 1919. Connolly assured Bishop Shahan that he would send “the painting of the Virgin [and] dead Christ by Quentin [Metsys]” shortly.[1] Five days later, on December 22, the secretary to Bishop Shahan returned a letter confirming that the Bishop’s office had received Connolly’s note and would “look out for the shipments referred to.”[2] The value of these bits of information is that they reveal the origins of the painting’s delivery to the University as well as shed light on the personal donor and recipient of the gift. These details matter. They help us begin to answer fundamental questions that should accompany any inquisitive mind when viewing or thinking about a historical piece of art, such as, “Why is this Renaissance painting here? How did it get here? Where did it come from?” By studying these safeguarded archival documents, the answers to these questions are at least partially illuminated, and as a result, a researcher of the art piece such as myself is granted a more thorough and complete comprehension of the object’s context.

What is not so obviously clear, however, is for what purpose Metsys’s painting was sent. In other words, the correspondence letters sealed within the file reveal from whom and for whom the object was sent, but we are left with a sense of curiosity as to why the artwork made its way to Catholic University. If we take a closer look at those handwritten letters, we may find some additional general clues pertaining to the circumstances surrounding the object’s arrival. To be quite frank, however, it is nearly impossible to recognize every word of the letters due to Arthur Connolly’s scribbled handwriting. Like cracking the code of ancient hieroglyphs, I’ve undergone thorough mental and visual gymnastics in my quest to unlock the barely-readable messages relayed from Connolly to Bishop Shahan. Though I have not been able to decipher everything that was written, my investigation into the manual scription has yielded the following rewards: In a secondary letter dated June 1, 1924, Connolly explained that he would yet again send art objects to Shahan, for whom he affectionately used the phrase “My Dear Bishop” in the address.[3] Among these were “an ivory figure of St. Ann and the Blessed Virgin, a small carving of St. Francis… an Irish made silver crucifix and pedestal… some [volumes] for the library” and, interestingly, “a very fine painting of Saint Peter by Guercino” (i.e. the distinguished Italian Baroque artist Giovanni Francesco Barbieri).[4] Continuing his dialogue, he compared the Guercino painting to the previously-donated Pieta by Quentin Metsys, noting that, “like the Pieta, it will always be considered one of the choicest works of art at the University.”[5] By encouraging Shahan to use the Pieta as a point of measurement by which to consider the value and beauty of another painting, Connolly underscored his perception of the elevated nature of the Metsys piece, and his positive judgment of the painting as “one of the choicest” in the collection demonstrates that he was at least somewhat intent on presenting Shahan, and the wider University community, with ‘the cream of the crop’ in respect to historical artworks.

At the end of the letter, Connolly expressed his wish to visit Washington soon and for Bishop Shahan to “remember [him] kindly” and to “believe [him] as always.”[6] Similarly, in his previous 1919 message, he concluded with an amiable sign-off — “Wishing you and all friends at Washington all the blessings of the Season” — and a short postscript which includes, “P.S. I wish to thank you for your portrait.”[7] The fact that Connolly and Shahan were writing and sending successive, handwritten, casual notes to each other, and that Connolly addressed Bishop Shahan with affectionate language suggests that the pair were probably friends to each other. As I’ve been reflecting on and imagining the possible avenues of this fraternal relationship, I have begun to realize that it is very likely because of this friendship that the two shared that these sorts of objects ever wound up at Catholic University.

After all, that is precisely what friends do — they send things to each other. Today, of course, we have tools such as text messages, phone calls, emails, and Amazon delivery services that enable us to exchange conversations, information, goods, and gifts with one another instantaneously, but for prominent clergymen living in the early 20th century, a prime way they would have maintained their friendships and relationships was by swapping physical correspondence letters and by gifting each other with things the other might care about or which might be useful towards a more ambitious end, such as amassing a University collection. By employing this sort of thinking, it is not difficult to imagine what kind of gifts someone like Bishop Thomas Shahan would have appreciated receiving; he, I’ll add, was also the founder of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, DC, an influential American house of worship and a monumental sanctuary for religious artworks (the National Shrine today holds the largest collection of contemporary ecclesiastical art in the United States). Antique cabinets, ivory statues of saints, archaic religious artifacts, and, say, Northern Renaissance paintings featuring Christ and the Virgin Mary were, I would imagine, right up his alley. I think that ordinary people today are content with getting gift cards and baked treats as little gifts from friends, but it’s probably safe to say that guys like Connolly and Shahan possessed access to impressive reservoirs of valuable and culturally or theologically significant gift-giving material. Moreover, donating objects like these would help to fuel the archives, libraries, collections, and exhibits of the University, which in turn serve to strengthen the institution as a center for research, academic discourse, and historical preservation. At the end of the day, it’s benefactors like Connolly who were responsible for filling the catalogs with objects and artworks which increase the University’s visibility within Academia.

As I dove deeper into the Pieta’s archival file during my research session, I discovered various documents concerning the insurance valuation of many of the artworks housed in the University’s collections, and it was interesting to see the way in which the designated dollar amount for Metsys’s piece fluctuated over the years. An early appraisal from 1937 reveals that the Pieta was originally displayed in Caldwell Hall, the oldest building on Catholic University’s campus, in the “rector’s rooms.”[8] At that time, it was insured for $300. On the same document, small paintings were valued as low as $40 while the most prized item was an oil painting in the rector’s office of St. Francis by Murillo for $15,000.[9] Clearly, this document indicates that the Metsys painting was not as highly valued, monetarily, as many of the other artworks in the collection at the time, but the fact that it was kept in the rector’s rooms — the rector, of course, being the highest official at the University before the presidency was established — affirms that it was imbued with some degree of importance. Later, an insurance policy from the Insurance Company of North America in 1968 valued the object at $2,000.[10] Adjusted for inflation using the CPI Inflation Calculator from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, the 1968 policy showed an increase in value equivalent to roughly $10,000 according to the standards of today.[11] By this point, the painting had been relocated to Curley Hall, not far from Caldwell Hall. At a further date (unspecified by the document included in the file), the value had dramatically hiked up to $25,000 before falling in a subsequent policy to $18,750 in 1981.[12] The difference, again adjusted for inflation, between the 1968 and 1981 valuations is over $44,000.[13] The common trend among these numbers is that the perceived value of the Pieta has increased, and generally substantially so, as the years have progressed.

While additional documents and memos in the file disclose that the painting was loaned and moved around a couple of times, it eventually found a home in Nugent Hall, which is both the private residence of the president of the University as well as the headquarters for his offices. It is currently displayed in a spacious and finely decorated sitting room complete with couches, armchairs, and coffee tables. I’d imagine that this room is used as a reception space for guests of the president or as an elegant location for meetings. The fact that the painting is hung in a distinguished room of the president’s hall suggests that it is highly regarded and treasured by the University. Also featured in that room is a small portrait etching by Rembrandt. Since Rembrandt is among the most honored and influential figures in art history, this is an undoubtedly stunning, monumental, and rare little piece to show alongside the Pieta in Nugent Hall. Again, Metsys’s work is not displayed in an exhibit or sealed in an archive — it is prominently paraded in a reception room of the residence of the University’s leader. Like the Rembrandt etching, my theory is that the Pieta functions to impress visitors of the president, serves as a testament to the University’s academic and historical legitimacy, and underscores both the theological roots and artistic strengths of the institution. Its contemporary location and position indicate a particular merit and utility ascribed to it by the University extrinsic to the value attributed to it both by its original donor and by various insurers over the years.

What the object file also includes is a short biography of Metsys by Stanley Ferber from the McGraw-Hill Dictionary of Art. Ferber wrote that Metsys employed “a conscious archaism, both sensitive and perceptive, which he ultimately synthesized with late-15th-century Italian developments, especially those of Leonardo.”[14] He elaborated on this by describing some of Metsys’s more well-known works, such as his Legend of St. Anne and Lamentation of Christ triptychs, noting that “they present a symmetrical disposition of figures, evenly lighted and generally tranquil in their subdued and refined movements.”[15] As I read these words, I felt that they could also be applied to the Pieta, which evokes a similar quality. Though it depicts a moment of violence and sorrow as a bloodied Christ has been removed from the Cross and placed in his Blessed Mother’s arms, there is an undeniable sense of peace and a visual softness in the rendering of the figures and the overall composition. This accompanies the attention to detail characteristic of Flemish art, as articulated by the three crosses on the hill far in the distance behind the Virgin, with tiny figures standing at their base, as well as the crown of thorns, the nails, and the sponge soaked in wine that appear in the foreground of the piece. Ferber concluded his thought by reflecting that “this broad tranquility stands in sharp contrast to the detailed realism of the parts and the strongly expressed emotions of the individual figures” of northern painting.[16] What is ultimately suggested here is that Metsys, through his many powerful paintings including the Pieta, was a key figure in the amalgamation of techniques from two distinct geographic and cultural regions of Europe — the north and the south — into a singular artistic approach. In other words, the Pieta serves as one indication of Metsys’s role as an artist who was able to absorb styles from different parts of the world. Both he and his work, by extension, exemplify the notion of the “Cosmopolitan Renaissance” as a phenomenon of global involvement and significance. In addition to helping me better conceive of the nature of Renaissance art, my research into the object and its file has allowed me to develop a deeper appreciation for the application of historical artworks in a modern context.

[1] Rev. Arthur Connolly, Letter to Bishop Thomas Shahan, 17 Dec. 1919. [2] Secretary to Bishop Thomas Shahan, Letter to Rev. Arthur Connolly, 22 Dec. 1919. [3] Rev. Arthur Connolly, Letter to Bishop Thomas Shahan, 1 June 1924. [4] Ibid. [5] Ibid. [6] Ibid. [7] Rev. Arthur Connolly, Letter to Bishop Thomas Shahan, 17 Dec. 1919. [8] Insurance policy, 31 March 1937. [9] Ibid. [10] Insurance policy, Insurance Company of North America, 1 April 1968. [11] CPI Inflation Calculator, U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, https://www.bls.gov/data/inflation_calculator.htm. [12] Insurance policy, Fireman’s Fund Insurance Companies, 9 January 1981. [13] CPI Inflation Calculator, U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, https://www.bls.gov/data/inflation_calculator.htm. [14] Stanley Ferber, “Metsys, Quentin,” in McGraw-Hill Dictionary of Art 4, ed. Bernard S. Myers, 55. [15] Ibid. [16] Ibid.



Comparanda:


Quentin Metsys, St. Anne Altarpiece, 1507-08, oil on wood



Quentin Metsys, Lamentation of Christ, 1511




Quentin Metsys, Pieta, 1514, oil on wood




Quentin Metsys, Pieta, oil on wood




Flemish master, Lamentation of Christ, early 16th century, oil




Flemish school, The Lamentation of the Dead Christ, oil on panel






33 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Just a Statue, or Something More?

For my ART 272 class Visual Assignment project, I studied object number 125, a carved wooden statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, with a book in her left hand. Her right hand sits on her breast. The exa

Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page