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The Not Entirely Repentant Magdalen
Saturday, January 22nd, 2005 12:06 amToday found me in the Birmingham City Art Gallery. I went in partly to escape the drizzle which was contemplating a career move in the direction of sleet, and partly because they have a small but very nice collection of Buddhas. There's something about being in a room full of Buddhas (plus a few Mahavirs and Hindu deities) that can really brighten up your day.
Having buddhad myself up, I wandered around the other galleries and wound up in the Italian Baroque room. One picture caught my eye: Nicolo Renieri's The Repentant Magdalen (not the one at the Detroit Instute of Arts, but a similar work). This is typical of renaissance and early baroque interiors, consisting of a central figure amidst a lot of heavily symbolic clutter. In an alcove stands a small urn, which presumably once contained the ointment she used on Jesus' feet. On a table there is an open book, presumably the Torah, since although the Gnostics maintain that Mary wrote a gospel, Renieri was almost certainly unaware of this theory. Mary is reading the book in a curious sidelong way, as though she is only making a show of reading it; it's like Playboy-style photography where whatever the model is supposedly doing, her attention is held by you, the viewer. In case we haven't quite got the message that this isn't just a good book, it's the Good Book, she has a small wooden cross cradled in the crook of her arm. Given that this is Mary Magdalen, not Buffy the Vampire Slayer, this strikes me as a little unnecessary - why would someone who was probably present at the real crucifixion carry around a souvenir? As if all this weren't enough, on her lap, where you might expect a nice fluffy cat, is a humungous skull, as though she had walked into Ye Olde Relique Shoppe and said, "Give me the biggest memento mori you've got."
What caught me eye, though, was not the surfeit of symbols, but the fact that Mary is doing a Janet Jackson. Unlike the version in Detroit, where Mary looks like she's just got out of bed, our Birmingham Magdalen is clothed, but has managed to let her cleavage become flashage - there is a pretty pink nipple peeking out perkily from amidst the religiosity. (Believe it or not, the alliteration in that sentence was entirely coincidental.)
It is at this point that I should say something profound in a Susan Sontag / John Berger kind if way. Something about gender, death, sex, the observer/observed relationship - that kind if thing. I suppose this could be a way of saying that while the Magdalen has repented, deep down, she's still a tart. It could be an attempt to depict her between the states of repentance and unrepentance, or with her cleavage as a kind if flashback. More fancifully, it could be an attempt to erotise the relationship with Christ and spark off conspiracy theories about holy bloodlines, the Knights Templar and so forth. But I reckon it's just yet another case of artists siezing on any excuse to get tits into a picture. Let's face it, they've been doing this since the Stone Age and don't look like stopping any time soon.
Having buddhad myself up, I wandered around the other galleries and wound up in the Italian Baroque room. One picture caught my eye: Nicolo Renieri's The Repentant Magdalen (not the one at the Detroit Instute of Arts, but a similar work). This is typical of renaissance and early baroque interiors, consisting of a central figure amidst a lot of heavily symbolic clutter. In an alcove stands a small urn, which presumably once contained the ointment she used on Jesus' feet. On a table there is an open book, presumably the Torah, since although the Gnostics maintain that Mary wrote a gospel, Renieri was almost certainly unaware of this theory. Mary is reading the book in a curious sidelong way, as though she is only making a show of reading it; it's like Playboy-style photography where whatever the model is supposedly doing, her attention is held by you, the viewer. In case we haven't quite got the message that this isn't just a good book, it's the Good Book, she has a small wooden cross cradled in the crook of her arm. Given that this is Mary Magdalen, not Buffy the Vampire Slayer, this strikes me as a little unnecessary - why would someone who was probably present at the real crucifixion carry around a souvenir? As if all this weren't enough, on her lap, where you might expect a nice fluffy cat, is a humungous skull, as though she had walked into Ye Olde Relique Shoppe and said, "Give me the biggest memento mori you've got."
What caught me eye, though, was not the surfeit of symbols, but the fact that Mary is doing a Janet Jackson. Unlike the version in Detroit, where Mary looks like she's just got out of bed, our Birmingham Magdalen is clothed, but has managed to let her cleavage become flashage - there is a pretty pink nipple peeking out perkily from amidst the religiosity. (Believe it or not, the alliteration in that sentence was entirely coincidental.)
It is at this point that I should say something profound in a Susan Sontag / John Berger kind if way. Something about gender, death, sex, the observer/observed relationship - that kind if thing. I suppose this could be a way of saying that while the Magdalen has repented, deep down, she's still a tart. It could be an attempt to depict her between the states of repentance and unrepentance, or with her cleavage as a kind if flashback. More fancifully, it could be an attempt to erotise the relationship with Christ and spark off conspiracy theories about holy bloodlines, the Knights Templar and so forth. But I reckon it's just yet another case of artists siezing on any excuse to get tits into a picture. Let's face it, they've been doing this since the Stone Age and don't look like stopping any time soon.
