DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68745#0094
TINTORETTO
shrinks back terrified, yet strangely attracted. One, leaning back-
wards, hands the bread to a sick man lying on the floor. Another,
perhaps meant for Judas, offers an apple to a kneeling child.
The hall opens upon a radiant bit of evening landscape, and
against its blue and gold Tintoretto has painted the donor in the
character of a disciple seated at the table, lost in the contempla-
tion of the mystery. He is dressed in a Venetian doublet of
rich dark velvet, and has a fine, thoughtful, and solidly painted
head. On the extreme right stands a tall, dark figure, whose
presence is less easily explained; it is that of a man in the prime
of life, wrapped in a heavy mantle, and gazing on the ground,
absorbed in thought. The apostles are twelve without him,
though St. John, resting his head on the table in the traditional
attitude, is not easily discernible. Comparing it with other
examples, we have no doubt we see here a portrait of the
artist, but it may surprise us that it should be so conspicuously
introduced. An explanation occurs, which is perhaps not too
fanciful; this is St. Paul’s Church, and Tintoretto paints himself
in the character of that saint, the apostle who was not present at
the Last Supper. He shows him as among them in spirit, taking
no part in the scene, not even gazing at it, but receiving it
mentally with the eye of faith.
The whole picture is painted with a startling breadth, truth,
and freedom. The form of St. Peter, as he throws himself for-
ward, is felt all through the clinging, cream-white robe; the long
lines have a rhythmic flow which is almost liquid in its ease ; fore-
shortening is conveyed with an utter absence of effort; the large,
ample drawing of the pavement affords us a keen satisfaction;
the radiance of the sunset is given with strong brush-strokes,
that seem like the darting rays themselves. Looking closely, we
are somewhat bewildered by the sweeping touch, ‘ strokes like
sabre-cuts ’ indeed! But after long and minute inspection, we
turn to look back as we reach the church door, and receive a
fresh impression altogether. Ah ! for whom, for what was it
painted? Who were the spectators seen in the brain of the
painter, a brain which, reversing the criticism on the French
savant, you might say was a second heart? Not the critic, not
the connoisseur, but those who daily came in and out, and who
48
shrinks back terrified, yet strangely attracted. One, leaning back-
wards, hands the bread to a sick man lying on the floor. Another,
perhaps meant for Judas, offers an apple to a kneeling child.
The hall opens upon a radiant bit of evening landscape, and
against its blue and gold Tintoretto has painted the donor in the
character of a disciple seated at the table, lost in the contempla-
tion of the mystery. He is dressed in a Venetian doublet of
rich dark velvet, and has a fine, thoughtful, and solidly painted
head. On the extreme right stands a tall, dark figure, whose
presence is less easily explained; it is that of a man in the prime
of life, wrapped in a heavy mantle, and gazing on the ground,
absorbed in thought. The apostles are twelve without him,
though St. John, resting his head on the table in the traditional
attitude, is not easily discernible. Comparing it with other
examples, we have no doubt we see here a portrait of the
artist, but it may surprise us that it should be so conspicuously
introduced. An explanation occurs, which is perhaps not too
fanciful; this is St. Paul’s Church, and Tintoretto paints himself
in the character of that saint, the apostle who was not present at
the Last Supper. He shows him as among them in spirit, taking
no part in the scene, not even gazing at it, but receiving it
mentally with the eye of faith.
The whole picture is painted with a startling breadth, truth,
and freedom. The form of St. Peter, as he throws himself for-
ward, is felt all through the clinging, cream-white robe; the long
lines have a rhythmic flow which is almost liquid in its ease ; fore-
shortening is conveyed with an utter absence of effort; the large,
ample drawing of the pavement affords us a keen satisfaction;
the radiance of the sunset is given with strong brush-strokes,
that seem like the darting rays themselves. Looking closely, we
are somewhat bewildered by the sweeping touch, ‘ strokes like
sabre-cuts ’ indeed! But after long and minute inspection, we
turn to look back as we reach the church door, and receive a
fresh impression altogether. Ah ! for whom, for what was it
painted? Who were the spectators seen in the brain of the
painter, a brain which, reversing the criticism on the French
savant, you might say was a second heart? Not the critic, not
the connoisseur, but those who daily came in and out, and who
48