Some men isolate to write novels, others who disappear for ayahuasca retreats. Then there’s St. Paul the Hermit, who ghosted society for 90 years to vibe with God in the desert, no AC, no DoorDash, just existential heatstroke and the occasional raven delivery. In Luca Giordano’s operatic rendering of this original desert influencer, we find Paul mid-transcendence: a skeletal sage with arms outstretched, beard billowing like divine fiber optics, bathed in a celestial spotlight as cherubs peer down like a Wi-Fi bar of heavenly signal strength.
Giordano, ever the virtuoso of visual drama, doesn’t just paint Paul, he launches him. The composition spirals upward in a holy crescendo, from the skull (an unsubtle reminder to drink water and contemplate death) to the open book and raven (Paul’s personal library and Uber Eats, respectively), all the way to a cloudful of cherubs who look like they’ve just walked out of a Baroque baby casting call. The light, the pathos, the biceps, yes, even monks had gains; this is Baroque spiritual thirst-trapping at its best.
Luca “Fa Presto” Giordano (1634–1705)
Luca Giordano wasn’t just prolific—he was fast. Like, absurdly fast. His nickname, Luca fa presto (“Luca paints fast”), wasn’t a compliment from a lazy critic—it was awe from a world stunned by his ability to turn out enormous, complex compositions with the speed of a man possessed (possibly by deadlines). Born in Naples and trained under José de Ribera, Giordano’s style married the anatomical grit of Caravaggio with the gold-drenched splendor of the Venetian school, eventually evolving into a luminous, almost proto-Rococo flourish by the end of his career.
By the time he was summoned to Spain by Charles II, he was the Baroque equivalent of a rock star—with commissions flooding in from churches, palaces, and anyone who wanted heaven painted on their ceiling. Yet he wasn’t just prolific for show—his work carries real spiritual weight, under all that gilt and muscle. He knew how to appeal to the people's piety. Think: theological messaging via high-definition spectacle. Paul’s anguished ecstasy? That’s Giordano channeling 1600s cinematic energy—without CGI.
A Post-Plague Visual Sermon
When Giordano painted St. Paul the Hermit, Europe was still spiritually shellshocked from plagues, wars, and the Counter-Reformation. The Catholic Church needed imagery that didn’t whisper salvation—it had to scream it from the frescoed rafters. Enter Giordano and his peers, delivering max-volume holiness with all the subtlety of a bass drop. Paul’s desert martyrdom wasn’t just about a personal journey—it was a visual command: Look at what divine devotion looks like—now repent, and also maybe donate to your local abbey.
In an age when the Church was rebranding itself as the exclusive provider of transcendent experience (sorry, Luther), saints like Paul were revived and re-packaged as icons of ultimate commitment. No half-measures. No lukewarm faith. Just you, a skull, a cave, and the sheer thrill of praying so hard the clouds part. And lest you think this was just art for monks, this painting was a public spectacle, a spiritual persuasion with the dramatic subtlety of a Super Bowl ad.
The Message (and the Joke)
Giordano’s St. Paul the Hermit asks us, perhaps unintentionally: What are you willing to give up for clarity? Your iPhone? Your ego? Your air conditioning? It’s about a man who didn’t just log off, he unplugged from humanity, tuned into the divine, and came back with the kind of presence you don’t get from mindfulness apps. Maybe you don’t need to move to the desert. But if a half-naked man with a raven and a book can find transcendence in the sand, surely we can manage a few minutes of spiritual focus between Zoom calls and doomscrolling.
#BaroqueAF #LucaGiordano #DesertHermitGoals #SpiritualWiFi #RavenDeliveryService #SaintlyIsolation #HeavenlyAbs #CherubWatch #ArtHistoryWithAttitude #PaintedToPreach #MementoMoriMood
No comments:
Post a Comment