Personal Critical Archive of the Visual and Related Arts
El Greco
Greek, Spanish; 16th-century, 17th-century
St. Louis, MO: Saint Louis Art Museum
91%
St. Paul. 1598-1600. Oil on canvas
One shouldn't put too much stock in museum wall texts, but credit where it's due: the label for this painting points out Paul's "quivering proportions," which is a baller phrase that gets at a big part of what can be great about Mannerist painting. However, elongation and the softness of borders (“quivering proportions” — check out that pointer finger!) aren't all of what makes this a masterpiece. They're not even the main things. Rather, it's the three shocks of orange — really just dashed literal lines — sitting right atop the picture plane, two by Paul's left hand and one at the crest of the bunched fabric on his shoulder. In one sense these marks serve a function that's immanent to the painting. They call back to the orange underpainting behind the brown of the background, involving the very back of the scene with its very front such that the whole of the picture feels distinct, enclosed, despite the wiliness of El Greco's handling. (The way he paints in streaks that lump with light makes masses seem to shift and melt.) In another sense, though, those orange touches are extrinsic to the image; traces of a hand more brazen than even the streakiest stroke beneath them, they destroy resemblance. (2025)