Lorenzo Lotto
Italian, ca. 1480-1556
Christ Carrying the Cross, 1526
Oil on canvas
Musée du Louvre, Department of Paintings, RF 1982-50
Photo: Thierry Le Mage. © Réunion des Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, NY
There's something surreal about coming face to face with an original piece by the young Leonardo da Vinci, a thin plate of glass separating you from a small sheet of sheepskin that was once at the mercy of such a great artist.
Last night my friend Anna and I visited the The Louvre and the Masterpiece" exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. An amazing display of beautiful works of art that were uprooted from their prestigious home at the Louvre in France and transplanted to their temporary resting place at the MIA.
We strolled through the three rooms gazing, more often than not, in awe of the works of art that surrounded us, each piece living lives we could only dream of. They were hundreds of years old looking as bright and new as the day they were born, yet aged with the wisdom of unknowingly putting into perspective our own lives and our relatively short existence.
The colors, the textures, detail, expression and emotion-evoking artifacts have long outlived their creator and were there to tell their own unique story, in their own way. I wondered more than once if these artists could have imagined their creativity being so valued and so admired by the masses for hundreds of years.
It wasn't until we had walked through two rooms, making our way around the sea of people whom had gathered, that I saw it. A painting that made me stop dead in my tracks. But it was more than just a painting, it was so much more.
Suddenly the noise that surrounded me grew still as I stood before it, silently being drawn in to an all too familiar story.
It was Jesus, carrying the cross, surrounded by his oppressors. The expression on his face was that of pure exhaustion, confusion, and heroic empathy. The thorny crown sat mockingly on top of his head, piercing his skin and drawing blood while the burden of the heavy cross lay begrudgingly on his shoulder. He was being pushed and pulled in every direction, yet somehow grounded by the sullen grey rope that tied him to his inevitable ending.
"Look at his tears." Anna, said quietly.
His tears! I didn't even see his tears until she mentioned them, and all of a sudden I could feel my own tears forming.
"This painting makes me want to cry." I said, trying to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
"It's supposed to." Anna replied.
"It makes me want to be a better person" I said again, trying to convince myself that something good had to come of all of this pain and suffering.
"It's supposed to."she replied again. A reply so simple, and yet with so much understanding.
Lorenzo Lotto, a man who has been dead for 453 years was able to "flip a switch" through the stroke of a brush and his own inherent creativity. Through his artistic rendition he transformed an ideology into a real-life person capable of things far more relevant and poignant than miracles and "acts of God." Even more so, he put into perspective an event I have spent my entire life surrounded by and hadn't felt one-tenth of the emotion and understanding towards until now.
Who would've thought 400 plus years ago that a painting would travel thousands of miles across the Atlantic to find it's way to a museum where it's likeliness would bring about such reverence. Certainly not Lorenzo Lotto.
It's easy to take for granted all that is beautiful in life, but why do we? The gifts we have been given by talented individuals leave tangible recollection of times past and make it especially hard to forget, as long as we take the time to remember.
