Tintoretto (1518–1594) is probably the greatest painter of the trinity of artists that dominated Venice in the 16th century—better even than Titian his master, and Veronese his greatest rival, although both were said to be unsurpassable. Proud to be a true disciple of Jesus, Tintoretto said that the first purpose of his art was to make his Lord better known. As he held his palette, he considered himself sent on a mission and dedicated himself mainly to illustrating Sacred Scripture, endeavoring to recapitulate the events both after and before the earthly life of Jesus, from the creation to the end of time, using the most elaborate symbolism to designate the past figures and the future fulfillments of the biblical episodes he depicted.
In this spirit, Tintoretto devoted twenty-five years of his life to completing the decoration of the Scola Grande di San Rocco in Venice: fifty-five impressive paintings of breathtaking dimensions. One of its most beautiful jewels is this work dominated by the crucified Christ, the most significant details of which adorn the cover of your Magnificat. Painted between 1565 and 1567, in only two years, this grandiose crucifixion—16 feet tall and 39 feet wide!—testifies to the master’s virtuosity and swiftness of execution. These exceptional gifts earned him the nickname Il Furioso. His “fury” is indeed evident in the visual complexity and the emotional intensity of this work.
Beneath an apocalyptic sky, in a tumultuous frenzy, bustling around feverishly and showing emotion, are a multitude of figures—seventy!—who in a dramatic narrative each contribute to the accomplishment of the supreme tragedy in which God is put to death. Christ on the cross, at the very top and center of the work, is the focal point of it. Everything converges toward him, and from him everything radiates. Tintoretto presents him di sotto in sù (from below upward), from a low viewpoint in a breathtaking perspective more than 16 feet high. The viewer of this work is thus put in the position of the soldiers who look on him whom they have pierced (Zec 12:10).
He inclines his face toward us
The artist insists realistically on the anatomy of the crucified man: All his muscles are tense, enlisted in a desperate struggle against the immediate asphyxiation that would result if they were to relax. The flesh given up for us, however, far from being morbid, is delicately luminous, radiating a gentle light that the surrounding darkness does not stop. This man on the cross is indeed the true light: Lifted up above the world, he enlightens every human being. This radiance becomes more specifically significant when it surrounds the tortured man’s head like a halo, as if his glory emanated from the cruel thorns of his crown. The inscription I.N.R.I., Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum [Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews], is illumined by it, and the earthly perspective of its writer is transcended by it: Certainly Jesus is king—what Pilate wrote is written forever—but his royalty is really not of this world. He is Lord in his service, Redeemer in his sacrifice, All-powerful in his weakness, our Benefactor in his death. And he will be glorified in his humiliation, raised above everything because he meekly descended below everything into hell. No, his royalty is not of this world. He is the king of a kingdom where Love is king.
Here then is our King of Love who inclines his face toward us. At the foot of the cross, Saint John turns toward him with every fiber of his being—so that when he receives the Mother of God as his mother, on Calvary, the beloved disciple represents everyone, you and me, too. Behold, Jesus’ glance meets his. Behold, at the final hour, Jesus’ glance meets ours…
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The King of a Kingdom Where Love Is King
Le April 13, 2025
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Tintoretto (1518–1594) is probably the greatest painter of the trinity of artists that dominated Venice in the 16th century—better even than Titian his master, and Veronese his greatest rival, although both were said to be unsurpassable. Proud to be a true disciple of Jesus, Tintoretto said that the first purpose of his art was to make his Lord better known. As he held his palette, he considered himself sent on a mission and dedicated himself mainly to illustrating Sacred Scripture, endeavoring to recapitulate the events both after and before the earthly life of Jesus, from the creation to the end of time, using the most elaborate symbolism to designate the past figures and the future fulfillments of the biblical episodes he depicted.
In this spirit, Tintoretto devoted twenty-five years of his life to completing the decoration of the Scola Grande di San Rocco in Venice: fifty-five impressive paintings of breathtaking dimensions. One of its most beautiful jewels is this work dominated by the crucified Christ, the most significant details of which adorn the cover of your Magnificat. Painted between 1565 and 1567, in only two years, this grandiose crucifixion—16 feet tall and 39 feet wide!—testifies to the master’s virtuosity and swiftness of execution. These exceptional gifts earned him the nickname Il Furioso. His “fury” is indeed evident in the visual complexity and the emotional intensity of this work.
Beneath an apocalyptic sky, in a tumultuous frenzy, bustling around feverishly and showing emotion, are a multitude of figures—seventy!—who in a dramatic narrative each contribute to the accomplishment of the supreme tragedy in which God is put to death. Christ on the cross, at the very top and center of the work, is the focal point of it. Everything converges toward him, and from him everything radiates. Tintoretto presents him di sotto in sù (from below upward), from a low viewpoint in a breathtaking perspective more than 16 feet high. The viewer of this work is thus put in the position of the soldiers who look on him whom they have pierced (Zec 12:10).
He inclines his face toward us
The artist insists realistically on the anatomy of the crucified man: All his muscles are tense, enlisted in a desperate struggle against the immediate asphyxiation that would result if they were to relax. The flesh given up for us, however, far from being morbid, is delicately luminous, radiating a gentle light that the surrounding darkness does not stop. This man on the cross is indeed the true light: Lifted up above the world, he enlightens every human being. This radiance becomes more specifically significant when it surrounds the tortured man’s head like a halo, as if his glory emanated from the cruel thorns of his crown. The inscription I.N.R.I., Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum [Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews], is illumined by it, and the earthly perspective of its writer is transcended by it: Certainly Jesus is king—what Pilate wrote is written forever—but his royalty is really not of this world. He is Lord in his service, Redeemer in his sacrifice, All-powerful in his weakness, our Benefactor in his death. And he will be glorified in his humiliation, raised above everything because he meekly descended below everything into hell. No, his royalty is not of this world. He is the king of a kingdom where Love is king.
Here then is our King of Love who inclines his face toward us. At the foot of the cross, Saint John turns toward him with every fiber of his being—so that when he receives the Mother of God as his mother, on Calvary, the beloved disciple represents everyone, you and me, too. Behold, Jesus’ glance meets his. Behold, at the final hour, Jesus’ glance meets ours…
Pierre-Marie Dumont
Crucifixion (1565, detail), Tintoretto (1518–1594), Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice, Italy. © Bridgeman Images.
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