Review
Art
Culture
5 min read

Pesellino: making the vital visible

Great art doesn’t just delight, it educates. Andrew Davison recalls learning deep wisdom from a child as he reviews the Pesellino exhibition at the National Gallery, London.

Andrew works at the intersection of theology, science and philosophy. He is Canon and Regius Professor of Divinity at Christ Church, Oxford.

A painted altarpiece depicts a crucified Christ surrounded by followes, angels and soldiers.
The Pistoia Santa Trinita Altarpiece, Francesco Pesellino.
The National Gallery

My favourite idol features prominently in National Gallery’s new exhibition of paintings by Francesco Pesellino (1422–1457). I say that by way of provocation: I don’t really think it’s an idol, but that is how it was described to me – by a ten-year-old – in one of the best conversations I’ve ever had as a teacher.  

That was fifteen years ago. I was in the gallery to give a theological tour, as part of a Confirmation class for Westminster Abbey. Half an hour in, we came to Pesellino’s Pistoia Altarpiece. It’s a glorious painting, but I was unconvinced by what it sets out to do, with its dead Christ within a portrayal of the Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The doctrine of the Trinity is about the nature of God, as love and life, and there’s no death there.  

Not that I mean to single out Pesellino for criticism. He isn’t the only painter to represent God that way. Massacio’s version is one of the most significant works of the early Florentine Renaissance, resurrecting linear perspective in painting. Just down the road from the National Gallery, at the Courtauld Institute, there’s a similar painting of the Trinity by Botticelli. They’re all magnificent, I just think that if you’re going to try to depict God, the emphasis should be on life.  

Standing before Pesellino’s painting fifteen years ago, with those misgivings in mind, I asked the dozen or so kids in the Confirmation class what might be wrong with what the painter as trying to do. One child replied instantly: ‘Please Father, it is an idol.’ Dread rose within me. This child was an Arab Christian. Had he, I wondered, grown up in a culture that treated religious art as idolatrous? Had I offended his conscience continuously for the past half hour, with painting after painting? Best to find out. ‘Have the other paintings been idols?’, I asked. ‘No’, he replied. ‘Why not? Why is this one bad?’ His reply came without pause: ‘Because there’s God the Father in it.’ This was getting interesting. ‘So’, I asked, ‘it’s OK to show Jesus, like the other paintings we’ve seen today, but not God the Father?’ ‘Yes’, was his firm opinion. 

These are deep waters, and this was a thoughtful child. To this day, the Orthodox Churches generally forbid depicting of God the Father in icons. Then came one of the most glorious moments of my life as a teacher. ‘Why’s that?’, I asked. ‘Why can we paint Jesus, but not the Father?’ The boy stood silent for some moments. ‘Because’, he said, the cogs of his mind clearly turning, ‘because… because God has made an image of himself in Jesus… You could see Jesus… so you can paint him.’ This was no pre-packaged answer. He was not recycling anything he’d been told before. He was recapitulating the arguments of the Seventh Ecumenical Council (at Nicaea, in AD 787) in real time.  

The eight century was a turbulent time when it comes to religious images. They were supressed in the Byzantine Empire from around AD 730, with a firm condemnation in AD 754. Twenty-three years later, at Nicaea, the church reversed the ban. The decisive argument was formulated by St John of Damascus (AD 675 or 676 – 749): ‘When the Invisible One becomes visible to flesh, you may then draw a likeness of His form.’ It’s the same position as our young theologian in the National Gallery had got to on his own.  

In this way, Christian art rest on Christmas: on the Incarnation, on God’s coming-into-the-flesh. Heir to the Judaic prohibition of ‘graven images’ Christianity – or most of it – made its peace with depicting holy things, and art in churches, because of Christmas, where we see ‘God made visible’ in Jesus. 

In the mystery of the Word made flesh 

the light of your glory has shone anew upon our minds 

that seeing here God made visible,  

we may be caught up in love for God whom we cannot see. 

Those are words from the central acclamation of Christmas (the Eucharistic preface) at Midnight Mass (and at Holy Communion for the rest of Christmastide). ‘Seeing here God made visible’. 

The events of Christmas form one of the two poles of Christian art. Some delightful examples feature in the Pesellino exhibition: a virgin and child and an Annunciation. The other supremely worthy subject for Christian art is the crucifixion and all that surrounds it. As I have noted, in the current exhibition the crucifixion features in his Trinity altarpiece. God’s humanity is most clearly witnessed at the beginning of Christ’s life, and at the end.  

 In the intervening years, I have mellowed towards Pesellino’s painting, and that way of depicting something about God. Painting the eternal reality of God is impossible, but in Jesus we see what we need to see. There is no death in God, but the crucifixion is what God’s life looks like when it is made flesh in a world full of evil. The crucifixion shows God’s embrace of human life to the furthest extremes of suffering and degradation. It shows the life of God overcoming death. We can hold onto what the crucifixion offers in a painting like this one, while remembering that the Resurrection underlines the priority of God’s life over death. One painting can’t say everything.  

Those fifteen years ago, I was aware that I’d been in a remarkable exchange, one that I would not forget. As I found across my time as a curate, children ask the best theological questions. That might be reason to go to see the Pesellino exhibition with a child. Alongside the paintings I have mentioned already, there are also two gloriously child-friendly panels, each showing multiple events from the life of King David. They offer a sort of fifteenth century comic strip, except that the events are fused into one long scene. Pesellino was a master at painting animals. Magnifying glasses are provided to help you search them out. 

 

Pesellino: A Renaissance Master Revealed, The National Gallery, London, until 19 March. 

Review
Culture
Film & TV
Music
5 min read

A complete unknown: the enigma of Bob Dylan

Chalamet commands but this biopic denies the audience its aha moment.

Krish is a social entrepreneur partnering across civil society, faith communities, government and philanthropy. He founded The Sanctuary Foundation.

A hunched man wearing dark glasses and a dark suit, walks down a New York Street at night, with his hands in his pockets.
Searchlight Pictures.

Crafting a biopic about Bob Dylan is no easy task. Known for his reclusive nature, Dylan has long avoided public introspection, rarely granting interviews and keeping a tight grip on his privacy. Enter A Complete Unknown, a film whose title is cleverly lifted from the iconic lyric from Dylan’s legendary song, 'Like a Rolling Stone'. For many, Dylan remains a complete unknown beyond his music. This film takes on the daunting challenge of unravelling, or at least presenting, Dylan’s story for a new generation.  

For Generation Z, Dylan’s genius is perhaps a distant echo, so casting Timothée Chalamet—a Gen Z cultural icon—as the main role is a masterstroke. Known for his standout roles in Dune and Wonka, Chalamet commands the attention of younger audiences, making Dylan’s story accessible and intriguing to a demographic otherwise unfamiliar with the folk legend. 

Chalamet’s dedication to the role is impressive. During the extended production, delayed by COVID, he taught himself to play the guitar, harmonica, and sing live. His performance is more than an imitation - it’s a striking incarnation of Dylan’s enigmatic persona. Through Chalamet, the audience is transported to a pivotal chapter of Dylan’s life, a time that would see a seismic shift in music history.

From folk icon to electric rebel 

This transformative moment in Dylan’s career is drawn from the book Bob Dylan Goes Electric. Much like Titanic or Finding Nemo where the climax is inevitable from the outset, the audience is well aware of what is coming: Dylan’s controversial decision to “go electric.” 

We begin by meeting Dylan as a young folk singer, heavily influenced by legends like Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. Arriving in New York as an ambitious teenager, he’s welcomed and mentored by the folk music community. These relationships form the foundation of his early career, but they also set the stage for heartbreak. 

The climax unfolds at the Newport Folk Festival, where Dylan debuts an electric set, shattering the expectations of his folk audience. Fans and mentors alike react with outrage—booing, throwing objects, and accusing Dylan of betraying the authenticity of true folk music. By the film’s end, Dylan, despite his eventual electrifying musical success, is no more popular – he has burned nearly every bridge, leaving a trail of fractured relationships. 

True to its title, A Complete Unknown offers no answers. Dylan’s motives remain elusive, and the audience is left with more questions than insights. It’s a daring narrative choice—presenting a guarded character who remains enigmatic to the end. There’s no traditional character arc, no emotional revelation, no intimate a-ha moment. The film respects Dylan’s mystique but denies the audience the catharsis they might expect from a biopic. 
Other biopic producers seem to be following suit.  In efforts not to be formulaic they are choosing a more lackadaisical approach to audience expectations.  In the upcoming Better Man which retells Robbie William’s life story, the singer is presented as a CGI ape. Pharell Williams’ life story is being retold through LEGO. If James Mangold, the director, who also co-wrote the screenplay with Jay Cocks was deliberately trying to subvert the genre, it seems he may have succeeded. 

From musical genius to mass appeal 

Despite its underwhelming emotional denouement, the film does leave viewers marveling at Dylan’s genius. By the age of 24, he had already written and performed some of the most iconic songs of the twentieth century including 'Blowin’ in the Wind' (1962), 'The Times They Are A-Changin’ (1964) and 'A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall' (1962). Chalamet’s performance breathes life into Dylan’s music, and it’s nearly impossible to leave the theatre without humming a familiar tune. 

Around that time Dylan was also involved in the civil rights movement. He played at the historic March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom on August 28th 1963, where Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his iconic “I Have a Dream” speech. He performed at the huge rally on the National Mall between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial and his presence there alongside other prominent figures helped inspire more musicians and artists to join the struggle for racial equality. But this vital contribution is given only a few seconds of screen time and Dylan shows no other interest in justice or equality in the film. He only interacts minimally with black characters – once to mock a black girlfriend and the other to humiliate a black musician. No explanation is given.  

Dylan’s work undeniably speaks to the human experience, particularly through its reflections on social change, struggle, and hope, yet his actions and interactions seem to conflict with that message. The film therefore creates a dissonance that’s difficult to reconcile. It raises the question of whether we can, or should, separate the artist from the art—or if, in doing so, we undermine the very message they champion through their work. 

From faith to legacy 

The biopic story predates two significant conversions—Dylan’s eventual embrace of Christianity and Johnny Cash’s spiritual awakening. Both men would go on to explore faith in profound ways that would intertwine with one another, influencing both their lives and their music. Dylan’s conversion was famously sparked by an audience member throwing a crucifix onto the stage—a moment not yet reached in this film’s timeline.  Johnny Cash’s role in Dylan’s life is mentioned but not unpacked.  These threads add an intriguing layer of foreshadowing, leaving room for reflection on how faith would later influence their lives. A fascinating follow up would be to explore this relationship – for now the film only hints that perhaps the loneliness and longing for fulfilment behind the success would spark not only their friendship but also a transformative faith.  

Leaving the cinema, I found myself caught between admiration and frustration. Dylan’s genius is undeniable—his songs remain timeless, his influence immeasurable. Yet, his emotional distance and self-absorption left me unsettled.  Perhaps that’s the point. Genius, as we often discover, does not always equate to warmth or relatability. Dylan’s musical brilliance is his gift, but his guarded nature remains his curse. His songs preach peace, but he was a man in conflict with himself and with others. In the end, Dylan is presented as a complete unknown, a man who defies understanding, a riddle that continues to captivate and confound, an enigma in need of some salvation. 

 

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