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 Davison

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.

Article

Christmas culture

Culture

Hinduism

Time

30 December 2024

4 min read

Why good wishes resonate across cultures

Hmm… and where did you get that idea from?

Rahil Patel

Rahil is a former Hindu monk, and author of Found By Love. He is a Tutor and Speaker at the Oxford Centre for Christian Apologetics.

Scrabble letters read 'Happy New Year' against a red starry background.

Country house gallery Compton Verney is currently hosting a delightful exhibition by British Indian artist Chila Kumari. It’s a colorful collision of worlds: neon-bright Hindu deities paired with ice cream trucks and cakes—a nostalgic nod to her father’s business during her early years in North England. Chila has captured the balance of her East-West upbringing beautifully.

But what really stopped me in my tracks was the theme of the exhibition: “Love and Truth.” Hmm, I thought. Isn’t that a very Christian theme? Hinduism, as intricate and philosophical as it is, doesn’t traditionally frame life around “truth” or “love” the way Christianity does. And yet, it’s possible that my Hindu friends and family subconsciously desire or even pursue these ideals without fully realizing it.

Surely, on January 1st, my lovely Hindu relatives will send me cheerful WhatsApp messages: “Happy New Year! Hope it’s a good one!” Naturally, I’ll reply with warm wishes of my own. But a thought will linger: haven’t they already celebrated their New Year?

The Hindu calendar, Vikram Samvat, is lunar and runs 52 years ahead of the Gregorian calendar. For most Hindus, the New Year is ushered in during Diwali, celebrated with food, lights, and fireworks. Sikhs, too, celebrate their New Year in March according to the Nanakshahi calendar. And yet, when January 1st rolls around, I’ll find myself in a sea of “hope” and “joy” messages from friends and relatives of different faiths.

Here’s where the question emerges: where did this idea of hope and joy come from? They aren’t central concepts in Hinduism, Sikhism, Jainism, or even Buddhism—not in the way Christians understand them. A friend once told me that biblical hope is “the joyful anticipation of something good.” Author Clare Gilbert described it as being “optimistic even when the heart is broken.” Similarly, Christian joy is not tied to external circumstances. It’s a steady, enduring truth that can coexist with suffering.

And yet, these words—hope and joy—are shared freely by people whose traditions don’t teach them explicitly. Why? I’m not asking anyone to stop, of course! It’s beautiful to see these blessings exchanged. But it does make me wonder: why wish someone something that isn’t foundational in your own worldview? Could it be that these words point to a deeper, unspoken longing?

Consider this: New Delhi-based journalist Garima Garg offers a fascinating anecdote in her foreword to Anthony Stone’s, Hindu Astrology: Myths, Symbols and Reality. Dr. Stone, a Christian with a PhD in theoretical physics from Oxford, went on to study Sanskrit and astrology in India. In her foreword, Garg recalls how, on the day Queen Elizabeth II died, a “comet-like orb” streaked across the sky.

Skeptics, she writes, might dismiss this as space debris or SpaceX satellites. But for believers in astrology, timing matters. A celestial event, aligned with a moment of historical significance, sparks excitement and anticipation. It’s a moment of watchful waiting, a belief that something extraordinary is happening—or is about to happen.

Sound familiar? That feeling of anticipation, of longing for something good, mirrors what Christians call hope. It’s not tethered to what we can see but rests on the unseen. Even in astrology, in its focus on aligning stars and planets, there’s an echo of this universal yearning—a desire for the extraordinary to touch the ordinary, for the unseen to become visible.

This brings me back to the heart of my reflection. Hope and joy, as the Bible presents them, are not mere words but living truths. Hope is a confident expectation of good because of God’s promises. Joy is the assurance of His presence, even in pain. Could it be that cultures and faiths that don’t explicitly teach these concepts are still reaching for them? Could the universal desire for something extraordinary be pointing to Christ?

I wonder if this is why themes like “Love and Truth” resonate so deeply, even in a Hindu-inspired art exhibition. They’re not just abstract ideas; they’re foundational to the human heart.

To be clear, I’m not criticizing anyone for sharing hope or joy. Quite the opposite—I think it’s wonderful. What I am asking is whether this sharing hints at something unspoken. Could these lovely cultures and faiths, in their pursuit of meaning, be reaching for the very hope and joy that Christ offers?

After all, Christianity teaches that God has 'set eternity in the human heart'. If that’s true, then it makes sense that people of all cultures would yearn for love, truth, hope, and joy, even if they don’t fully understand why. These aren’t just Christian concepts—they’re universal signposts pointing us toward God.

So next time someone wishes me a “joyous New Year” or sends a message of hope, I’ll smile and reply with warmth. But I’ll also ponder, quietly: where did that idea come from? Perhaps, without realizing it, they’re expressing the deepest longing of the human heart—a longing that Christ can fulfill.

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