Explainer
Christmas culture
Creed
11 min read

The Three Kings in Renaissance Florence

Alison Harpur explores the significance of Epiphany in Italian Renaissance art and how it reflects the life of the city.

Alison Harpur is an art historian, specialising in Italian Renaissance art, her further interests include theological methodologies for the history of art.

A round nativity scene depicts a procession of visitors including the Three Kings.
The Adoration of the Magi, Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi.
National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

We’re nearly at the end of the first week of January, as I am writing this, and the festivities of Christmas feel like a distant memory already. Although the traditional Twelve Days of Christmas run from Christmas Day until 5 January, by now we have probably put our Christmas jumpers back in the wardrobe and returned to the usual routine. But while sparkling decorations may already have been consigned to the cupboard until next Christmas, it is in these early days of the new year when Christians traditionally celebrate three of the most memorable characters of the Christmas story: the Magi, also known as the Three Kings or the Three Wise Men.  

We associate the Magi with children’s nativity plays in the joyful days of December, and with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh that look very much like they were cardboard boxes before they were covered with gold paint and sprinkled with glitter. But celebration of the Magi and their presentation of gifts to the newborn Jesus is actually commemorated on 6th January, the feast of Epiphany, when the light of God’s revelation breaks through the dreary January days. 

The Magi were interpreted as symbols of the Three Ages of Man (youth, middle age, and old age) and, before the discovery of the Americas, of the three known continents (Africa, Asia, and Europe). 

Epiphany 

In the Bible, Matthew says that news of Jesus’s birth was revealed to wise men in the East, who interpreted the appearance of a star as a symbol that the King of the Jews had been born. They travelled to Jerusalem in search of the newborn King, where they encountered Herod, the King of Judea, who was (perhaps not surprisingly) concerned to learn of the birth of an apparent rival to the throne. Herod sent the wise men on to Bethlehem, with instructions to inform him when they found the newborn King, so that he could also go and worship him. We later discover, of course, that Herod’s real intention had been to find Jesus and kill him, in an attempt to remove the threat to his own power. As the wise men proceeded to Bethlehem, the star they had seen went ahead of them and rested over the birthplace of Jesus. There they discovered the newborn Jesus, with his mother, Mary, and they worshipped him, presenting him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the wise men left Bethlehem and returned home.  

 Matthew doesn’t specify how many wise men visited Jesus, but Christian tradition has settled on three, corresponding to the number of their gifts. We are probably very familiar with these gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from nativity plays and thousands of Christmas cards. But we may be less familiar with their traditional symbolism in relation to Jesus: gold for his kingship, frankincense for his divinity, and myrrh to foreshadow his sacrificial death. Stories about the Magi also developed in later literature, and the wise men were given the names of Caspar, Balthasar, and Melchior. The Magi were interpreted as symbols of the Three Ages of Man (youth, middle age, and old age) and, before the discovery of the Americas, of the three known continents (Africa, Asia, and Europe). 

The Washington Adoration of the Magi is not a serene depiction of the biblical kings’ devotion, but the exuberant splendour of a busy Renaissance court. 

We are familiar with representations of Epiphany from paintings such as the Adoration of the Magi in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., which was painted in Renaissance Florence around the middle of the fifteenth century. It was probably painted by Fra Angelico (c.1395–1455) and Fra Filippo Lippi (c.1406–1469), two of the most important Florentine artists of this period, who were also friars in the convents of San Marco and Santa Maria del Carmine respectively. The circular painting, or tondo, represents the Virgin Mary seated in a rocky but verdant landscape, tenderly supporting the Christ Child on her lap, with Joseph standing at her side. Behind them, a bulky ox lies in front of the stable where Christ was born and an ass eats hay from the manger where we presume Christ was laid. Kneeling among the delicately painted flowers in the foreground are the three Magi and their attendants, presenting their gifts to Christ in adoration. Sumptuously dressed in robes of blue, bright red, and pale lilac, decorated with gold, the Magi wear costumes that would have been understood in fifteenth-century Florence to allude to the exoticism of the East. 

But the Magi are not the only ones who have come to worship Christ in this painting. Behind them, crowds of people stream downhill through an archway, many of them holding out their hands in gestures of awe and reverence. Some of them look upwards towards the star that was said to have rested over the birthplace of Christ. The Washington Adoration of the Magi is not a serene depiction of the biblical kings’ devotion, but the exuberant splendour of a busy Renaissance court or, in the case of fifteenth-century Florence, a bustling mercantile republic. 

Florentine citizens would perform as the Magi and their retinue, processing across the city in elaborate costumes, a rare opportunity to diverge from the strict regulations... that dictated who could wear what in everyday life. 

The Magi and the Medici in Renaissance Florence  

Epiphany was a hugely significant celebration in fifteenth-century Florence. This was partly because the feast of the Magi on 6th January coincided with another religious celebration, the Baptism of Christ by St John the Baptist, who was Florence’s patron saint. But Renaissance Florence was also a prosperous centre of banking and trade, and the manufacture of luxury goods, and it was populated by wealthy and powerful men who sought to articulate religious devotion through association with the Magi. The Washington Adoration was probably in the collection of the powerful Medici family, who established their position in Florence through banking. They were prominent devotees of the Magi, and they were enormously influential, not least through their cultural patronage.  

Cosimo de’ Medici (1389–1464) spent vast amounts of money on artistic and architectural projects in Florence. He sponsored the renovation of San Marco during the 1430s and 1440s, commissioning Fra Angelico to paint frescoes throughout the Dominican convent where he was based. Cosimo even had his own personal cell in San Marco, which was painted with an Adoration of the Magi, perhaps by a young Benozzo Gozzoli (c.1421–1497), who was then an assistant to Fra Angelico. San Marco was dedicated, as we might expect, to St Mark, and also to the early Christian martyrs Cosmas and Damian, who were patron saints of Cosimo de’ Medici. But the newly renovated building was ceremonially dedicated not on the feast of St Mark, but on the feast of the Magi, on 6 January 1443.  

The Confraternity of the Magi  

San Marco was the centre of devotion to the Magi in Renaissance Florence. The confraternity of the Magi, which met at San Marco, was a lay religious group whose members included the Medici family. Confraternities would meet regularly for worship and prayer, and would often perform charitable works. Their membership transcended some of the traditional divides of Renaissance Florence, with artisans and tradesmen meeting together alongside bankers, doctors, and lawyers.  

One of the most important activities of the confraternity of the Magi was the organisation of festive processions in honour of the Magi on Epiphany. Florentine citizens would perform as the Magi and their retinue, processing across the city in elaborate costumes, a rare opportunity to diverge from the strict regulations known as sumptuary laws that dictated who could wear what in everyday life. The architectural fabric of Florence was also incorporated into the procession. Herod’s palace was represented by the Baptistery, opposite the Cathedral, or by the Palazzo della Signoria, the seat of Florentine government which was later known as the Palazzo Vecchio. The ceremonial route of the procession wound its way through Florence, past the Medici palace on the Via Larga (now Via Cavour), to its destination in “Bethlehem”, which was (of course) San Marco.  

Epiphany was not the only time when Florentine citizens took part in processions honouring the Magi. They were also incorporated into the elaborate festivities associated with the feast of St John the Baptist, Florence’s patron saint, which lasted for several days in late June and often included extravagant processions. A Florentine chronicler, whose writings were published and discussed by the art historian Rab Hatfield, recounted the procession of the Magi during the feast of St John the Baptist in 1428, describing “eight horses, covered with silk, with eight pages dressed in silk and with pearls and heraldic ornaments and with shields, their faces angelic, riding one after the other with their livery. And after them, on a great and beautiful horse, came an old man with a white beard, dressed in a gold brocade of crimson and a peaked cap of crimson full of large pearls and with other ornaments of the greatest value, like a king such as those among the Christians.” 

Similarly, celebration of the feast of the Magi on Epiphany also embraced broader aspects of Florentine civic devotion. The same chronicler who recounted the feast of St John the Baptist described a multitude of performative themes during the celebration of Epiphany in 1429: “And after lunch there were about seven hundred costumed men on horseback, among whom were the three Magi and their retinue, honourably dressed. And of the striking things they had with them, there were three giants and a wild man and, upon a car, a man impersonating David, who killed the giant with the sling.” It is hard not to read the description of this procession, with giants and a representation of David riding a festive float, and not imagine a scene like the Triumph of David by Pesellino (1422–1457), currently in the National Gallery’s exhibition devoted to this Florentine artist.

Given the traditional association of the Magi with the Three Ages of Man, it is no coincidence that Gozzoli portrayed three generations of the Medici family among the followers of the Magi. 

The Journey and Adoration of the Magi 

The broader visual and material culture of these festive processions informed how Florentine artists designed their paintings, and how contemporary viewers responded to them. There are many fifteenth-century Florentine paintings of the Adoration of the Magi in our galleries and museums. In the National Gallery in London, there are similar bustling scenes of devotion in Botticelli’s Adoration of the Kings (another tondo) of around 1470–1475 and an Adoration by Botticelli and Filippino Lippi (the son of Filippo) from the same period. 

One of the most well-known paintings of the Magi from Renaissance Florence was painted on the walls of the Medici Palace chapel in 1459 by Benozzo Gozzoli, the same artist who probably painted the Adoration of the Magi in Cosimo’s personal cell at San Marco. Gozzoli’s frescoes in the Medici Palace chapel represent not the Adoration of the Magi, but the Journey of the Magi, with Caspar, Balthasar, and Melchior on horseback, winding their way towards Bethlehem through the landscape depicted on the walls of the chapel. The Magi are accompanied by a vast retinue of followers, which includes portraits of the Medici family and their allies, including Cosimo de’ Medici, his adult son, Piero (1416–1469), and his grandson, Lorenzo (1449–1492). Given the traditional association of the Magi with the Three Ages of Man, it is no coincidence that Gozzoli portrayed three generations of the Medici family among the followers of the Magi, tying the religious narrative to the contemporary realities of Florentine life.  

The altarpiece in the Medici Palace chapel was painted by Filippo Lippi, who painted at least part of the Washington Adoration of the Magi. The original altarpiece is now in Berlin, and the painting currently displayed in the chapel is a fifteenth-century copy. It represents the Adoration of the Christ Child with the Infant St John the Baptist (Florence’s patron saint) and St Bernard of Clairvaux (the medieval saint to whom the chapel in the Palazzo della Signoria, the seat of Florentine government, was dedicated). Although the altarpiece had a definitive religious function, the inclusion of those two saints was also distinctly political. But the Magi are not shown in adoration before the Virgin and Child in Filippo Lippi’s altarpiece, nor does Gozzoli show them at their destination in his frescoes. We are left with their journey towards Christ. Perhaps the place of the Magi in adoration before the Virgin and Child was taken by the Medici family themselves during the performance of liturgy in the chapel. 

When we look at the processions and sumptuous costumes of the Magi in these paintings, we may recall the descriptions of contemporary processions by Florentine chroniclers. When the original viewers of these paintings looked at them, they would probably have seen them through the lens of the religious festivities that they observed and participated in on their own streets. Many of the artists who painted the works we see today in our galleries and museums also designed the ephemeral decorations for Florentine civic processions, and the relationship between art and performance would probably have been reciprocal.  

The feast of Epiphany was hugely important in fifteenth-century Florence. Delving into the history of its celebration sheds light on Renaissance paintings of the Magi, reminding us that the visual and material culture of religious imagery in this period expanded with exuberance beyond churches and palaces throughout the city’s streets. As we consider the significance of Epiphany in these cold, dark days of early January, we can remember the festivities that accompanied the feast of the Magi in Renaissance Florence, and the ways in which the paintings of the Magi that we see in our museums, galleries, churches, and chapels reflect a much broader visual and material culture of civic devotion. 

  

Further reading:  

Cristina Acidini Luchinat, The Chapel of the Magi: Benozzo Gozzoli’s Frescoes in the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, Florence (London: Thames & Hudson, 1994) 

Diane Cole Ahl, Benozzo Gozzoli (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996) 

Rab Hatfield, ‘The Compagnia de’ Magi’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, vol.33, 1970, pp.107-161 

Dale Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici and the Florentine Renaissance: The Patron’s Oeuvre (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000) 

Jeffrey Ruda, ‘The National Gallery Tondo of the “Adoration of the Magi” and the Early Style of Filippo Lippi’, Studies in the History of Art, vol.7, 1975, pp.6-39 

Article
Creed
Egypt
Film & TV
Freedom of Belief
6 min read

The 21: wrestling truth from a story of horror

Remembering the Coptic Martyrs a decade on.

Belle is the staff writer at Seen & Unseen and co-host of its Re-enchanting podcast.

An graphic image shows 21 men in orange suits kneeling in front of executioners in black.
MORE Productions.

In 2015, 21 men were kidnapped, tortured, and eventually killed by ISIS. Twenty of those men were Coptic (Egyptian) and one, Matthew, was Ghanian. They were all Christians. And that is why they were killed.  

Over the past decade, the story of their martyrdom has been widely told. And yet, the only piece of visual storytelling that existed was the propaganda video, filmed and released by ISIS. A film that was intended to scare the world and dehumanize the men, a film that glorified violence and hatred.  

We’ve known the story of the men’s execution, but we’ve only known it as told by their executioners.  

That’s no longer the case. On 15 February 2025, ten years since their death, the story of the 21 is being re-told by a team of over seventy artists from 24 countries, directed by Tod Polson, and in collaboration with the global Coptic community. The short film, The 21, will premiere on the anniversary of the men’s death and be featured at film festivals throughout 2025.  

We knew a story, now we’re hearing their story. 

I was able to talk through the details, how and why this short-film was made, with one of its producers – Mandi Hart of MORE Productions. After watching the film a handful of times, and needing ten minutes to recover after every viewing, I had lots to ask Mandi. Firstly, I wanted to know all about the visual aesthetic.   

This film is animated, which feels like both a defiance and a kindness. It’s a defiant choice because it ensures that this film stands in contrast to the film that was released ten years ago, where pure terror was the only story-telling objective. Nothing about this film is reminiscent of that one. And that’s a kindness to us, the audience. We’re not totally spared, however, as carefully selected moments of the original footage are woven into this short film, reminding us that these men – the ones who were killed and the ones who did the killing - were as real as you and I. But, on the whole, we’re spared the worst of the horror. As Mandi noted,  

‘animation allows your imagination to fill in the gaps. It’s just as powerful a form of story-telling, if not more so’.    

Mandi’s right. This film will stop you in your tracks. More than anything, though, the visual aesthetic is an ode to the men who were lost and the community they belong to.  

Director, Tod Polson, travelled to Egypt to meet with Coptic iconographers and learn about the intricate ways they communicate in symbolism, iconography and art. Mandi told me that even details as subtle as the width of a line used or the placement of the eyes on a human face have deep wells of meaning held within them. Polson also visited Minya, the Egyptian region that was home to many of the martyrs, and gathered inspiration from the church that was built there in their honour. The film’s aesthetic derives from all of this, it’s drawn in alignment with what Polson learnt. In other words, the story is told in the language of the martyrs. Through the work of the seventy plus artists, this story is weaved into the story – the Coptic story, the Christian story. It’s rooted and yet timeless, a decade old and yet ancient.  

For the men standing on the beach, an assassin standing behind them, the veil between the seen and unseen was incredibly thin.

The film is a masterclass in learning the language of the ones to whom you’re paying tribute. The artists have honoured the martyrs on their own terms and according to their own story. It’s a special thing.  

It’s also a challenging thing. It’s a harrowing event, after all. It feels as though, through this film, we’re brought closer to the torture the men endured, given details that the mainstream media left unreported. Details such as, the floor they were forced to sleep on was continuously pumped with water, the relentless taunting and manual labour, the beatings, the fact that they were actually put in orange boiler suits, taken to the beach, and filmed three times. It was on the third time that they didn’t return.  

40 days, that’s how long the twenty-one were held for.   

960 hours.  

57,600 minutes. 

3,456,000 seconds.  

The longevity and intensity of the torture is nearly impossible to fathom. The fear they must have felt is mostly unimaginable. Mandi mentioned that she was probed by a continual set of questions as she studied this story, these men, and those days. The questions went along the lines of: what would she be willing to die for? Would she be brave enough to stand her ground? Would she be faithful to what she believes to be true? Would she choose a life without Jesus or a death because of him? It’s a hypothetical set of questions for Mandi, and for me too. But not for the 21 men.  

Finally, I wanted to ask Mandi about the inclusion of supernatural facets of the story – the improvable, un-fact-check-able stuff. If I was to be brave, I guess I would say the truest stuff. The way the heavens seem to open, rage, and weep; the subtle appearances of Jesus’s scarred and bloody feet; the mention of a prayer-fuelled earthquake in the prison; the glimpses of a supernatural army guarding the 21 men as they walked to their death. It’s quite weep-worthy, really. The closer these men get to their execution, the brighter and more vivid the ‘unseen’ becomes. 

Yet, it feels like quite a brave storytelling choice, to meld the provable with the improvable facts of the story.  

 ‘Only to us’, Mandi reminded me. ‘we, the cultural West, struggle with the supernatural stuff. It’s an affront to the ‘rational’. But we’re the minority. The majority, who have less cultural power, they don’t struggle with this stuff at all... ’ 

 This led us to speak about the seen and the unseen elements of reality, how – as Christians – we believe that all that we see is not all that there is. In fact, the things that cannot be seen are the realest things. And how, for the men standing on the beach, an assassin standing behind them, the veil between the seen and unseen was incredibly thin. It’s comfort that often makes the veil thicken out, Mandi reminded me, it’s the left hemisphere of our brains that tells us that all that we see is all that there is. When our safety and comfort are stripped away, what happens? For the twenty-one martyrs, it seems as though the veil became thread bare. As Mandi quite remarkably noted, ‘the human soul knows more than the mind is comfortable admitting’.  

The 21 is a short film about death, the death of 21 innocent men. It’s important that we give these men our attention, look them in the eye and weep with those who weep. But I think, in a way, this short film also tells the story of life. Life after death, life that death doesn’t put an end to. Life that confounds death, even. And in that way, this film tells both a particular story and a universal one, both their story and the story – the Christian story.    

Watch the trailer

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