Simon Vouet (1590–1649) is considered the most important French painter of the first half of the 17th century. Before returning to France in 1627, he spent a long time in Italy, where he gained prestige and fame equal to that of the greatest masters. After settling in Rome, in 1626 he married there the famous painter Virginia da Vezzo, who is said to have been just as remarkable for her mind and her talent as for her beauty. We are able to appreciate that beauty because Simon chose his young wife as a model when, in the same year as his marriage, he started to paint the Saint Cecilia that adorns the cover of this issue of Magnificat.
Her soaring, ecstatic soul
Saint Cecilia, ancient sources tell us, lived during the time of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. She belonged to a noble Roman family, the Cecilii. A Christian, she was engaged to a young man named Valerian, whom she converted to Christianity. After their wedding, having refused to sacrifice to the pagan deities, they suffered martyrdom together around the year 220. However, various traditions add that during their wedding—or according to others, during their martyrdom—she went into ecstasy, ravished by the music of the heavens. Because of this privilege, she was chosen as the patron saint of musicians, whether they are composers, performers, or instrument-makers. Finally, in the 13th century, in the Golden Legend, Blessed Jacobus de Voragine combined, embellished, and developed all the traditions about her into a beautiful story that has inspired countless artists.
Here, then, is Cecilia, caught up in ecstasy, as depicted by Simon Vouet. Her eyes are turned towards heaven; she is frozen in a contemplative attitude. She no longer plays the organ.1 Her lips are closed; she has stopped singing. Not a word, not a gesture, as though she were no longer on earth; her soul soars, for it is granted to her to share in the divine harmonies of the celestial music. From Cecilia’s fingers, which are detached from the keyboard, in the lower right, the artist composes a diagonal that structures his work and signifies the passage from terrestrial to celestial experience. Passing through the eyes of the saint, then to the upper left by way of the cherubs, this diagonal follows Cecilia’s glance, which reaches the highest heavens, the next world where ineffable music eternally celebrates the supreme beauty of him who is beyond all things. And here Cecilia has received the divine grace of joining the song of her heart with the choir of angels and saints in glory.
The transfiguration of music
Showing a hierarchy between three levels of music, the work by Simon Vouet is designed as a liturgical catechesis. At the lowest level, represented here by the organ, is instrumental music in which the sound comes from material instruments. Then, at a higher level, is vocal music, or rather choral singing—several voices together in unison—in which the sound comes from human persons who are created in the image of God and, what is more, are sons and daughters of God, coheirs of the kingdom of heaven with their brother Jesus Christ, the Son of God. And finally, at the highest level—suggested here by the cherubs but situated beyond the frame—is the celestial music that proceeds from the eternal contemplation of God’s beauty and perfect communion with him. This picture teaches us that there can be, that there should be harmonious continuity between choral music—sung in a choir with one heart—and the ineffable celestial music that it is called to prefigure. Music does this in fact when the choral song is a prayer that offers up all of human life in communion with the Eucharist of Jesus Christ and transforms it into praise to the Father.
Magnificat offers us the opportunity to join each day in the great prayer of the Church, every morning and every evening, when we intone hymns, united in one heart with all who are baptised. When we lift up our voices in this way, do we not have the privilege of singing with the choir of the communion of saints and sharing in a foretaste of the celestial music?
1 The depiction of Saint Cecilia with an organ is said to be due to a copyist’s error: whereas a liturgical reading for the feast of Saint Cecilia said: “On the day of her wedding, Cecilia sang to God in her heart”, one copyist supposedly replaced the Latin words in corde suo with ad vocem organorum, “at the sound of the organs”, and eventually all the others copied this version.
Flanked by mainland Egypt and Saudi Arabia, the Sinai peninsula is a mountainous wilderness. Windswept, dry riverbeds carve valleys between its craggy peaks, making way for a pilgrim route—crisscrossed by Bedouin trails—to wind through the lowlands. For thousands of years, travellers have braved this desolate path to reach Jebel Musa—the mountain of Moses. Though sun-bleached by day, its broad massif of pink granite glows with fiery intensity at dawn and dusk.
This natural phenomenon vividly recalls the supernatural activity that gave the site its name: the “God-trodden” Mount Sinai.
It was here that Moses removed his sandals before the burning bush, here that he received the tablets of the Law. And it was here that a profound human longing found its earliest expression: Moses desired to gaze upon the face of God. You cannot see my face, the Lord said. I will put you in a cleft of the rock…you shall see the back of me; but my face is not to be seen (Ex 33:20-3). Nonetheless this pining persisted, echoing within the hearts of the Chosen People and the verses of their Scriptures: let your face shine on us(Ps 79:4); when can I enter and see the face of God? (Ps 41:3).
Nearly fifteen hundred years after his presence graced the slopes of Sinai, God issued an unfathomable reply. “In the Incarnation,” John Paul II said, “the Eternal enters time, the Whole lies hidden in the part, God takes on a human face.” And, as if in miraculous tribute to Moses’ ancient query, the oldest extant icon of this holy face finds its home in the monastery of Saint Catherine at the base of Mount Sinai.
Surviving the centuries
The blessing Christ was likely the gift of Emperor Justinian upon his foundation of the monastery in a.d. 548. Safeguarded through the ages by the monks’ careful custody and the monastery’s imposing walls, the icon evaded a host of threats. Due to the frequency of desert raids, strict watch was kept over the comings and goings of all visitors. Until the mid-19th century, the fortified monastic structure was only accessible via basket and pulley. What’s more, the dry desert climate prevented the icon’s deterioration, and the site’s extraordinary isolation preserved it from the ravages of Byzantine iconoclasm. The 8th- and 9th-century iconoclastic waves oversaw the near total destruction of figural religious art across the empire. Sinai’s treasury, impervious to the shifting currents of the outside world, remains the only substantial link to Christianity’s earliest icons.
A masterpiece revealed
When the monastery’s inestimable patrimony was first catalogued by art historians in the 1960s, The blessing Christ emerged as the collection’s greatest masterpiece. Conservators delicately removed layers of overpainting, unveiling its original vivacity and distinctive gaze.
Christ’s imposing figure is swathed in imperial purple and situated within a shallow architectural niche. A faded red inscription identifies him as Philanthropos—the Lover of Mankind. Though likely a late-Byzantine addition to the icon, this title reflects the benevolence of his blessing gesture, while the jewelled Gospel codex in his opposite hand designates him as the Incarnate Word of God. Dark hair frames luminous flesh, focusing the viewer’s attention intensely on the face and eyes.
Double gaze
Christ’s high, convex forehead suggests wisdom; his long, slender nose and sturdy neck add an air of nobility and strength. Wide eyes contrast with small, closed lips, denoting spiritual vision and silent contemplation. Yet despite the frontality of these features, strict symmetry is absent.
The right half of the face reveals a gently sloping brow and moustache, broad cheek, and low earlobe. When mirrored, this side generates a Christ who appears meek and vulnerable. His gentle hand extends its blessing in poignant outreach towards the viewer. The left side of the face, by contrast, displays a furrowed, dramatically arched brow, which crowns a distorted eye and its off-set pupil. The dark shading and severe angle of the cheekbone clash with the steeply downturned line of the moustache, contributing to a sense of tension and disquiet. Here too, the mirrored image dramatically alters the viewer’s perception of Christ: aloof and timeless in expression, he is majestic and daunting, solemn and impassive.
The symbolic value of this duality is linked to the dogmatic pronouncements of the Council of Chalcedon. Preceding the icon’s creation by less than a century, the Council defined the hypostatic union: the fullness of divinity and humanity are united without diminishment in the Person of Jesus. The blessing Christ is perhaps the first recorded attempt to portray this paradox. The arrangement of Christ’s gesture signifies the unity of two natures in one Person, further underscoring Chalcedon’s high Christology.
The iconographic type of Christos Pantocrator—the All-Sovereign judge—became more theologically developed in the wake of iconoclasm. This title was applied to the icon in the 9th century, thus ascribing the additional connotation of rigour and mercy to the left and right sides of Christ’s face.
Encounter
The exceptional artistic quality of the piece derives in part from its refined application of the encaustic technique, which involves mixing pigment with melted beeswax. Illusionistic modelling of the face creates a surface palpitating with life. When viewed by candlelight, flickering shadows dance over gold leaf and waxen colours, amplifying this sense of animation.
Christ’s life-sized figure fills the frame with startling immediacy, entering the space of the beholder. In traditional iconography, no one—except Judas or demons—is ever depicted in profile, as the frontal vision of the face is considered most intimately personal. More to the point, the eyes are the locus of encounter. Indeed, it is Christ’s magnetic gaze that arrests and engages the viewer so compellingly.
The icon bears evidence of reciprocal intimacy; its lower register is worn by the hands of the faithful and tinged with the soot of their candles. A conduit of presence, a conduit of prayer, The blessing Christ stresses Christ as the image of the invisible God (Col 1:15)—the revelation of his face—the subject of Moses’ longing.
Amy Giuliano Holds degrees in theology from the Angelicum in Rome and in art history from Yale.
Simon Vouet (1590–1649) is considered the most important French painter of the first half of the 17th century. Before returning to France in 1627, he spent a long time in Italy, where he gained prestige and fame equal to that of the greatest masters. After settling in Rome, in 1626 he married there the famous painter Virginia da Vezzo, who is said to have been just as remarkable for her mind and her talent as for her beauty. We are able to appreciate that beauty because Simon chose his young wife as a model when, in the same year as his marriage, he started to paint the Saint Cecilia that adorns the cover of this issue of Magnificat.
Her soaring, ecstatic soul
Saint Cecilia, ancient sources tell us, lived during the time of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. She belonged to a noble Roman family, the Cecilii. A Christian, she was engaged to a young man named Valerian, whom she converted to Christianity. After their wedding, having refused to sacrifice to the pagan deities, they suffered martyrdom together around the year 220. However, various traditions add that during their wedding—or according to others, during their martyrdom—she went into ecstasy, ravished by the music of the heavens. Because of this privilege, she was chosen as the patron saint of musicians, whether they are composers, performers, or instrument-makers. Finally, in the 13th century, in the Golden Legend, Blessed Jacobus de Voragine combined, embellished, and developed all the traditions about her into a beautiful story that has inspired countless artists.
Here, then, is Cecilia, caught up in ecstasy, as depicted by Simon Vouet. Her eyes are turned towards heaven; she is frozen in a contemplative attitude. She no longer plays the organ.1 Her lips are closed; she has stopped singing. Not a word, not a gesture, as though she were no longer on earth; her soul soars, for it is granted to her to share in the divine harmonies of the celestial music. From Cecilia’s fingers, which are detached from the keyboard, in the lower right, the artist composes a diagonal that structures his work and signifies the passage from terrestrial to celestial experience. Passing through the eyes of the saint, then to the upper left by way of the cherubs, this diagonal follows Cecilia’s glance, which reaches the highest heavens, the next world where ineffable music eternally celebrates the supreme beauty of him who is beyond all things. And here Cecilia has received the divine grace of joining the song of her heart with the choir of angels and saints in glory.
The transfiguration of music
Showing a hierarchy between three levels of music, the work by Simon Vouet is designed as a liturgical catechesis. At the lowest level, represented here by the organ, is instrumental music in which the sound comes from material instruments. Then, at a higher level, is vocal music, or rather choral singing—several voices together in unison—in which the sound comes from human persons who are created in the image of God and, what is more, are sons and daughters of God, coheirs of the kingdom of heaven with their brother Jesus Christ, the Son of God. And finally, at the highest level—suggested here by the cherubs but situated beyond the frame—is the celestial music that proceeds from the eternal contemplation of God’s beauty and perfect communion with him. This picture teaches us that there can be, that there should be harmonious continuity between choral music—sung in a choir with one heart—and the ineffable celestial music that it is called to prefigure. Music does this in fact when the choral song is a prayer that offers up all of human life in communion with the Eucharist of Jesus Christ and transforms it into praise to the Father.
Magnificat offers us the opportunity to join each day in the great prayer of the Church, every morning and every evening, when we intone hymns, united in one heart with all who are baptised. When we lift up our voices in this way, do we not have the privilege of singing with the choir of the communion of saints and sharing in a foretaste of the celestial music?
----------------------------------------------------
1 The depiction of Saint Cecilia with an organ is said to be due to a copyist’s error: whereas a liturgical reading for the feast of Saint Cecilia said: “On the day of her wedding, Cecilia sang to God in her heart”, one copyist supposedly replaced the Latin words in corde suo with ad vocem organorum, “at the sound of the organs”, and eventually all the others copied this version.
Pierre-Marie Dumont
Saint Cecilia (c. 1626), Simon Vouet (1590–1649), Blanton Museum of Art, The University of Texas at Austin. © akg-images / Album.
(Read More)