Gentle Joy and Gentle Sorrow: Titian's The Annunciation and Ecce Homo
The Annunciation (1557)
Ecce Homo (1547)
To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –- Emily Dickinson
The celebration of the Annunciation of our Lord approaches quickly on March 25th and Good Friday follows soon after. Not long after that, my own child will be born. So Titian’s beautiful and heart-rending portrayals of the Annunciation and Christ’s suffering in his two works from 1557 and 1547 respectively immediately caught my attention during a recent perusal of artwork for the website.
It is the stark juxtaposition of Mary and Jesus’ demeanor set against the great drama of each scene that especially struck me. In The Annunciation, Titian portrays Mary with such gentle joy. The painting’s three sections are so diverse. Above her, a dramatic scene unfolds. Turbulent, rolling clouds rumble apart as the light from heaven pierces through them and the Spirit appears as a majestic dove. In front of her, the angel Gabriel approaches with a powerful stance, despite his uplifted hand that signals peace. Yet there kneels Mary, unafraid and even tranquil. She displays no alarm at such news and does not lift her face with arrogant expectation as we moderns might expect from such a rapturous scene. Her humility before the divine, demonstrated by downcast eyes and a covered bosom, is apparent.
How many mothers react with such calm and gentle joy when they learn that they are carrying their first child? And Mary has just learned that she not only carries a child, but the Child, God Himself, and more so, she had no reason to believe she was pregnant and therefore no warning of such life-altering news. “Does Titian know anything about women and their wild emotions?” one might ask. Actually, he has more experience than we might expect. His first two sons were born out of wedlock. He loved their mother and married her but not immediately. It was, after all, Venice during the Renaissance and he was a great painter. There surely is more to the story, but this woman he loved at least would have experienced some amount of fear or angst upon discovering her condition with the first child. Yet when Titian turns to his art, he presents nothing frantic or anxious in Mary’s visage. The Lord has blessed her mightily and through her all the nations. This instant is the fulfillment of that great promise to Abraham that through his seed all the world would be saved. Titian doesn’t fail to portray a grand heavenly setting, but Mary betrays none of that excitement. Titian only gives her a servant’s posture and a mild joy.
Turning to the Ecce Homo (“Behold the Man”), Mary doesn’t quickly leave the mind. The Ecce Homo reminds the viewer of the even greater drama that is coming for Mary as Jesus’ mother. Her child is going to suffer. Her joy will turn to ash in her mouth. She knows Him first as her Savior before she can even rejoice, as every mother does, in the anticipation of her new baby’s life.
Though Mary’s circumstance is entirely unique, I cannot help but empathize simply because knowing the end of her child’s story makes me wonder about my own child’s future suffering. My first child died within me, before I had had many days to dream about his glorious future. The reality of sin’s consequences didn’t require any imagination on my part; I experienced them physically. That reality will always remain in my mind and I cannot pretend that this second child will not also suffer the same effects of sin. While yet in this life, sin causes all sorts of pain, too. And again, the reality sits heavy upon me. I will not be able to prevent my child from suffering that pain. As a Christian mother, especially, I know that suffering has been promised, even while it has also been promised to produce perseverance and a faithful heart. This reminder must make mothers ache, cringe, and well up with agony. But look at Mary. There she kneels without fear for the future or a turbulent spirit. If ever a woman called to mind Proverbs 31, Mary would be she. When she “smiles at the future”, she knows the future holds death for her dear Son, but she knows it must hold life as well. What a comfort to any mother, grieving or only anxious for the future.
How shall a mother prepare her child for such suffering then? Look to the other painting, to the Ecce Homo. Again, the dramatic scene serves only to highlight Christ’s patient, submissive face. Instead of gentle joy, there is gentle sorrow, but, like His mother, Jesus shows no sign of fear or alarm. His eyes and brow are cast down with serenity. Yet the viewer cannot miss the blood dripping from that brow, the tight cords that bind His wrists, and the clear stripes wrapping around His bowed shoulders. Think back to the great rolling clouds that framed the glorious Spirit descending upon Mary. Titian finds no place for them here. While John the Evangelist tells us that Christ is glorified on the cross, that glory takes on a different appearance than in the Annunciation scene. Christ, the Man, goes alone to His death, without any strong Gabriel to proclaim peace to Him. Indeed, He Himself becomes Mary’s comforter, presenting her with a new son to heal her surely breaking heart. This is how a Christian suffers, with a selfless spirit of patience and gentle sorrow.
What great strength these two works of art offer to our faith during this Lenten Passiontide. If you’ll allow me an aside, this is what great art ought to do. It ought to draw our little individual lives into participation with universal truth. Titian was a master of this and depicted the gentle joy and peace that only God grants to us while never departing from a poignant picture of humanity’s reality.