• The Calling of Saint Matthew. Levi the tax collector sits at his table, a coin adorning his hat to signify his trade, counting his take with a glowering associate, an interested elder, and two bystanders. An instant before they were a closed knot of five. Now a door has opened, bringing in two Biblical figures. Two of the five, the onlookers, have inquiringly turned away to our right. The intruders are separated from the little tax-counting cluster. Their robes are ancient. Christ's hand crosses space, summoning without ever making contact, his stretching finger an echo of Michelangelo's hand of God reaching to a reclining Adam. The tax collector's space is dark, Christ's space is light. Above his hand, shadowed window mullions form a cross. Levi is taken aback, pointing to himself in Who, me? as the clear light reaches from Christ's hand to his bare forehead. The moment of decision, frozen.
• Saint Mathew and the Angel. He kneels on a bench before a writing table that projects into the viewer's space. Caught in the act of writing, he has turned to look over his shoulder at an angel floating down to review his work or perhaps to offer encouragement.
• The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew. Matthew has been preaching in a temple when a Roman soldier bursts in, sword in hand. Suddenly all the others have recoiled away, some frightened, some (like the acolyte) horrified, leaving Matthew exposed in his own space. He has fallen backward. Though helpless before his captor -- who is nearly nude, more like an avenging angel than a hired jailer -- Matthew raises his right hand, palm open, as if to ward off the blow, but the executioner has grabbed it preparatory to pulling it aside. And just as he does so an angel materializes, unseen by everyone except Matthew. Leaning over his divine cloud, the child hands down a palm branch, the Passion symbol. Matthew's hand, that an instant before sought to protect his life, can now receive the beatitude of faith. Once again, time has stopped: long enough for Matthew to have his epiphany, embrace his fate, and perhaps even to forgive his executioner. Behind, gazing with a curious resignation, a mottled face with a broken nose expressionlessly observes Matthew -- Caravaggio, painted into his own work as passive witness.

For Nancy and me, Calling is the best, every detail perfectly rendered, the colors full and life-giving, the figures exquisitely wrought, each a person, the story hinged. Martyrdom runs a close second, despite its slightly malformed central figure, for the fusion of profane and sacred and its expression of the miracle of redemption arising from the act of execution. Also see Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.

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ã Copyright 2002 David Alexander Smith