Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio arrived in Rome in 1592, at the age of 21. During his next fourteen years there—in a city filled with artists all rivaling for commissions—Caravaggio managed to outshine them all. Pilgrims, both religious and artistic, flocked to see his paintings at the altars of its churches, as he was soon to be acknowledged as one of the most famous artists then in Rome.

Above, left: Michelangelo da Caravaggio, ‘Self-portrait as the Young, Sick Bacchus’ (1593). Galleria Borghese, Rome. xxxxxx His painterly methods of chiaroscuro (bold contrasts of light and dark) and tenebroso (dramatic illumination) were electrifying, as the method soon extended its reach beyond Italy to the far corners of Europe. His technique spawned many Caravaggisti during the Baroque period, including the Dutch Caravaggisti in Utrecht, Gerard van Honthorst, who, in turn, deeply informed the working style of Rembrandt. Dutch painters, Georges de La Tour and Peter Paul Rubens were also ardent admirers, with the latter actually copying one of Caravaggio’s works. And, too, there were the Spanish Caravaggisti, Velazquez and Zurbaran, and in Naples, Battistello Caracciolo, Ribera, and Artemisia Gentileschi. Art Critic, Robert Hughes, said of Caravaggio’s art, “there was art before him and art after him, and they were not the same.”

Right: The tiny image of the Renaissance master, Caravaggio, is hidden in a carafe of wine in his 1597 oil painting ‘Bacchus,’ one of his most acclaimed works which hangs in Florence’s Uffizi Gallery.

Caravaggio’s life was nonetheless cut short. In 1606, he fled Rome after killing a man. Thereafter, until his death at 39, he remained a fugitive, a convicted murderer with a price on his head. Yet in his final years in Naples, Malta and Sicily—even while eluding possible assassins—he continued to receive commissions to paint at every stop.

Though painting during the fervor of the Counter-Reformation and Council of Trent, both heavily prescriptive of subject matter, style and decorum in religious art, Caravaggio, dared, nevertheless, to challenge convention, particularly in the application of paint to create light and dark effects. That particular chiascuro style, with its brilliantly highlighted figures and innovative tenebroso technique of spotlighting those same figures against a dark, mysterious background were unequalled for their compressed drama. Unlike other painters who sketched on canvas before painting, Caravaggio grounded his canvas in a black or brown wash, then scratched figures in the wet paint into his desired composition.

Left: ‘David with the Head of Goliath’ (1610). Galleria Borghese. Another self-portrait (Goliath), with both chiaroscuro and tenebroso techniques present, used to great effect by the artist.

According to one account, the artist made a hole in the ceiling of his attic room to allow light to enter from above. He shone lamps on models to achieve the right lighting for his scenes, and perhaps mirrors to position light reflections at various angles, to create intense spot-lighting effects. He had no studio, no entourage of assistants. Unlike other painters of that period who employed painters of lesser skill to complete portions of larger works, all of Caravaggio’s paintings were by his own hand.

The artist’s personal life was nothing short of turbulent. Unable to control his fiery temper, and quick to defend his honor or to retaliate against an apparent slight, he reportedly wounded a rival artist with a dagger and threw a plate of artichokes at a waiter who showed disrespect. He had a proclivity for street fights, adept with his sword on his frequent prowls through the nocturnal streets of Roman. Despite that, Caravaggio’s paintings reveal him to be deeply religious and well versed in the scripture and gospels, able to capture the essence and drama of a biblical moment, like freezing a single frame of film. He remained faithful to the essence of Christianity, that of being with and serving the poor. His well-known soft glow—that light of grace depicted in his paintings—was shed on the least expected and lowliest, a spiritual glimmer piercing the darkness, revealing some fundamental truth.

Right: ‘Madonna di Loreto’ (1604-06). Cavalletti Chapel of the church, Sant’Agostino, Rome.

The figures on his canvases appear real and their natural gestures derived from the vibrant life in the streets. It was as if, coming from the proverbial ‘99%,’ he had painted of and for the ‘99%-ers’, even as the 1% patrons remained enthralled by his dramatic talent as a storyteller with a paintbrush. Each work was biblical theatre, made all-the-more dynamic by his stark contrast of light gracing the actors on his canvas stage, against the mysterious dark swaths of black backdrop. Caravaggio personified his Virgin Mary, Peter, Paul and Matthew as natural and real, like any carpenter’s wife, laborer, stonecutter, fisherman, farmer, or even courtesan. In his egalitarian view, all were children of God, whose grace was accessible to all.

Like art pilgrims of Caravaggio’s time—but some four hundred years later—I also made a similar voyage to pay homage to his art. Just beyond the narrow cobbled streets north of Piazza Navona, is the Chiesa San Luigi dei Francesi, at the Contarelli Chapel. There to be found are three panels dramatizing Matthew’s story.

Right: ‘The Calling of Saint Matthew’ (1599-1600). San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome.

In the left panel of The Calling of Saint Matthew, that lowly tax collector, Matthew, is depicted with other bare-foot men, counting money at a table in a seedy customs office. Among them is Christ, who in a surprise, extends his arm and finger, pointing to Matthew with the directive, “Follow me.” Amazed, Matthew appears to reply, “Who, me!” In this depiction of the Biblical narrative, a soft light of spiritual revelation trails from Christ’s hand to Matthew’s astonished face. The middle canvas shows Matthew as a barefoot, thinly-clothed, frail old man, inspired by or taking dictation from above for his Gospel. In the right panel, The Martyrdom of St. Matthew, Matthew has fallen, with his arm extended, moments before as assassin’s sword mercilessly kills him. Martyrdom is never pretty, and in the background, witnessing, is depiction of Caravaggio. His face, in anticipation of the assassination, appears perturbed and helpless. This tryptic altarpiece brought instant fame to Caravaggio. Commissions poured in.

Left: ‘The Crucifixion of St. Peter’ (1600). Cerasi Chapel of the church, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.

Thereafter, he painted two side altarpieces of the Cerasi Chapel, Basilica of Santa Maris Popolo. While the center altar artwork, Assumption of the Virgin, is attributed to his rival Annibale Carracci, to the left is Caravaggio’s The Crucifixion of St. Peter. The viewer can sense the weight of an inverted Peter on the cross, carried out in that manner because he felt unworthy of being crucified in the same manner as Christ. As he is being hoisted up, Peter raises his head to view the nail piercing his hand, fully cognizant of the sacrifice of Christ on the cross and impervious to pain, seemingly ready to join him.

To the right, in The Conversion of St. Paul, a large horse’s hoof is raised as if to avoid the fallen Paul. Light streams in from above, magically penetrating the scene and seemingly gracing Paul as he lay on the ground, giving himself over in open-armed, willing acceptance. By setting his scenes for the critical moments of conversion for Peter and Paul in realistic, natural settings, the portrayal of Carraccis’s Virgin, by contrast, seems trivialized—too prettified, too sanctified, too far beyond reach for a humble pilgrim.

Right: ‘Conversion of St. Paul on the Way to Damascus’ (1601). Cerasi Chapel of the church, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.

In the Chiesa Sant’Agostino, resides his Virgin Mary in the Madonna di Loreto (above, right), stepping from a humble doorway holding the Child, receives the pilgrims, the poor and pious, who having travelled great distances in frayed clothes and shoeless in their dirty, soiled feet on their knees praying for her blessing. That is the power of Caravaggio’s paintings, you are there with Peter and Paul, and Mary with the baby, who just opened the door to see you.

Michelangelo Merisi was born in a village of Caravaggio near Milan; his father was a mason and died when he was very young, as did many of his family members during a plague in Milan. His mother later sent him to Milan to apprentice at workshops where he learned to grind and mix colors and draw. He was not without connections on his mother’s side. His maternal aunt served as a wet nurse to the children of Marchese Francesco I Sforza and his wife, Marchesa Costanza Colonna, a daughter of the powerful Colonna clan in Milan, with connections in Rome and Naples, whose uncle was the victorious admiral against the Ottomans in the major Battle of Lepanto. Marchesa Costanza would come to Merisi’s aid on many crucial occasions in his turbulent, short life.

Left: ‘Basket of Fruit’ (1599). Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan.

After arriving in Rome, Caravaggio joined a workshop, painting remarkably realistic still-lives.  His images of gypsy card-sharks caught the attention of the influential and cultured Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte. The cardinal, known for pederasty, brought the artist to live at his palatial villa on Piazza Navona, favoring his subsequent paintings of young men with musical instruments and fruit baskets; he then recommended Caravaggio to the San Luigi dei Franchese church to paint The Calling of Saint Matthew, further propelling his fame. Cardinal Giustiniani owned thirteen of his paintings, while the wealthy and powerful Cardinal Scipione Borghese, nephew to the pope, coveted Caravaggio’s paintings, even buying Caravaggio’s “Madonna di Palafrenieri,” rejected for display in the church because the Virgin Mary was deemed to be too bosomy—but not for appreciation in the privacy of his own chambers.

Right: ‘Madonna di Palafrenieri’ (Madonna and Child with St. Anne [grandmother]), 1605-06). Galleria Borghese, Rome.

At the height of his fame, in the summer of 1606, Caravaggio fled Rome for killing a man—a well-connected pimp, RanuccioTomassoni—who bled to death following a puncture to the femoral artery by Caravaggio’s sword. It was a duel, as suggested by art historian, Andrew Graham-Dixon, based on evidence from the archived criminal records in Rome. They had a score to settle: Caravaggio may have besmirched the reputation of Tomassoni’s wife. Tomassoni was the pimp of Fillide Melandroni, the model for Caravaggio’s Madonna, Magdalena, St. Catherine and Judith Beheading Holofernes.

Left: ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’ (1598). Galleeria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, Rome.

Caravaggio was sentenced, a bounty, or bando capitale placed on his head, and banishment from Rome. With the help of Marchesa Colonna Sforza, he sought out refuge in a village owned by the Colonna family, in the Alban Hills south of Rome. According to Graham-Dixon, while in the Alban Hills, he painted  “David with the Head of Goliath” (see above, right), for Cardinal Scipione Borghese, with the image of his own face on the severed head of Goliath—a plea in the form of his countenance, symbolically delivered in exchange for pardon. When no answer came, fearing a vendetta by Tomassoni’s clan, he fled to Naples, a diverse, tolerant city since its Greek founding, then twice the population of Rome and part of the Kingdoms of Two Sicilies, ruled by the Spanish viceroys. More importantly, the Colonna family wielded enormous influence and had a large estate there to protect Caravaggio.

After Rome

News of Caravaggio’s arrival in Naples quickly spread, drawing a flood of requests artwork. He was a celebrated artist from Rome whose paintings drew crowds. He accepted a handsome commission of 400 ducats to paint a piece for the main altar at the newly-erected church, Pio Monte della Misericordia, a charitable institution founded by a co-fraternity of wealthy noblemen dedicated to providing care and succor to the countless poor, sick and needy—the lazzari of Naples, living and begging on its cramped streets. The subject of the painting was to be The Seven Works of Mercy, the acts of corporal mercy to be done by good Christians for the needy, as enunciated in the gospel according to Matthew. The co-fraternity wanted a masterpiece by the famed artist to enshrine within their new church, with the stipulation that all seven acts must be depicted on one canvas. Perhaps the particular theme of ‘charity’ appealed to Caravaggio, just when he needed it most.

In following Caravaggio’s path to Naples, I turned into a narrow old street of black cobble stones just around the corner from the Duomo, via dei Tribunali, where a large gate opens to a courtyard, leading to the church entrance of Pio Monte della Misericordia. A mass was in progress and a guard stopped me at the gate. He only relented when I explained that I had come all the way from New York to see the painting. The hymnal voice of the priest drew me to the main altar. Behind him was the pride of Naples, Caravaggio’s The Seven Works of Mercy, with each act of mercy beautifully portrayed within the constricting borders of the large canvas: feeding the hungry; visiting the imprisoned—Pero offering succor to her father, Cimon, the old man behind bars (detail, left); giving drink to the thirsty—Samson drinking from the jawbone of a donkey; clothing the naked and visiting the sick—the nobleman, St. Martin of Tours, cutting a piece from his cloak for the naked man with his boney back in foreground, while sharing his cloak with a man standing beside him; sheltering the homeless—St. James being received by a man; burying the dead—an undertaker carrying a corpse, the feet visible by the light of a priest’s torch. Merciful Mary and the baby, carried by angels, look down as each of the mercies is carried out simultaneously. The scene could have been any of the old, congested streets of Naples, where women and children peer down from upper floor windows to see the rowdy folks below. A Spanish count later bid on the painting, the result being that the governors of Pio Monte formally proclaimed that the Seven Works could never be sold at any price, that it must be held in perpetuity in the church and that no copies of the painting were allowed to be made.

Giovanni Battista Caracciolo (Battistello), an artist from Naples several years younger than Caravaggio, and an early, important caravaggisti reportedly followed Caravaggio around in Naples. Caracciolo, profoundly influenced, later went to Rome to study with Orazio Gentileschi, the father of another caravaggisti, Artemesia. Orazio was older than Caravaggio, but more importantly to Caracciolo was the fact that Orazio knew Caravaggio and cavorted with him in streets and taverns of Rome. With him, he also co-authored indelicate verses satirizing their rival artist and later Caravaggio’s biographer, Giovanni Baglione.For this, they were charged with libel. Orazio became a famous artist in his own right for his lyric details and glimmering effects upon his textured material. He was later named a court painter to Charles I of England. When Caracciolo was later commissioned to paint Liberation of St. Peter, he proved faithful to Caravaggio with his use of dark tenebroso backgrounds and soft focused light illuminating the face of the angel and his shimmering clothes. Caracciolo’s painting hangs at another altar of the Pio Monte church, directly across from his hero’s Seven Works of Mercy.

Giovanni Caracciolo, ‘Liberation of St. Peter’ (1615). Pio Monte della Misericordia, Naples.

In 1607, Caravaggio suddenly traveled to Malta, perhaps in a desperate effort to rehabilitate himself, with hopes of obtaining a papal pardon. He was bestowed with a Knighthood in Malta, after painting a favored portrait of the Grand Master and an altarpiece for St. John’s Cathedral, the grand Beheading of St. John the Baptist. It depicts the final, brutal blow that severs the head of the saint, his red blood flowing toward Caravaggio’s signature—his only signed painting—also in red. Not long after that, he quarreled with a fellow knight, was jailed in a Valletta prison and stripped of his knighthood. He somehow managed to escape, fleeing to Sicily and the cities of Syracuse, Messina and Palermo, and at each, he was showered with commissions. He might have escaped numerous times previously, but the Knights of Malta were neither the forgetting nor the forgiving sort.

Left: ‘Beheading of St. John the Baptist’ (1608). St John’s Co-cathedral, Valletta.

In the four years following Caravaggio’s departure from Rome, he painted on the run in short stints in various cities. His fame, talent and masterful paintings were his currency, in exchange for refuge, protection and clemency. His tenebroso canvases became even darker and his chiascuro more severe—like meditations on his own impending death—perhaps of the violent kind.

Caravaggio returned to Naples briefly in 1610. On one dark night, he let down his guard briefly as he walked out of the Cerriglio tavern and was beaten severely by agents of the Maltese Knights and left for dead on the street. He managed to survive, however, under the protection of the Colonna estate in Naples. While his patrons in Rome still worked on obtaining a pardon, within months, he set off on a boat towards Rome with his few paintings as payment for their efforts. The boat stopped in Palo, a Spanish garrison, where a patrolman misidentified and jailed Caravaggio for a few days, while his boat departed for Porto Ecole, a swampy port under Spanish rule, some 100-miles north of Rome, with his paintings on board–his ticket to freedom. He paid his way out of jail at Palo, heading towards Porto Ecole, in pursuit of the boat and his belongings.

In July 1610, he died of fever in Porto Ecole. Three days later his papal pardon was issued. Caravaggio’s body was never found.

By Linda Y. Peng, Contributing Writer