John on Patmos / Scenes of the Passion of Christ

Living and working in ’s-Hertogenbosch – which had been granted town rights in 1184, and belonged at the time to the Dukedom of Brabant – was a man named Hieronymus Bosch, who was actually named Hieronymus van Aken, since his forebears came from Aachen. He later named himself Bosch after his hometown, which he never left during his lifetime. His name, which merits mention alongside the greatest Netherlandish artists, deprived ’s-Hertogenbosch of its provincial status, entering it
into the annals of art history. Among aficionados of his artwork were Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy and Brabant, Margaret of Austria, Governor of the Netherlands, Cardinal Grimani in Venice, Diego de Guevara, treasurer to Margaret of Austria, and King Philip II of Spain. Philip II in particular was fascinated and deeply affected by Bosch, whose works he had set up in his private chambers in the Escorial. The deeply pious sovereign returned again and again to contemplate the painted tabletop with the Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things (Madrid, Prado). Even in his
dying hours, it stood before him as a memento mori.
With regard to his choice of themes and their artistic shaping, Bosch stood completely alone. Rarely has an artist sought to address viewers of his works in such a direct fashion, to illustrate with such immediacy the folly and wickedness of this world
and the consequences that follow from the Deadly Sins. In many of his works, Bosch appears as a moralist in the Christian sense. His representations of human obliquity are the expression of a time that anticipated the imminent end of the world and the terrors of the Last Judgment, and could not understand how humanity could refuse conversion, instead surrendering to worldly things with all intensity. In this regard, the works of Bosch are among the most striking testimonies to the spiritual attitude that prevailed in the late 15th century, shortly before the era of a Reformation.
Bosch addressed traditional themes, scenes from the life and Passion of Christ, as well as from the lives of the saints, with tremendous urgency, and at the same time in ways that were substantially independent of iconographic conventions. Nevertheless, we encounter one element not found previously in quite this form. Here, the sphere of the sacred is surrounded by a world whose prevailing lifeform is evil. The earth is peopled by demons composed of human, animal, and inanimate components which, irrespective of their remoteness from reality, are nonetheless capable of life. In this environment, the saints too appear to retreat into themselves, suffering in silent steadfastness.
This impression is conveyed as well by Bosch’s Saint John on Patmos, an image that is relatively accessible to interpretation. Depicted is John, who was identified in the Middle Ages as the author of the Apocalypse. He is seated on the grassy embankment of a tall mountain, an open book on his knee, holding a quill in his right hand. His youthful countenance, which he raises towards the heavens, is shown in profile. Extending behind the saint is an expansive landscape, which becomes lost in the hazy depths. A slender tree situated in the middle distance clarifies the depth of the landscape space, with its abundance of individual motifs. We espy a broad river with abundant coves situated along its banks, hills, forests, meadows, a farm, and a town on the horizon. It is a peaceful landscape, which recalls less the Greek island of Patmos then the lowlands of the Lower Rhine, the region around Arnhem or Nijmegen.
A closer examination however, suggests that this peace is all too deceptive. Ships become stranded and sink, engulfed in flames, not far from the safety of the river- banks, where the execution wheel of the criminal court towers upward, a less than consoling symbol. The saint seems oblivious to all of this. His attention is wholly fixated on his celestial vision, towards which an angel – seen standing in the middle ground approximately halfway up the steep mountainside – calls his attention with a gesture. The angel has large, fantastically shaped wings, which have been dipped – like his garments, hands, and face – in a whitish blue that effects a transition to the sky. Visible high up in the heavens, at the centre of the pallid disc of the sun, which is surrounded by clouds, is the Woman of the Apocalypse, associated since the 12th century with the Mother of God. She holds the Christ child on her lap, wears a crown of stars on her head, and is seated on a narrow crescent moon (Apocalypse
12:1). Under the impression of this vision, the saint lifts his quill in order to write down what he has seen. Standing alongside him is his symbolic animal, the eagle, which Bosch represents in the more familiar form of a falcon. With its sharp eye, the animal watches over the writing utensils that lie at the feet of its master, which a devilish creature, seen approaching from the right, attempts to seize with an iron hook. Alarmed, the demon retreats, arms thrown upward. It is one of those strange hybrids that are familiar to us from many pictures by Bosch. Positioned atop a spherical body, which has been pierced by an arrow, is a pale human countenance with gaunt features and eyeglasses. The flaming orb on its head, the pointy wings, along with the tail and legs of a gecko, a nocturnal species of lizard, identify this creature as an emissary of the dark powers.
The rear side of the panel as well is populated by demons. They are visible against the dark background only as shadowy forms. Recognisable are figures that ride fishes, a man shouldering a ladder with a pot-shaped helmet, as well as a large jug, a bell, a harp, and a massive fish with a wide-opened mouth from which a flock of birds flies. If not for the flowers scattered here and there, which indicate that we gaze upon nocturnal darkness, on an earth ruled by demons, the viewer would perhaps have the impression of gazing into the eternal night of the cosmos.
At the centre of the pictorial field, bathed in bright light and set off distinctly from the background, is a round, monochrome disc on whose outer ring the scenes of Christ’s Passion are depicted in rapid succession. The cycle begins with the scene on the Mount of Olives, and continues clockwise with the Taking of Christ, the Interview with Pilate, the Flagellation, the Crowning with Thorns, the Carrying of the Cross, and all the way to the Entombment. The sequence culminates in the crosses erected on Golgatha, which loom up into a broad landscape. Under Christ’s cross, only Mary and John remain, while a woman holding a child by the hand hurries away from the scene of these events. Near the Entombment, the darkness behind the distant town on the horizon yields gradually to the brightness of the Easter morning. Missing is the scene of the Resurrection. Comfort is nonetheless promised by the middle of the disc: here, steep cliffs tower up out of the still waters of a vast landscape. Burning in a cavity is a fire, while on the summit, a powerful bird spreads its wings. It is the pelican, which pierces its own breast with its beak in order to nourish its young with its blood. This legend has been interpreted as a symbol of the blood sacrifice of Christ and the redemption of humanity.
In three stages, Hieronymus Bosch leads the beholder from the darkness of an earth dominated by demons, to the growing light that begins with Christ’s Passion, and finally to the brilliant light at the centre of the circle, which signifies the promise of redemption. In this way, he endows the dualism between the Christian doctrine of salvation and the influence of the infernal powers with palpable expression. One has the impression that Bosch invokes the words of the Gospel of Saint John: “And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not” (John 1:5). Rainald Grosshans | 200 Masterpieces of European Painting – Gemäldegalerie Berlin, 2019