The Hands of Caravaggio (Roman diary 3)
Thick, heavy scaffolding completely conceals the broad façade of the most prominent, sacred building in Piazza di San Luigi dei Francesi. A raised platform leads to the makeshift-looking entrance on the right. When the church reopens at four in the afternoon, visitors seem to come in clusters and more frequently. As they flock into baroque interior, they bring with them the excitement of nearby Piazza Navona, their curiosity, fatigue, boredom, cameras and mobiles, turning the atmosphere inside to almost shambolic. Most of them don’t bother to slow down and re-adjust to the mood of the place; they walk freely around the central nave before joining a small crowd at the chapel to the left of the main altar. Its’s a church cum museum – now everybody must be certain they have reached their destination, the Contratelli Chapel, where three paintings by Caravaggio, three ‘must-see’ attractions are on show, all three in probably the most unfavourable display a painting can get. It’s hardly possible to see what the canvasses on the side walls depict, unless somebody is in the chapel, kneeling before the altar, but this position regular visitors are not granted to take. Instead, they cram at the barrier and raise their heads to the walls, awaiting another fifteen-second flash of light that illuminates the interior whenever somebody throws a coin into the box. Like a peepshow. It is the darkest, most puzzling canvas on the left wall that attracts most interest.
Passing by, Jesus saw Levi, the son of Alpheus, sitting in the customs office, and said to him “Follow me”. And, standing up, he followed him.
So that’ what it is, the evangelical starting point for Caravaggio in his vision of an episode from the life of Matthew, The Calling of Saint Matthew. Here, this historical and allegorical moment becomes a gathering of gamblers at an inn.
The dim chapel extends into the room in the painting and they become one so that the observer’s gaze naturally enters this sombre, common space. Like most of Caravaggio’s paintings, this one too obeys his own norm which excludes direct sunlight from represented events, but still, the room is flooded with a light that produces powerful contrasts between patches of brightly lit flesh and impenetrable darkness in all crucial places of a deeply theatrical scene. There are few essential elements that accompany the characters on stage: a table with money on it, two stools, a small window. The characters are of different ages and dressed in contemporary costumes. A scene like this may as well be taking place at any historical moment.
While playing, they are surprised by the entrance of two pilgrim-like figures clad in dark, timeless garments. Barefoot, with unkempt hair and large knotty hands, the strangers bring with them an unusual light. Facing at some distance the busy gambling group at the table, the younger stranger raises his hand, which outstretched shines in the shadow. His index finger points out one of the players as he eyes him intensely. Amazement and curiosity flicker on Matthew’s face and trigger some reaction of his young friend. Two other players do not notice anything, remain indifferent to the disturbance in the game, and a third suddenly turns around and stares while curving his legs and pushing his hands against the stool.
The dialogue with hands has already begun. Matthew responds to the commanding gesture of the stranger. He keeps one hand on his coins while with the other he echoes the stranger’s command, alters it into a question – hesitantly he points himself out, still amazed, disbelieving, mistrustful, yet fully engaged in a simple, wordless communication. He has not yet stood up, but his rebirth is happening in those few seconds when the divine enters and silences the commonplace. The void between man and God is being filled.
When Matthew is gone with Christ and Peter, his money is there on the table, left for other players to share, a supreme goal for those who haven’t noticed and understood.