Bearing Witness in José de Ribera’s Isaac and Jacob
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Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.[1]
There is perhaps no better way to begin discussing the truth than by beginning with a falsity. In the Golden Age of Spanish painting, one artist stands out among the rest as being the most macabre, known for rendering scenes of acute suffering and gore in a “distinctly Spanish” way. Born in Játiva, Spain in 1591, the young Spaniard José de Ribera translocated to Italy for the remainder of his life in the early years of the seventeenth century. There, he earned the epithet Lo Spagnoletto, the name always a reminder of the home he forewent. While there are several paintings of his that prompt winces and grimaces from even the most robust audiences, Ribera is far from a unidimensional painter. Modern art history has inherited a two-hundred-year bias, best expressed by Lord Byron in Don Juan: “Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted / His brush with all the blood of the sainted.”[2] This broad generalization of Ribera, however, leaves a significant portion of his work in the blind-spot of art history. Against all odds, what lies in this underappreciated body of work proclaims Ribera’s complexity to those who take the time not only to look at his work, but to see it.
The painting I wish to consider as an antithesis to this blood-red reputation is entitled Isaac and Jacob (1637), where Ribera tells the story of a father and his sons, and of envy that leads to betrayal. It is imperative to visit the biblical passage that tells this story before looking formally at Ribera’s canvas.
In Isaac and Jacob (Figure 1), there are four figures: Isaac, his two sons Jacob and Esau, and Isaac’s wife, Rebekah. The book of Genesis tells the story as follows:
“And it came to pass, that when Isaac was old, and his eyes were dim, so that he could not see, he called Esau his eldest son, and said unto him, ‘My son… I am old, I know not the day of my death… Go out to the field, and take me some venison; And make me savoury meat, such as I love, and bring it to me, that I may eat; that my soul may bless thee before I die.’ And Rebekah heard when Isaac spake to Esau his son. And Esau went to the field to hunt for venison, and to bring it. And Rebekah spake unto Jacob her son, saying, ‘Behold, I heard thy father speak unto Esau thy brother… Go now to the flock, and fetch me from thence two good kids of the goats… And thou shalt bring it to thy father, that he may eat, and that he may bless thee before his death.’ And Jacob said to Rebekah his mother, ‘Behold, Esau my brother is a hairy man, and I am a smooth man: My father peradventure will feel me, and I shall seem to him as a deceiver; and I shall bring a curse upon me, and not a blessing.’ And his mother said unto him, ‘Upon me be thy curse, my son: only obey my voice, and go fetch me them.’ And he went, and fetched, and brought them to his mother: and his mother made savoury meat, such as his father loved. And Rebekah took goodly raiment[3] of her eldest son Esau, which were with her in the house, and put them upon Jacob her younger son: And she put the skins of the kids of the goats upon his hands… [Jacob] came unto his father, and said, ‘My father: and he said, Here am I’; ‘who art thou, my son?’ And Jacob said unto his father, ‘I am Esau thy first born…’ And Isaac said unto his son, ‘How is it that thou hast found it so quickly, my son?’ And he said, ‘Because the Lord thy God brought it to me.’ And Isaac said unto Jacob, ‘Come near, I pray thee, that I may feel thee, my son, whether thou be my very son Esau or not.’ And Jacob went near unto Isaac his father; and he felt him, and said, ‘The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.’”[4]
In the scene that Ribera paints, he takes the verbose and condenses it into a single moment. On the far left of the painting, Esau can be seen through the window with his belongings slung over his shoulder embarking on the first steps of his journey. Opposite him, on the far right of the composition sits Isaac beneath bright and rose-hued swaths of satin bedding. His eyes are closed as a visual indication of his blindness. Isaac’s arms are outstretched, his hands curiously touching the goat hide that covers Jacob’s arm. Isaac’s role is that of the judge––his acceptance of information is what will decide the awarding of his blessing, and ultimately, the resolution of the story. Rebekah, however, has crafted an air-tight lie. More than simply covering Jacob’s arm to fool Isaac, she thinks to take the “raiment”[5] of Esau’s, so that the smell might doubly convince Isaac of his son’s identity. With the additional context, further attention to Jacob’s clothing reveals it to be another tool of deceit, and an ironic one at that. The color that Ribera chooses to use evokes the shade of blue worn by the Virgin Mary. Jacob dresses the part of the innocent, guided all the while by the conniving hand of his mother. The Bible goes on to explain the ending of this story, but this painting remains caught at the height of the lie, the moment where Isaac is gesturing, asking is this really my son Esau? Esau may be outside, but Rebekah’s body visually severs Esau from his father more insurmountably than any wall. Rebekah’s nefarious attitude pervades the entire scene, though it is invisible to both Isaac and Esau. It is with her guidance that Jacob goes against his father at all––she orchestrated the betrayal. The two black wells in place of her eyes look out toward the viewer (Figure 2) ––she is the only figure to do so in this painting. This intense connection, informed by the Biblical text, serves as evidence for Ribera’s thoughtful rendering of this scene and his special articulation of each individual’s gaze. Rebekah’s hand literally pushes Jacob to deceive his father, her eye contact a compelling signal of the sinful act that she has designed. In the resolute expression on her face, there is no plea for forgiveness, no show of guilt. Despite her culpability, she lacks any visible fear for consequence of wrong-doing. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor, yet she is the only witness who could attest to Jacob’s sin. Perhaps that is why her body language is so calm––she lacks penitence believing that she will successfully deceive her husband (which, in fact, she does).
The deceit goes beyond Rebekah’s dark stare. Perhaps the least obvious is the sly still life that Ribera has included in the lower right-hand corner of the painting. On the table, the meat is haphazardly stabbed with a knife served with half of a lemon; a plump piece of bread sits alone on a dish of its own; and a carafe of ruby wine catches the light. Upon closer inspection, the meat is revealed to be a goat leg in reference to the passage, the same animal whose hide covers Jacob’s arm. The goat hide is the most tangible lie in this scene, as it is the most obvious outlier in the painting, for those who might lack the Biblical context. Jacob’s outstretched arm, disguised as his brother’s own hairy arm, is the anchor in this composition that functions to visually cue deceit. As defined by Erwin Panofsky, when the sense being tested accepts the object in question as what it is intended to imitate rather than what it actually is, the deceit is successful.[6] Isaac and Jacob could easily be considered an allegory of touch as the deceit comes by way of touch. Isaac’s lack of sight forces him to “see” with his hands. Our would-be allegory of touch, however, relies entirely on his inability to see. The absence of sight is precisely what points out the acute need for it, shifting the allegorical attention away from touch. The painting is, really, an allegory of sight. There is only one honest figure that the viewer can see. It is Esau, walking away from the house, eyes dutifully looking earnestly beyond to secure the game that his father had requested.
Before going any further, it becomes worthwhile to point out the relative location of the agents of truth and deceit in this scene. As alluded to earlier, Isaac remains neutral as he is the judge. Outside of the home is Esau, our only truthful character. Inside Rebekah and Jacob, the two dishonest characters. The art of a lie comes from a convincing exterior. From the elements that we have examined thus far, Ribera is evidently remaining faithful to the Biblical text, framing this story, taking some symbolic liberties, but otherwise toying with the trust of his viewer, just as the characters do with one another. Ribera’s division of space could thus be considered to be a wider-reaching metaphor for the nature of sin: concealing dishonestly by constructing an honest façade. Esau’s journey was instigated by the love and loyalty that he feels for his father; the motivations of those inside are selfish and forego the work that would merit the promised blessing. Perhaps Ribera’s concerns with truth and deceit, when considered in tandem with his devout and Spanish patronage, can be taken as a vindication of morals for all viewers. Despite Rebekah and Jacob’s lies, within the house is the still life of bread and wine, the allusions to the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Ribera’s stance is a shifting one, but in the name of forgiveness––a foundational principle of Catholicism.
Brought together, the elements of Isaac and Jacob leave the viewer caught somewhere between the themes of truth and deceit. The back-and-forth consideration between the two leave the viewer’s mind oscillating from one side of a spectrum of morality to another. Truth is likened with morality, and deceit with immorality. Much how Michael Fried describes a similar tendency in the context of Caravaggio, the two phenomena create a dipole. From the Caravaggesque dipole comes an “unsettling allure.”[7] Ribera accomplishes a similar effect through the tension between truth and deceit, but in addition to allure, Ribera admits his moral concerns with this particular Biblical narrative. The issue of trust is now exposed. Trust is vulnerable, and as such can easily be abused in the name of personal benefit. Ribera asks the viewer to bear witness to this specific example. Rebekah may not be physically harming her husband or son, but her own dishonesty, manifested in Jacob, make them both deplorable characters. In a world filled with things both true and untrue, what individuals believe becomes increasingly important. Faith and belief, as kindred ideas (especially in Catholicism) are paramount in all dimensions of this painting, not just the religious ones. So it is that we must depart and consider the artistic dimension, that facet substantiated by Ribera’s confrontation of the paragone.
Paragone is a single word of Italian origin that encompasses centuries of debate between artists and intellectuals, all searching to decide whether sculpture or painting is the most persuasive, most beautiful, most worthwhile medium of artistic practice. The relative merit of each can be broken down by their dimensionality and their experiential dynamism. Sculpture is three-dimensional, and as such, can be experienced from all directions, prompting greater physical engagement on the part of the viewer. Moreover, sculpture can be experienced by those who are blind[8] by way of touch. Its tactile nature makes it more accessible than painting, for painting is a two-dimensional medium. But as with art in general, both media assume that the viewer can see––blindness is the exception. Furthermore, painting has the capacity to express three-dimensional shapes in a manner so realistic that for a moment one might forget the materiality of the artwork they are looking at. In Isaac and Jacob, Ribera plays with the viewer’s skepticism. For a moment, this painting seems to revolve around the central image: a blind Isaac using his hands to confirm his son’s identity (you will remember that Jacob claims to be Esau, and Isaac remarks that it is not the voice of Esau that he hears). For that instant, this scene seems to focus on sculpture as the pinnacle––but the “sculpture,” Jacob’s arm, is the epicenter of deceit. Were it not for the omniscience granted to the viewer by the whole painting, this Biblical interpretation would fail. The materiality of the painting is almost forgotten––our own looking at this painting becomes a matter of fact, a self-evident and for-granted function of seeing, so much so that the “sculpture” is out of the ordinary, warranting more attention. Ribera knows this is so. Other works of his play into this facet of human nature, but in this case, the gesture is far subtler. He stages this moment of scripture in such a way that the viewer is able to perceive truth because of the strength of painting as a medium––it reveals more truth than the “sculpture” ever will. Ribera, as a painter, has made his case for which medium is superior.
A differential is created in this painting between that which Isaac believes and what the viewer knows to be true. The space between the two calls into question the moral efficacy of the painting itself. In that space, we are faced with the question of injustice. “Typical” Ribera canvases are described by the Hispanic Society of America in the following manner:
“Scenes of violence, torture, asceticism, marks, as everyone knows, the style of Ribera in its more superficial sense, and there is scarcely a scene of horror nor a picture of exaggerated tenebrosity belonging to that period and of Spanish tendency, which has not been attributed to him by persons of slight experience, so typical of him are these qualities, in which, moreover, he has no equal.”[9]
Despite being published in 1926, this is largely the impression of Ribera that stands today. Isaac and Jacob displays no violence and no torture and yet is distinctly Ribera. What bridges the seemingly incompatible halves of this artist, then, is justice. Whether religious or mythological, natural or preternatural, justice is a ubiquitous principle. A survey of Ribera, then, becomes a survey of justice across these realms. Isaac and Jacob is one instance of this motif that does not rely on the drama of violence to demand the attention of the viewer. Modern art history is still largely operating under the idea that José de Ribera is a horror-artist, but a gentler and more cerebral side of this artist’s oeuvre attests to the narrative depth present across his body of work. In the tradition of Spanish-Italian painting, his name is far-less celebrated, and certainly lesser-known than Diego Velázquez, Francisco de Zurbarán, or Bartolomé Esteban Murillo. In a 2018 exhibition by the Dulwich Picture Gallery in London, I first encountered the notion of Ribera’s body of work as one that repeatedly bears witness to injustice. The exhibition was entitled, Ribera: Art of Violence. It was at this exhibition that the visibility of justice was, between his drawings and paintings, of great importance to Ribera. In his violent scenes, the viewer acts as a witness to intense and brief moments that he is able to capture and dignify by immortalizing them in oil and canvas. The instance in which the viewer encounters Jacob and Rebekah at the height of their lie, the viewer bears true witness, not only because of Jacob’s literal blindness, but his blindness to the betrayals by his wife and son. To the best of Isaac’s knowledge, his son Esau returned, deserving his blessing.
While José de Ribera is a skillful painter of scenes of acute pain, it would be an injustice to his reputation for art history and its literature to neglect the other dimensions of this artist. The discourse that he generates in a single canvas, as evidenced by Isaac and Jacob, far surpasses the limitations of the shock-value assigned to him by previous generations of art historians. Ribera’s considerations for allegories of sight as they interact with the paragone are areas ripe for research, areas that I myself have only just begun to unravel. Some of José de Ribera’s most compelling and complex works are trapped in the periphery of his own reputation––it is time to turn our heads to witness them properly.[10]
Bibliography
Byron, George Gordon Byron, Holger Drachmann, and Henrik Sørensen. Don Juan. Kjøbenhavn: Schubothe, 1902.
Fried, Michael. After Caravaggio. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016.
Panofsky, Erwin. Galileo as a Critic of the Arts. The Hauge, Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, 1954.
The Board of Trustees of The Hispanic Society of America. Ribera in The Collection of the Hispanic Society of America. New York: The Hispanic Society of America, 1926.
[1] Exodus 20:12.
[2] George Gordon Byron, Don Juan (Kjøbenhavn: Schubothe, 1902), Canto 13.
[3] Clothing.
[4] Genesis 27: 1-22 (King James Version).
[5] Genesis 27: 15 (King James Version).
[6] Erwin Panofsky, Galileo as a Critic of the Arts (The Hauge, Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, 1954), 8.
[7] Michael Fried. After Caravaggio. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016, 5.
[8] This repeated consideration for those who are blind is due to Ribera’s own concern with the blind and his engagement with the paragone, which often uses blind figures to make obvious the statement of the painting.
[9] The Board of Trustees of The Hispanic Society of America, Ribera in The Collection of the Hispanic Society of America (New York: The Hispanic Society of America, 1926), 7.
[10] I would like to thank Felipe Pereda of Harvard University for shedding such an honest light on a painter that I otherwise may never have encountered.