Giacomo Cavedone Pilate washing his Hands ca. 1619-22 drawing (study for lost painting) Musée du Louvre |
Francesco Costanzo Catanio The Flagellation before 1636 oil on canvas Basilica di San Giorgio Fuori le Mura, Ferrara |
Leonello Spada Christ crowned with Thorns ca. 1610-20 oil on canvas Musée Condé, Chantilly |
Jacob Jordaens Ecce Homo ca. 1616-17 drawing Musée du Louvre |
attributed to Claude Vignon Ecce Homo ca. 1650 drawing Musée du Louvre |
Antonio Lagorio Ecce Homo ca. 1680 oil on canvas Museo Civico di Casale Monferrato |
Niccolò Berrettoni Christ falling beneath the Cross before 1682 drawing Musée du Louvre |
Alessandro Algardi Christ carrying the Cross before 1654 drawing Musée du Louvre |
Cavaliere d'Arpino (Giuseppe Cesari) Christ carrying the Cross before 1640 drawing Musée du Louvre |
Charles Poerson The Raising of the Cross before 1667 drawing (study for altarpiece) Musée du Louvre |
Giovanni Battista Rovedata The Crucifixion ca. 1600 oil on black marble (pietra da paragone) Palazzo Pretorio, Trento |
Ventura Salimbeni The Crucifixion, with Saints ca. 1600 oil on canvas Basilica Cateriniana San Domenico, Siena |
Leonardo Corona The Crucifixion before 1605 drawing Musée du Louvre |
Palma il Giovane Descent from the Cross before 1628 drawing Musée du Louvre |
attributed to Marcin Teofilowicz (Martin Theophil Polak) Dead Christ supported by Angels ca. 1620 oil on canvas Palazzo Pretorio, Trento |
Pablo de Céspedes Descent of Christ into Limbo ca. 1600 oil on panel Indianapolis Museum of Art |
from Visions at 74
The planet turns there without you, beautiful.
Exiled by death you cannot
touch it. Weird joy to watch postulates
lived out and discarded, something crowded
inside us always craving to become something
glistening outside us, the relentless planet
showing itself the logic of what is
buried inside it. To love existence
is to love what is indifferent to you
you think, as you watch it turn there, beautiful.
World that can know itself only by
world, soon it must colonize and infect the stars.
You are an hypothesis made of flesh.
What you will teach the stars is constant
rage at the constant prospect of not-being.
– Frank Bidart (2015)