Originallokalisierungsehnsucht. Having convinced myself there must exist a long German word to describe the artistic compulsion which afflicted me, I consulted my buddy from Trinity College days, Cita Troll. She came up with the compound noun (which roughly translates as a longing to locate the original of an item) and which, she added, would not be found in any dictionary. Nonetheless, I felt it perfectly described the desire which overcame me to track down Piero della Francesca's 'Flagellation of Christ', a painting the art historian Kenneth Clark called "the greatest small painting in the world."
For three years, I had looked at a reproduction of this enigmatic Early Renaissance masterpiece hanging by the door to the lift in my apartment block in Rome. Over that period, must have seen the faded image at least twice a day on weekdays and many more times at weekends as I waited on the fifth floor of our building for the elevator. I was determined that, before leaving Italy, I should see the real thing which, I learned, is part of the collection of the National Gallery of the Marche in Urbino.
As chance would have it, fellow Irishman Hugo Arnold was staying within striking distance of the hilltop town of Urbino. What better companion for a cultural road trip through the Marche region than a food writer and the son of the art critic, Bruce Arnold.
We set off for Urbino in the Autumn just before Italy plunged into almost total lockdown for the second time in a year. I was somewhat apprehensive about dragging Hugo along on this mission because, although intrigued by the painting, I was not sure I really liked it.
The Flagellation, which dates from the mid-15th century, shows eight men gathered in two groupings: three men in fine clothes standing in the right foreground and, on the left, where the punishment is taking place under a portico, five men, one of whom is seated.
An eerie disquiet and disconnect pervade the work, the two sides of which are curiously lit from different angles. The trio on the right stare rather vacantly in different directions. One can’t help noticing that the barefoot chap in the middle has overly thick ankles.
The flogging appears a somewhat lacklustre affair. In my time as a foreign correspondent travelling in Africa and Asia, I've witnessed various public punishments but never a whipping, which must be a vigorous business involving much writhing and screaming. Here, however, Christ gazes listlessly at his tormentor who goes about his task with as much fervour as if he were swatting a fly.
At the museum, a former ducal palace, we met Giovanna, a local guide who led us to a dimly-lit upstairs chamber at the centre of which stood a glass case containing the object of our quest. Painted in tempera and oil on wood, the image is about the size of a regular flat-screen TV though, in fact, it is convex as if applied to a panel cut from the side of a wine barrel.
Having given us a quick run-down on Piero’s life (he lived with Rafael’s father during his time in Urbino) and some of the salient points about the painting (one of the earliest examples of linear perspective – in particular, the use of a single vanishing point – and geometric composition in the history of art), Giovanna turned to its meaning.
According to one of 42 possible interpretations, she announced, the three fellows on the right were the Duke of Urbino with his two evil councillors, “hooligans who liked to be with the wives of other men” – an explanation, no doubt, for their alleged murder by the townspeople of Urbino.
The real focal point, however, is the Christ figure. Clark and others have seen the painting as an allegory of the suffering of the Church at the hands of the Turks (symbolised by the figure in the turban with his back turned to the viewer) after the fall of the Byzantine Empire in 1453. The figure in the fancy hat and scarlet shoes is variously Pontius Pilate or the Byzantine Emperor, John VIII Palaiologos.
There is so much about this work that is not known, including who commissioned it and when exactly it was painted. I had noticed, even from the poor reproduction hanging in my apartment building, some damage to the paintwork – small scratches, some of them to the faces of the figures. Had the painting been vandalised, I wondered.
No, said Giovanna. The damage had occurred when the painting was housed in Urbino Cathedral prior to 1915. For some reason, it had been hung behind the door to the sacristy. If anyone entered the room with undue haste, a fitting on the back of the door would bash against the painting.
Today it hangs beside a stunning Madonna and Child by the same artist, both of which were stolen in 1975, then recovered in Switzerland. While entranced by the intimacy and light of the Madonna, it was the Flagellation which absorbed us, mesmerising us with it mystery.
Wishing to remain true to Piero della Francesca and to the object of our mission, we left Urbino without viewing any other paintings in the museum. There is, in fact, an informal Piero trail which one can follow through the countryside of Tuscany and into Le Marche.
