Struck: The arresting power of religious imagery

I love religious art. I think that there's
a quality to it which cannot be explained.
It doesn't stir feelings of faith in me, but
I feel the weight which people's faith and
devotion lend the piece. I've been struck by
the beauty of Hindu devotional art and
architecture for a few years now. I love
looking at the richly decorated Shiva Linga,
the revered statues of gods and goddesses,
the rainbow-adorned temples, and the
massive Ratha chariots (which I had always
thought were called Juggernauts). However,
my appreciation for devotional Hindu art
had been only surface-deep. Until I read
Darsan by Diana Eck, I never knew the
significance of these things, especially the
statues. It was easier for me to associate
the "aniconic" manifestations of the gods, like
the Linga, than it was for me to imagine
a deity in a statue, and I'm still unsure why.

Shiva Linga (center left, near crack) being worshiped by Gandharvas
c. 100 BCE

Crucified, 1793

One of my favorite themes in art

is the Passion, particularly the 

Crucifixion. It can be depicted

in so many different ways to stress

different aspects of Jesus' life and 

nature. Crucified (1793), a 

sculpture by José Luján Pérez at 

Las Palmas Cathedral, shows Jesus

as relatively undamaged, with

a calm look on his face. While

skinny, Jesus is not emaciated, and 

his muscles have definition. Such an

appearance would be unlikely, 

considering the biblical record

of Jesus' passion, and thus stresses

his divine nature. On the other hand,

works like the Isenheim Altarpiece

(1512-1516), painted by Matthias 

Isenheim Altarpiece

Grunewald for the monastery of St. 

Anthony, which treated skin afflictions,

depict Jesus as deathly thin, with a sallow

complexion, wounds, spindly arms, and

covered in sores. This depiction reminds patients that they aren't alone in their suffering, and that Jesus knows their pain, stressing his human aspect.

Possibly my favorite crucifixion, and the one which instantly caught my attention and held it, is James Tissot's Crucifixion, seen from the Cross (1890). This painting barely includes Jesus at all; the only part of him visible is his nailed feet. Below, his followers, his mother, the Pharisees, and Roman officials look on. The different looks on their faces all tell different stories. Mary is grief-stricken to know her son will be tortured to death. The other women present at the crucifixion throw themselves on the ground before the cross. The Pharisees look on with approving smiles and cheers, while the Roman soldiers rest, mostly stone-faced. In this, the object of devotion is not directly Jesus, but rather, the universal mercy he projects on the onlookers. "Father, forgive them," he said according to Luke 23:34, "for they know not what they do." The mercy of that passage struck me on first reading it, and I was struck again by that mercy upon looking at the mostly apathetic or approving crowd before Jesus in Tissot's work.

Tissot, Crucifixion, seen from the Cross