SOUL FOOD:Interpreting scripture through art

If deconstructionist philosopher Jacques Derrida could see what they are doing at the Norton Simon Museum, he might laugh himself to death. That is, if he weren’t already dead.

They are Anthony Keller and Joanna Roche, the team from St. Wilfrid of York Episcopal Church who lead tours at the museum called “The Artist, The Word: An Exploration of the Creative Spirit.” As I explained last week, the tours explore works of art that are based on biblical narratives.

In the process, Keller, Roche and a dozen or two church members, some accompanied by spouses or friends, try to figure out what the artists meant to say.

That, I think, would make Derrida snort from his posthumous abode, “Never mind what the artist was trying to say. The story now is in the mind of the beholder.”

As best I can tell, for Keller and Roche, that notion falls short of the whole picture. Though they do contend, as Keller puts it, “that in order for an artist to manifest a Bible story, he or she must interpret the words from scripture using their own voice.” Which sometimes means, as you will see, an artist hits a discordant note.

For my part, I promised to give you a taste this week of the tour that I experienced in January.

You’ll need a bible (Keller and Roche use the Revised Standard Version) and an Internet connection. Otherwise, you’ll need to visit a library to borrow a bible and reproductions of paintings, whose titles I’m going to give you along with the scriptures on which they were based.

Photos of each painting are on the website of the Norton Simon Museum, www.nortonsimon.org. It’s a snap to use.

From the Collections page, you can browse works by title (if a title begins with “The” it will be under “T”) or by the artist’s name. You’ll find a brief description and history for each work. Enlarge, zoom in or pan images to see details.

In order, the paintings are: Peter Paul Rubens’ “The Holy Women at the Sepulcher,” (Luke 24:1-10); Luca Giordano’s “Birth of the Virgin,” (no scripture, as the story of Mary’s birth is not told in the Bible); Bartolome-Esteban Murillo’s “The Birth of St. John the Baptist” (Luke 1:57-66); Hans Memling’s “Christ Giving His Blessing” (Matthew 5:1-11); Giovanni di Paolo’s “Baptism of Christ” (Matthew 3:13-17); Hedrick van Steenwijck the Younger’s “The Liberation of St. Peter” (Acts 12:4-9); Jan Steen’s “Marriage at Cana” (John 2:1-11); Guido Cagnacci’s “Martha Rebuking Mary for Her Vanity” (Luke 10:38-42 and Luke 7:44-48); and Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot’s “Rebecca at the Well” (Gen. 24:45-51).

Standing before Rubens’ “The Holy Women at the Sepulcher,” someone asked one of Roche’s favorite questions: Why are the women dressed in clothing from the painter’s day rather than from biblical times?

The same could be asked of nearly all the paintings seen on the tour. Only in Steen’s “Marriage at Cana” and Corot’s “Rebecca at the Well” do biblical figures appear to wear clothes in the style of their day.

When people look at Renaissance and early Modern religious paintings, how often does this question come to mind?

But it’s true of much of the art from this time: Biblical figures are commonly depicted in contemporary dress. Contemporary men, women and children as well as contemporary furnishings, decorative objects and even household pets are portrayed alongside biblical figures, who may be dressed according to their era but more than likely are not.

Some objects — say draperies or an intricate porcelain bowl — may be there to boast an artist’s painterly skills. A contemporary figure within a biblical narrative may well be the artist’s patron. Whole families were sometimes represented in a work.

Take Paolo Veronese’s “Supper at Emmaus” (in the Louvre, not the Norton Simon). Jesus and two disciples are seated at a table. They are wearing 16th-century dress, as are 16 members (some seem to be servants) of the patron’s household who are seen with them.

Why? It may simply be the way the patron wanted it. Veronese was, after all, painting on his dollar (so to speak). The contemporary setting may have made the scene — well — easier to relate to.

I found myself wondering what sort of ire an artist might raise in our day and age by painting a scene like that — say Jesus in jeans surrounded by Bono and his family.

In Guido Cagnacci’s “Martha Rebuking Mary for Her Vanity,” a nearly naked Mary sprawls on a tile floor. Her brocade and embroidered 17th-century haute couture lays heaped with her jewelry nearby. Her shoes could make Manolo Blahnik weep with envy.

Martha, wearing a plain gray dress, sits on the floor leaning into Mary’s face. Martha’s mouth is open. A finger on her right hand wags.

Behind Martha, an angel assaults a devil. Two other women (thought to be Contrition and Vanity) look on. Contrition is tearful; Vanity appears full of scorn. Described as penitent by the Norton Simon, Mary looks bored.

The question here is: What’s wrong with this picture? The two scriptures supplied by Keller and Roche offer clues. Luke 10:38-42 tells the story of Jesus’ visit to Mary and Martha, who are sisters.

During his visit, Mary sits at his feet, taking in his every word. Martha, meanwhile, is preoccupied by the tasks of a hostess.

“Tell Mary to help me,” Martha instructs Jesus. But it is Jesus who rebukes Martha (“Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”), not Martha who rebukes Mary.

The artist has put things upside down. He has confused the Mary in Luke 10:38-40 with the Mary found in Luke 7:44-48, Mary Magdalene — who by this time is often represented, contrary to evidence, as having once been a temptress and prostitute.

My favorites among these paintings are di Paolo’s “Baptism of Christ” and Corot’s “Rebecca at the Well.” The first has an inspired arrangement of its elements.

God the Father, the Holy Spirit and the Son are arranged in a familiar vertical fashion, top to bottom, on the painting’s narrow plane. Yet in the river behind Jesus, fish seem to mingle with the angels above him. As Roche pointed out, the fish can at first be mistaken for clouds.

The odd perspective lends the work a sense of euphoria. While in Corot’s “Rebecca at the Well,” the woman for whom it is named sits by a well, chin on fist.

On the verge of marrying Isaac, whom she is yet to meet, she is also — in the world of art — on the cusp of modernity, the wonder and weight of it rendered across her face.

“The Artist, The Word” provokes us to glimpse things that elude us when we look but fail to see.