For the rich and powerful of Florence, commemoration was very important. The desire to be remembered after death was (as it still is) a major motivation behind many generous acts like founding charitable institutions, expanding churches and commissioning altarpieces.
Look up at the façade of the church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence and you’ll see the huge, Latinised name of Giovanni Rucellai – the wealthy merchant who paid for it. This commission made sure that Rucellai and his works wouldn’t be forgotten after his death. Over five centuries later his name still looms above the tourists streaming into Florence proper from the airport shuttle buses that have dropped them at the station.
Portraiture was another solution to the problem of mortality. A kind of propaganda tool, portraiture constructed an often lofty identity of the sitter, fixed in time for all to see.
A prime example of this is the beautiful posthumous portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni by Domenico Ghirlandaio.
Giovanna had died young, in childbirth, and the portrait, commissioned by her widower, fixes her image forever – beautiful, virtuous, pious – while the beauty of her soul is described by the epigram pinned to the wall at the back of the scene.
The need to be commemorated as a doer of good things and a person of good character, found an outlet in Renaissance donor portraiture.
Donor portraits are depictions of the person/s commissioning the painting that actually feature within the painting themselves. Donor portraits are often queer, stray figures, painted at the bottom of images of the Virgin and Child or of a Crucifixion scene. They are there to tell us exactly who paid for the paint and the painting of the devotional image before us.
Advertising their role in the production of religious art, donor portraits of wealthy patrons literally put their generosity on display to the masses. The implication was that the donor was a man or woman of a particularly pious nature. One hoped for outcome was surely that, after a donor’s death, some of the viewer’s prayer power would be directed towards them, shortening their time in Purgatory and getting them up to Paradise quicker.
Donor portraits were at first painted as miniature figures superimposed onto a painting, often somewhere near the bottom. The effect is frequently quite curious, as in this fourteenth century painting of the Madonna and Child by Lippo Memmi, where the donor seems ‘stuck on’ as an afterthought in the bottom left corner.
The bodies of donors started to be painted on a larger scale in the Renaissance, becoming similar in size to the sacred personalities they shared the wall or panel with by the fifteenth century.
Masaccio’s,The Trinity fresco, painted around 1425, depicts the donors – members of the Lenzi family – on a similar size to the figures in the picture proper.
Cleverly, Masaccio sets up a pictorial boundary between the Lenzi and the Trinity scene. The donors kneel on a fictional step below the fictional chapel. They are not quite within the chapel, but they’re a lot closer to it than we, the viewers, are.
Later Renaissance artists used (sometimes bizarre) techniques to allow the donor to be within the painting and yet without it.
Fra Filippo Lippi’s Virgin and Child at the Fitzwilliam Museum, shows the donor the same size as the holy characters, but he is wedged into the bottom right hand corner and only shown as far as the waist, making him look rather peculiar. Although, portrayed with the Christ Child touching his head in blessing, Lippi’s client probably didn’t mind not having any legs.
In another of Lippi’s donor portraits – this time of the Coronation of the Virgin – the donor, Marghini, is depicted right in the thick of the scene, just behind John the Baptist.
Marghini is the same size as the sacred characters and he has been allowed to join them in witnessing the Virgin’s coronation in Paradise.
But again, Lippi seems to worry about showing us the donor’s legs. It seems that painting a donor’s body from head to toe is a breech of propriety.
To get around this he puts Marghini in a weird hole in the marbled floor of Paradise, so that he looms into the scene like a magician rising up from under the stage.
By the time Lippi’s son, Filippino, was painting donor portraits, the game had moved on apace.
Unlike his father, Filippino Lippi featured his clients well integrated in to the holy scenes they had commissioned. So Tanai de’Nerli and his wife Nanna Dina de’Capponi are pictured right inside his Virgin and Child with the Young St. John and Two Saints.
The two saints – Martin and Catherine – present the donors to the Virgin and Christ, Tanai is even privileged enough to have the back of his head cupped by Martin’s holy hand, almost pushing him physically deeper into the painting.
Filippino Lippi’s most audacious donor portrait, however, is the Carafa Annunciation, which depicts the Annunciation scene with St Thomas as intercessor to Cardinal Carafa.
Filippino places Carafa immediately next to the Virgin’s chair in the inner sanctuary of her room. He even allows his patron to interrupt the biblical scene. The Annunciation is called to a halt so that Mary, at the very point when the dove of the Holy Spirit is flying towards her, can glance towards Cardinal Carafa!
Although the presence of a saint as intercessor would normally add decorum and designate the donor as a mortal outside the sacred scene, unfortunately here, St. Thomas seems rather pushy. He urges Carafa towards the Virgin with his left hand and seems to suggest that he is important enough to interrupt this pictorial conception of Christ.
However we look at this donor portrait, it’s certainly pushing the boundaries of propriety and one might argue that only a man as wealthy and powerful as Cardinal Carafa would attempt to get away with it.
This last painting shows the tensions that existed between the need to please a patron and the conventions of religious decorum. Whereas the ‘mini me’s discussed earlier in this post seem queer bordering on ridiculous, at least you get the feeling that the donor knew his place and was happy to stick to it – even if that meant being shrunken down or literally legless.
These later donor portraits, because of their greater realism, don’t have that same comical quality, but they don’t sit right for the viewer. Because what we’re looking at when we view a painting like the Carafa Annunciation, is more than just a nod to the patron who paid for it, it’s a serious show of ego that’s even more ridiculous to the beholder than painting him as a miniature person or as a man with no knees.