THE (UN)DAILY PIC: Of course there's a Caravaggio in "In Caravaggio's Light," the show of the Roberto Longhi collection that recently arrived at the Museum of Fine Arts in Saint Petersburg, FL. But I think the most interesting and even important thing in the show is this painting "of" Saint Bartholomew, along with its four mates that depict other saints (see my second image). All five artworks were painted in about 1612 by a young Jusepe Ribera, and it seems that they've never been presented this way, as a group on a single wall, since they were first commissioned by a Spanish diplomat.
What's particularly striking about Bartholomew is that the flayed skin he holds (he was martyred by being skinned alive) doesn't actually match his own features. as he holds up "his" skin: The skin has the beard and bold features of a man in middle age; the "saint" holding it is clean-shaven and old.
In the Renaissance it wasn't unusual to have a living person depicted as his or her patron saint. We can assume that the guy with the knife was named Bartholomew. But this painting deliberately draws attention to the artifice involved in that traditionâto the fact that the patron portrayed and the saint invoked are not in fact at all the same person. All that really ties them together, says Ribera, is the fact that they have the same name.
I think the power of radically illusionistic portraiture, as developed over the previous 100 years, had made it necessary to come clean about just what any picture actually showed. After 1500, the Renaissance was, in a sense, where we are with AI, and the same worries about what's "real" and what isn't were in play.
What an amazing muddle it had all been! But he would miraculously put everything rightâwonderful Bunterâand leave one free to live and not bother oneâs head. One vaguely hoped Bunter had not spent the whole night chasing blackbeetles, but for the moment what was left of oneâs mind was concentrated on Peterâbeing anxious not to wake him, rather hoping he would soon wake up of his own accord and wondering what he would say when he did. If his first words were French one would at least feel certain that he retained an agreeable impression of the nightâs proceedings; on the whole, however, English would be preferable, as showing that he remembered quite distinctly who one was.
As though this disturbing thought had broken his sleep, he stirred at that moment, and, without opening his eyes felt for her with his hand and pulled her down against him. And his first word was neither French nor English, but a long interrogative, âMâmmm?â
âMâm!â said Harriet, abandoning herself. âMais quel tact, mon dieu! Sais-tu enfin qui je suis?â
âYes, my Shulamite, I do, so you neednât lay traps for my tongue. In the course of a misspent life I have learned that it is a gentlemanâs first duty to remember in the morning who it was he took to bed with him. You are Harriet, and you are black but comely. Incidentally, you are my wife, and if you have forgotten it you will have to learn it all over again.â
--Dorothy L. Sayers, Busman's Honeymoon (1937), Chapter IV "Household Gods."
The Witch of Stolen Tomorrows had begun to notice an odd trend amongst her petitioners.
The latest was a farmer. He had braved the journey through the Testing Woods and arrived with his convictions mostly intact. He now sat on a tree stump by the Witchâs thornbush cottage, drinking a cup of bitter tea, and asking for a fairly standard boon.
"Oh yes," said the Witch, "I can make you a spell for a bountiful harvest, but what will you give me in return?"
The farmer gulped. "My firstborn child?"
"By the dick-shattered sky.â The Witch exclaimed. âWhat?"
"Oh. You don't take firstborn children?"
"I am a witch of ancient promises, timeless dreams, and fresh blood.â The Witch announced. âOf course I take firstborn children. It's just a bit weird that it was your first offer."
"I'm sorry, mistress. I don't know how this works. Was I supposed to start smaller and work my way up to the firstborn? Iâve always been hopeless at haggling." The man seemed on the verge of tears. "My wife passed a few years ago. She used to do all the business at market."
"If your wife passed a few years ago, how exactly do you plan to offer me your firstborn?" The witch swirled her tea and the steam made foul omens in the air. "I mean, sure, you don't have to be married to have kids, but it does usually help if you're not obviously still in mourning."
"Oh, my little Jackie is already born. They're five. My firstborn and, well, my only-born."
"Okay. If the kid has already been born, you don't have to say firstborn. You can just say 'my child, whose name is...' What's the kid's name again?"
âJackie.â
âWell, youâve gone and put Jackie in a bit of a precarious spot. You see, now that youâve offered the child, the fatespring will hate it if I accept a lesser deal. So either I have to talk you into a bargain thatâs technically worse for you, or little Jackie comes to live with me. Now, I could-â
âThatâs fine mistress. I accept the bargain.â The man sniffled and wiped his tears. He looked weirdly relieved. âSo, do I bring Jackie here to you, or will you come to the farm to collect? Or is it one of those âleave them in a clearing at the full moonâ kind of-â
âMy guy. What is up? What is your deal, exactly? Iâve had, like, five different firstborn deals this week. Thatâs weird, right? You get that? Thatâs normally the worst case scenario for yâall. But at least they hadnât had the kids yet, so they could still fool themselves that they could wriggle out of the compact somehow. And they didnât lead with âoh yeah, take my first child, thatâs a strong opening bargaining position!â The canopy around them began to darken and the trees began to grow thorns. âAnd if thereâs one thing that really gets on my flat-ass witch tits, itâs when thereâs something going on I donât understand. So what in the ever-boiling piss is up?â
The trembling farmer forced out the words, âItâs, uh, itâs the levy, mistress.â
âThe levy? What levy?â
âThe king, mistress. Heâs put a levy out. He needs troops.â
âWhy would he want a child to be pressed into military service?â
âItâs the prophecy, mistress. A great foretelling came down from the Speaker of the Fates, or so the criers say. In 18 years, a great darkness will come. It will bring war and ruin to the kingdom. It will shatter the crown. So the king is demanding we send every child whoâll be over 16 when the omens come due. Theyâll get raised as warriors and heroes, so they say.â The farmer looked up at the Witch, a hint of hope shining through the desperation that had cracked him. âOnly, none of us want to pay the kingâs fateprice with our kids. And Mrs Goodwhistle, she said that youâd probably give them a good life.Â
âOr, at least⊠youâd give them some kind of life.â
The Witch said nothing for a long while.
Then she stood up.
âI guess Iâd better get a shift on then.â The briar-bound cottage behind them pricked up its leaves like they were ears.Â
âYouâre⊠youâre leaving?â
âOh, donât fret. Iâll take little Jackie with me. Iâll take all of them.â The witchâs home unravelled, all its branches and brambles writhing down to follow its roots into the ground. âIf my hearth is going to become a daycare for all the poor little prophecy-pocked bairns of this land, Iâm going to need more space. And Iâll need to take them somewhere harder to findâŠâ
âOh, thank you, mistress!â
The Witch flicked something to the farmer, who caught it instinctively. In his sweaty palm was a seed - though it was older, darker and heavier than normal.
âThereâs your harvest spell. Appropriate payment, as the scalekeepers demand. Each morning, when you go to bring in the harvest - look to the sky. When the sun is just tickling the horizon, reap a single ear of corn and put it aside. Whisper into it as if youâre talking to your child. Jackie will hear you. In the deepest part of winter, roast and eat that corn - then youâll get your reply.â
âI⊠I have no wordsâŠâ The farmerâs eyes and throat burned.
âNo need for them. The deal must be made and the price must be paid.â The Witch held out a hand and a nearby tree bent its limbs down to meet her, offering a branch. âNow, I have much to prepare, so I will take my leave. The woods will see you home.â
And the witch took the living branch from the tree and sat upon it like a broom, then rose into the sky like a sunrise.
---
18 years later, the Witch of Stolen Tomorrows returned to the kingdom. The earth trembled as her thorned fortress - a living wilderness - bore her onwards on a thousand root-wrought feet.
Standing atop the briar parapets was the Witchâs cadre of apprentices. They were all teens and twenty-somethings, clad in the colours of autumn skies and wielding the instruments of fate.
The king, far away in his keep, felt a strange shiver through the gold of his crown. An echo of its coming shattering.
The Witch hung from a giant thorn like a sailor from a bowsprit. In her free hand, she cradled a cup of tea.
âHere is a lesson about prophecies.â She said it softly, but the rushing winds carried the words to her students. âIf you fight them, theyâll put you on like a jacket and wear you as a costume as they dance ruin through your life. But if you grab them by the scruff, then you can be the one wearing destiny as your cloak.
âAnd then you get to be the one writing the story.âÂ
I donât even want the luck for me, I want my friend to get social security so they can get enough money to feel safe and start healing. Her hearing is in two weeks
I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
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