Raphael and the Classical Moment of the Renaissance

Marco Bona Castellotti

The problem of the figure of Raphael, one of the greatest representatives of modern
art history and of the cultural, historic moment in which he found himself, is such a
vast one that it is impossible to render a complete sketch of it in such a short time.

For the most part, the figurative art of the 20th century has renounced Raphael, in
more or less direct ways. This renunciation stands in sharp contrast to what had
happened in the previous century, particularly in the mid-1800s, at which time the
figurative arts, no longer able to strongly represent sacred subjects, revisited the
imagery of Raphael. But the resurrection of Raphael in the 1800s—if it is right to call
it a resurrection, because in reality the legacy of Raphael never suffered moments of
real crisis unlike that of other artists—occurred in such an explicit and widespread
fashion that it helped lead to its decline in the succeeding century. In fact, the
dramatic and tragic tendency of the 1900s does not accept, or rather denies entirely
the principle of beauty based in harmony of the painter of Urbino.

I wondered why in a time when sacred art was so poor, Raphael’s imagery was
revisited instead of that of others, like Caravaggio or Michelangelo, for example; this
is not question with an easy answer and it involves a problem of significant cultural
importance. The Madonna della seggiola (Madonna of the Chair, photo 1), a rather
famous painting, was the pivotal point for a certain type of illustration of the sacred
theme. Especially in the 1800s, this image was divulged through prints, which sought
to satisfy popular devotion, though we know of some 18th century prints also made to
spread that image. It is interesting to observe how 19th century popular devotion drew
from one of the most refined painters of modern art history. The question to be
posed, at this point, is the following: what is the link between a painter who is
generally considered the interpreter of an idealization of beauty, and popular art,
which has always demanded a representation of the sacred that is immediately
comprehensible and naturalistic? Is there really a fixed opposition between
idealization and naturalism? Searching for an answer to these questions has pushed
me to try to delve into the depths of this sublime painter, because it is with him (and
only with him) that the Renaissance triumphs. By Renaissance I mean that which took

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shape between 1500 and approximately 1520, and 1520, the year of the death of
Raphael, may already be too late a date.

In Florence, between 1515 and 1517, the first symptoms of a crisis, which is nothing
but the great crisis of the Renaissance, begin to manifest themselves. This crisis will
flow into the age of Mannerism and will bring about the dissolution of certain forms, of
values tied to certain forms, especially during the second half of the 1500s. This
dissolution, which the Church reacted against by controlling sacred images, lasted
until the launch of a new figurative approach to the sacred, which manifested itself on
the Roman stage at the end of the 16th century with Caravaggio.

Raphael must also be looked at in light of certain great themes which are usually
elusive, because the first encounter with his work—and rightly so—is an immediate
contact. Therefore, usually, one does not stop to ask what his paintings imply, or
from what his ideal of beauty springs, assuming that this ideal of beauty is not
univocally considered in idealistic terms. Idealistic terms refers to the theory that the
Renaissance is a period of the exaltation of the idea of beauty and of an ideal beauty,
a time of the revival of Platonism and all the Neoplatonic thought that had preceded
the Roman Renaissance in its Florentine phase.

Therefore, one of the most enthralling problems is asking whether by a certain

“simplification of images,” Raphael, not being a philosopher but a painter, or rather a
“pure” painter, in the extraordinary beauty and quality of his painting, was conscious
of founding a figurative bulwark against what would have soon happened in the field
of sacred figurative art after the Protestant Reformation. Luther’s great crisis
materialized in 1517, when Leone X Medici was Pope and the Roman curia was still at
the apex of its splendor, and Raphael dominated the scene together with
Michelangelo, and, in the wings, Sebastiano del Piombo. From this point onwards, the
phases of the crisis of Catholicism follow each other very closely, and lead to a
situation whose most dramatic result is the sack of Rome in 1527; Mannerism ha by
now supplanted the harmony of the Renaissance.

Considering the moved admiration with which some scholars and writers of the
Orthodox faith, such as Dostoevskij, treated the figure of Raphael proposes another

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reflection. The only image that Dostoevskij kept above his bed in his very poor room
was a small print of one of Raphael’s Madonnas which had been widely diffused in the
1800s: the Madonna Sistina (Sistine Madonna, photo 2), which alongside the Madonna
of the Chair is perhaps his most intensely religious painting. But above all, this
painting together with the Madonna of the Chair marks the most profound union of
idealization and naturalism that has ever appeared in modern figurative culture. This
painting is preserved at the Pinacoteca of Dresda; it obviously came from Italy and was
sold in 1754 to Augustus III of Saxony. The Sistine Madonna was commissioned to
Raphael during the time that he was reaching his greatest achievements, between
1511 and 1513: the Roman years. It was commissioned for a convent of Piacenza that
was eventually stripped of its belongings. It is one of the great emblems of the
Renaissance.

One of its reproductions was hung above Dostoevskij’s bed and it was the only image
he possessed along with a little icon; he couldn’t not have had an icon. In later years,
Grossman would also show great admiration for this same painting. Grossman searches
for the naturalistic element, pointing out the value of Mary’s maternity present in
these Madonnas. Finally, Florenskij, supreme scholar and interpreter of the culture of
the icon, which he wrote about between the end of the 1800s and the first half of the
1900s, severely criticized Western art, because he thought it was less spiritual than
that of Russian icons. The only Western painter that he admired was Raphael Sanzio,
and among Orthodox intellectuals, Florenskij was the one who dedicated the most
space and the most passionate critical reading to Raphael. He mentions him in the
context of a 19th century legend, which narrates that Raphael was able to depict the
Madonna’s image so intensely because he had received a vision: the Virgin had
appeared to him (photo 3). This painting, preserved in the Accademia of St. Luke in
Rome and by some attributed to Raphael and other helpers, portrays St. Luke painting
the Madonna with Child in the presence of Raphael.

These reflections do not seem to be scientifically based, but they intrigued me, and if
Dostoevskij’s introspection and Florenskij’s critical insight were not at stake, this
judgment would pass unnoticed. Their cultural framework is completely different
from the Western one: Dostoevskij looks at Raphael eyes that are different from ours,

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knowing that Russian culture, of Orthodox faith, seeks a particular spiritual level in
art; I wonder, therefore, what spirituality can be found in Raphael.

The greatness of Raphael is also the greatness of the moment in which he was
working. The term Renaissance can refer to one of various renaissances, and the first
phase of the Renaissance, according to an old historiographic tradition, is humanism.

Humanism is a fundamental literary phenomenon which is born and begins to dawn at

the beginning of the 14th century. Humanism laid its roots especially in the Florentine
setting, passing the 14th century, entering into the 1400s, and then extending until the
moment in which suddenly things changed. Towards the end of the 1500s, the
“classical” or mature phase of the Renaissance begins. This timeline must clearly be
taken with caution. Nonetheless, towards the end of the 1400s and the beginning of
the 1500s, a fact with very clearly delineated and legible features happened: this fact
was the movement of the cultural axis from Florence to Rome. Both from the political
point of view, and especially from the cultural point of view, Florence lost its
prominent place to Rome.

Since this phenomenon, whose foundations had been being laid for a long time,
occurred very rapidly, one must wonder what happened to catalyze it; but be aware
that the answer to this question is very complex. Having ascertained that the Roman
atmosphere had little new to offer to philosophical thinking, understanding what this
shift entailed for the figurative arts is what renders the problem of Raphael, even on
the level of thought, interesting. Raphael did not have a strong philosophical
foundation; he probably had had a taste of Platonic thought, but that was about it.
Perhaps he was not able to distinguish the different hues, and even the fundamental
differences between the Platonism of the 15th century, the new wave of Augustinism
which became important in Rome right during the first decade of the 1500s, and the
revival of Thomism. He gave birth to beautiful images; he was an extraordinary
“artisan,” but in this simplicity of thought, which translates itself in a harmonious
perfection of form, and in his simplicity, he is the shining example of the Renaissance.

When discussing the Courtier of Baldassarre Castiglione (photo 4), there is talk of
simplicity; this term is used to talk about “sprezzatura”, a term that is difficult to

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translate. What is “sprezzatura”? It’s a stylistic quality through which one who is a
great artist can manifest, can give the impression of having created a masterpiece
almost spontaneously, hiding the fact that that simplicity is instead the fruit on an
extremely complicated elaboration. This is how Raphael worked: this apex of beauty
in modern art, which was held up as a model in later ages, which we can see and
which inebriates us appeared “simple” and instead was the fruit of a complex, formal
elaboration.

We have said that one of the problems connected to this great painter is
understanding why, all of a sudden, when he arrived in Rome, his style changed.
Florentine culture, which had been the supporting arch for an entire century, in its
complexity, which was in part philosophical, ceded its supremacy to Roman classicism
at the beginning of the 1500s. Can this simply be the fruit of a mutation determined
by political reasons?

From the end of the 1400s to the beginning of the 1500s, the Church was able to
exercise an incredible power, thanks to the presence of some pontiffs who desired to
return its meaning to the center to the world and to recover its universal value.
Considering that this mutation is a substantial mutation, and that it all takes place
within a few years, something different must have come into play. On the level of the
culture of the figurative arts, Raphael is the greatest spokesman of this change in
action.

He was born in 1483 and he died in 1520. He began painting shortly before the turn of
the century in 1500, went to Florence for the first time, and was permanently settled
there by 1504. He was called to Rome in 1508 and between his last Florentine works
of 1508 and those he begins in Rome in the Vatican Rooms in 1509, his style changes.
It is uncertain whether his first fresco in Rome was the School of Athens (photo 5) or
the Dispute of the Sacrament, now known as Triumph of the Eucharist (photo 6). He
entered the Vatican Rooms in 1509, having left his last Florentine work unfinished
because the painter ran to Rome, having received the commission from the pontiff,
and so he had immediately abandoned the work he had been doing in Florence. The
difference between this Florentine work, the Madonna of the Baldacchino left

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unfinished (photo 7), and his first Roman work is immense: it is another world, he
enters into the great Roman Renaissance.

Let us look at some of Raphael’s works from his early period, completed between
Urbino and Florence, before he went to Rome, to observe the differences.

He probably finished this drawing when he was 17 years old (photo 8); it is one of his
first works, dated to 1500. It is still considered by some to be a self-portrait, but it is
not; it is the portrait of a young man without a name; it reveals his talent and
“simplicity.” In the case of Raphael, simplicity is an aesthetic quality, simplicity is
the natural talent of the artist; it seems like a drawing drawn by an angel because it
has such purity and linear marvelousness. One of the fundamental characteristics of
Raphael’s drawings is that they are complete and assembled like a painting, even
though they give the impression of having been sketched in a couple minutes.

Oddi Altar (photo 9), dated around 1502; it attests to the painters that most
influenced the formation of the young Raphael: Perugino and Pinturicchio. This
painting is only a little larger than a postcard. It is kept by the National Gallery in
London and is entitled The Dream of the Knight (photo 10). The fact that the figures
manage to retain their monumental grandeur on such a small surface is an exceptional
sign. A fable-like episode, like that of the dream of a knight, is seen as a celebration
of the human figure. It is possible that the painting, inspired by a poem by Silio
Italico, was done in Urbino.

Here, instead, are contrasted a work of Michelangelo, Tondo Taddei (photo 11), in
marble, and a drawing of Raphael, seen as its counterpart, which is an adaptation of
Michelangelo’s work. In his formative phase, Raphael had the courage to aspire to the
people who were considered to be the most authoritative of that time. The Florentine
period of Raphael is a period of study—but let’s be clear—the study of a painter who is
already fashioned, who has his own autonomy.

This masterpiece dates to circa 1506: the Little Cowper Madonna (photo 12), which
reveals just how familiar these Madonnas became, precisely because they were

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brought in contact with the public, realized both through their monumental forms and
their forward position.
This instead, is a much older Florentine precedent; it is the Madonna with Child by
Luca della Robbia (photo 13), which illustrates where Raphael obtains the type of
graze that is a fundamental characteristic of his interpretation of the image of the
Virgin. Raphael’s Madonnas, even the older ones of the Urbino and Florentine period
which are devotional images, have this great power of communication: it is because
they are placed in an intense foreground, and thus our encounter with them occurs
almost physically. We see this in the recently restored Madonna of Cardellino (photo
14); in Little Cowper Madonna, here in Washington; in large Cowper Madonna
displayed here at the National Gallery (photo 15), and in the marvelous Madonna
d’Alba, restored in 2003 and displayed in London that same year (photo 16), so called
because in the 1800s it belonged to the Duke of Alba. This painting presents a very
compelling story, because it is supposed that it was originally conserved in the sacristy
of St. Peter’s and that, given its extraordinary importance, it was commissioned by
Giulio II around 1511. Then, it was probably stolen by the imperial troops in 1527
during the sack of Rome. It was later left as a gift from Giovanni Battista Castaldo,
one of the generals of the troops, to the church of the Olivetani of St. Mary of Mount
Albino, close to Naples. Then by various transfers of ownership, it ended up in the
collection d’Alba and was later bought by Samuel Kress.

Here are two portraits of Agnolo Doni and his wife (photos 17 and 18), also from the
Florentine period, carried out with an intense naturalistic incisiveness; notice also the
psychological depth, still a novelty despite its predecessor Gioconda painted in 1503 in
Florence. These portraits are from 1505-1506: it is evident that in some way they take
into account Leonardo’s painting, but they are conceived in the light of a completely
different reading of reality. While Leonardo seeks the mystery through the use of
shadow, in Raffaelo, the mystery does not exist, because everything is shown in the
light of day. This is the first painting with a dramatic subject, the Bearing of the dead
Christ (photo 19), the so-called Baglioni Altar, whose commission has a long story
behind it; today it is at the Galleria Borghese in Rome. We are in 1507-1508, still the
Florentine period, with the model of a print of Mantegna, and various preparatory
drawings. Every preparatory drawing of the same work has its own completeness, is
the development of a certain idea in order to arrive at the finish line, but in every

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phase of such development, Raphael arrives at its own completeness, does not leave
anything unfinished, such is the marvel, the care, and the attention with which he
works. For Raphael, sketches don’t exist; only finished works exist and every finished
thing can simply be an intermediate stage of improvement, of a refinement of
something that will only have its accomplished definiteness at the end.

If we define the great Renaissance, the so-called classical moment of the Renaissance,
which lasted approximately a decade, by the principle of harmony, its single
interpreter is Raphael.

In 1503, Michelangelo had painted in Florence the Tondo Doni, which is somewhat the
archetype of the crisis that will occur in Mannerism painting, especially for background
figures. Regarding the Renaissance as the point of maximum achievement of a certain
equilibrium, the only work of Michelangelo that can be considered completely
“renaissance” is the Pieta` in St. Peter’s, which heralds the period of classical
Renaissance because it was sculpted between 1497 and 1499 in Rome; but
Michelangelo is an artist in perennial crisis. Leonardo is a figure still very closely tied
to the aesthetic of the 1400s, and he is a full “renaissance” man more from the point
of view of his scientific research, aimed at nature and translated into painting, than
from the point of view of the harmony of form. Therefore, Raphael is the only,
complete interpreter of the classical moment of the Renaissance. What a weight of
cultural responsibility he carries on his shoulders, especially if that responsibility is not
merely considered in formal terms, which would be a reduction towards him and
modern culture in its entirety. If Raphael has been revisited in such a religious light
not only in the 1800s but also by a strand of contemporary criticism, it is because
something apparently religious is present in him. Therefore, it is a mistake to view
this painter from a merely aesthetic viewpoint; it would be like stripping him of
content, even though, effectively, it is the beauty of his form which harbors his
“thought.” Ironically, just as excessive emphasis on beauty can damage the figure of
Raphael, so can the same beauty reduce his cultural import if it is not considered
along with the complexity of values that it contains.

Living and working in the period preceding the schism of the West, Raphael has
accomplished the most profound rescue of the ideal of classical beauty. In order to

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translate in the greatest possible manner a certain beauty he looked to an “ideal”
beauty, without betraying the principle of imitating nature.

In this regard, I would like to read a passage from a famous text by Wölfllin entitled
“Classical Art”: “when we speak of the idealism of the 1500s, we think of something
else, of a complete renunciation of any environmental element, individual or
determined in time; in the contrast between idealism and realism, we think we have
defined the difference between classical art and that of the 1400s. But this concept is
incorrect; at that time, no one would probably have grasped the meaning of these two
concepts; they are in fact only justified in the 1600s, when the two elements, idealism
and realism, apparently in opposition to each other, appear simultaneously. The
1500s do not idealize, in the sense of escaping any contact with reality and of wanting
to give a sense of monumentality, even at the expense of a precise and individual
characterization. Its trunks sink their roots in the ancient earth, but they grow taller:
art is still the sublimation of natural life. It’s just that the art of the 1500s believed it
could respond to the need for a more solemn representation, by no other means than
accurately weighing its figures, vestments, and architecture, in ways they are rarely
found in daily reality.” Thus, idealization is a form of sublimation to reach a beauty
that is not invented beauty or purely imaginary; it’s the purification, in ideal terms, of
something naturally given, but which does not elude the naturally given something in
itself.

The Sistine Madonna has been named “the portrait of an apparition” by critics,
because the Madonna is approaching towards us. The fact that she is caught in a
dynamic pose is simply because it does not want to be an idealized icon and place in a
crystal case. Raphael even makes her move, thus he is able to create a double point
of contact: the first is provided by the fact that intense foreground of the Madonna,
who seems to be offering the Child to the public, is brought to such immediacy as had
never been done before. In the Sistine Madonna, in addition to the physicality of the
contact, Raphael has added the step of the Virgin, who almost walks towards us on the
clouds. Even the two characters, St. Barbara on the right and St. Sistro on the left,
are seen according to particular slanted angles, and the expressions on their faces
have been devised in such a way as if they were engaged in an everyday relationship.

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We do not feel her distant, we feel her so close; certainly she possesses an
extraordinary beauty, it’s not too easy to find such a woman on the streets—it’s true—
but precisely this search for a beauty beyond the norm, but which, at the same time,
is not a beauty so idealized as to lack any sort of comparison in nature, should be read
as a communication and exaltation of the sacred, not as its negation. Raphael doesn’t
want to distance the public from the sacred, but rather he wants to render the sacred
in such a beautiful way as to bring it closer and allow the public to participate in it.

In the Madonna of the Chair, the Virgin wears the clothes of a common woman. Her
physiognomy and her attitude are not at all idealized, even though in Madonna’s gaze,
in her beauty as a Roman commoner, there is a royalty that makes us feel like her
subjects. It must be this way: the divine must seat itself in elevated positions. In this
sense the Madonna of the Chair is distant, but she is so only because of a unique
dignity, and in her everything is devised as to appear as close as possible, even in her
exceptional and excessive beauty.

The early years of the 1500s marked one of cultural apices of human history, in a city
which had been restored as caput mundi (the head of the world), thanks to a political
culture sustained by the desire to rediscover in pagan Rome and then in Christianity
the roots of history, and thus to tighten the continuity between Christian antiquity,
classical antiquity and modernity. It is absurd, impossible to imagine that, during such
a time, Raphael’s works were not children of that refined culture in their own turn.

The re-launching of Rome had begun with Sixtus IV, uncle of Giulio II, and its apex
would be marked by Giulio II and his successor Leone X, all seeking to reaffirm the
Catholic Church in the cultural sphere as well. It’s impossible to imagine a grander
moment than this. Upon entering Rome, one could see the first Vatican Rooms, the
courtyard of Belvedere of Bramante, the vault of the Sistine Chapel completed in
1511, the classical antiquities, and the grand pontifical donations. In order to help
reclaim the centrality of Rome, Sixtus IV inaugurated the museum of the Campidoglio,
donating the bronze pieces from his collection, among which were the Capitoline Wolf
and Marcus Aurelius, sculptures that were never interred but instead always preserved
and looked after because they were considered very previous. Around 1480, Sixtus IV
donated them to the city, and that formed the first nucleus of what would become the

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Capitoline Museums. Those bronze pieces are still there. What culture is evident in
the conservation of these works: Sixtus IV valued them as a demonstration of Christian
Rome; proud of his tradition, he was able to remain faithful to his own ancient origins.

In such a situation, it would be inadmissible to imagine that Raphael had arrived to the
splendor of his forms because of a simple aesthetic sensibility. His was a culturally
aware act, which, however, to become more credible required simple and pure forms.
The fact that he gave form to an idealization of beauty should also be considered as
the result of a concern to communicate something great in tradition.

This is why in its counteroffensive against the iconoclastic intellectualism of

Protestantism, the Catholic Church looks for the one who was the greatest celebrator
of beauty in painting. This is the central detail of the School of Athens, in the first
Vatican Room, the Signature room, the detail of the face of the figure of Aristotle; the
other is Plato. There is an interpretation of this fresco from the 1800s by a scholar
named Grimm; it is extremely fascinating because he interprets it in Christian terms
and says that Plato and Aristotle are in fact St. Peter and St. Paul. He does not say
something silly, because the iconography is actually taken from the medieval imagery
of St. Peter, with short curly hair and a thick beard; the other is Paul.

The Baglioni Altar, the Bearing of Christ, takes us to 1507; there’s still one Florentine
year, another year and a couple months. At the end of 1508 the first Roman work, or
perhaps the second work, which appears in Raphael’s catalog is the School of Athens
(photo 20). It was restored not too long ago, so it can be seen well. Look at how full
of life it is; a strict idealization would leave the figures static, it wouldn’t put them in
motion, a vivid motion born from his ability to interpret in contemporary terms, in
modern terms, figures of the past, in order to create a sense of continuity, which is
not only historical, but also ideal, from the classical world to a Christian world. They
are living figures; they contain an intense, vital pulse. In Aristotle’s face there’s a will
bent on psychological inquiry, though it is a portrait which can also become the
universal “archetype” of classical philosophy; there’s a psychological depth, which is
even portrait-like.

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Look at this marvelous figure of Euclides (photo 21); the refinement of this form is
truly such that it can become the emblem of an academic beauty, but there’s
something very alive about it; it’s not an image taken and placed behind a glass so
that everyone may pass before it and then leave unable to imitate it.

This is the Triumph of the Eucharist (photo 22), whose details show a strong
naturalism; take, for example, the figure of the youth looking out. Notice also the
inclusion of figures like Dante Alighieri which more intensely render the sense of
historical continuity. Look at the preparatory sketches for this figure, with Raphael’s
own writing commenting how they should be. This is one of the studies for one of the
figures in the lower register to the left, but look what he does: in an earlier idea he
draws them nude, but these nudes who could be nudes of academia, have their own
perfect completion; they are finished, and as such they are the manifestation of an
idea that had already taken shape and had been completed in his mind. We move to
the next drawing and Raphael had re-dressed the figures. This other has its own
completeness to the point of arriving to the painting, the fresco.

This is the marvelous figure of blind Homer in Parnasus (photo 23). Look at how he
uses color; it’s a fresco and being able to maintain the freshness of blue in a fresco is
very difficult—this is not on a canvas, on a wooden table which provides more compact
support, but on the porous wall—he managed because he treated the fresco with a
technical mastery that no one else had.

Here instead we have one of the frescos with a mythological subject, the Galateia
(photo 24), painted between 1511 and 1512, emblematic of what is the meaning of
Raphael’s harmony and joy: part of his greatness is really his joy, his serenity, which
led the 1900s to turn the tables against him. In fact, his painting was too beautiful,
too pleasant to be warmly accepted by the drama of that century.

This is the second room, the room of Heliodorus, with the fresco The Banishment of
Heliodorus from the Temple (photo 25). Here already you can see a new
dramatization, an agitation which had not existed before that moment; there had
been the noble monumental calm of the figures of the School of Athens. Here instead

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the rhythm begins to grow taut, because we are close to the years 1512-1514 when
Raphael reaches his peak: the Madonna di Foligno at the Vatican.

Here is the Portrait of Baldassarre Castiglione (photo 26): some have said that it is the
emblem of the Italian Renaissance. The distance which interjects itself between the
portrait and the observer is not insurmountable, though there certainly is a distance
since by being an emblem this figure had to go beyond its own individuality without,
however, erasing it.

This is The Veiled (photo 27), which now almost everyone holds is a portrait.
More or less during these years, Raphael also painted the portrait of the Florentine
banker Bindo Altoviti (photo 28). This painting remained with the descendants of
Altovity until when, in 1808, it was sold to Ludovico I of Baviera. It remained in
Munich until 1936, the year in which it was ceded to Samuel Kress.

This instead is the Room of the fire of Borgo (photo 29). We are now around 1516-
1517: the collaborators intervene and Raphael produces only a few drawing, but you
can see that here there’s an academic fingerprint and the marvelous harmony of the
previous frescos has been lost. You can count on a single hand the years which mark
the interval during which what will soon emerge as a true and proper crisis, a universal
crisis, begins to surface. Let us be clear, this crisis is a universal one because it does
not only involve painting; the painting is a reflection of it.

Here is the final work (photo 30), which today is considered the sole product of
Raphael. In it, through the new dramatization, he is able to create unity among the
inferior and superior aspects of Christ, who, transfigured, is also a resurrected Christ.
At the theological level, this type of interpretation may have been suggested to
Raphael by someone else, but it is he who interprets it with strong personality. The
painting allows us to understand that his painting has been recovered because of its
undeniable value as a communication of a fact and as a great religious sensibility. A
religious sensibility which existed in the Renaissance, though often stifled and
confused, lacking the centrality it had held in previous centuries, but which in Raphael
represents an effort. We know this even through the facts of his private life. It is

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clear that this is an example of a religiosity present in Rome before the 1500s and thus
it cannot have the characteristics which dominate other times and other places.

This last image is a drawing of two figures, two details, the heads of two apostles from
the Transfiguration (photo 31); but who would dare say, if he didn’t have the final
painting before his eyes, that these are two preparatory drawings, since they have all
the strength and complexity of completed masterpieces.

8:30 hrs

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