_Giuseppe Ribera, called Spagnoletto_ (Spanish: 1598-1648).
Ribera is a leading artist amongst what are called the
_Naturalisti_ or _Tenebrosi_ (an alternative title, curiously
significant of the warped and degraded principle of the
school, as if "nature" were indeed only another name for
"darkness").[119] His works show remarkable force and facility;
his subjects were painful. As Byron says--
Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.
"It is a curious example of the perversity of the human mind,"
says Stirling-Maxwell, "that subjects like these should have
been the chosen recreations of an eye that opened in infancy on
the palms and the fair women of Valencia, and rested for half
a lifetime on the splendour of the Bay of Naples." His life
was like his art, being "one long contrast between splendour
and misery, black shadow and shining light" (Scott). He made
his way when quite a youth to Rome, where one day, as he was
sketching in the streets, dressed in rags and eating crusts,
he was picked up by a cardinal and taken into his household.
They called him in Italy, owing to his small stature, by the
name Lo Spagnoletto, the little Spaniard. But Ribera could
not brook the cardinal's livery, and stole away into poverty
and independence again. He especially studied the works of
Caravaggio, and went afterwards to Parma to study Correggio.
Then he moved to Naples, where a picture-dealer discovered his
talent and gave him his daughter in marriage. A large picture
of the martyrdom of St. Bartholomew, which he painted about
this time, was exhibited by the dealer on the balcony of his
house, and created such a _furore_ that the Spanish Viceroy,
delighted at finding the painter to be a Spaniard, loaded him
with appointments and commissions. This was the making of
Ribera's fortune. He soon became very wealthy--never going out
but in his carriage, and with an equerry to accompany him, and
so hard had he to work to keep pace with his orders that his
servants were instructed at last to interrupt him when working
hours were fairly over. He kept open house--entertaining
Velazquez, for instance, when the latter visited Naples in
1630; but though lavish he was yet mean. Ribera, Corenzio (a
Greek), and Caracciolo (a Neapolitan), formed a memorable
cabal, with the object of establishing a local monopoly in
the artistic profession for themselves. In this object, by
means of force and fraud, they succeeded for many years.
Domenichino, Annibale Carracci, and Guido Reni were all more
or less victims of the cabal. The story of the conspiracy of
Ribera and his allies to get the commission for painting the
chapel of St. Januarius, forms one of the most curious and
disgraceful chapters in the history of art, and may be read in
Lanzi's _History of Painting_ (vol. ii. in Bohn's translation).
Ribera's life ended like his pictures, in darkness. His
daughter was carried off by one of his great friends, Don Juan
of Austria, and Ribera was so overwhelmed with grief that he
left Naples and was never more heard of.[120]
The Virgin, accompanied here by St. John and Mary Magdalen, is weeping
over the dead Christ--the subject termed by the Italians a _Pietà_. It
is instructive to compare this Spanish treatment of it with an Italian
Pietà, such as Francia's No. 180. How much more ghastly is the dead
Christ here! How much less tender are the ministering mourners!