For most Americans, there’s a list of arts that they might be able to rattle off if pressed to name them off the top of their heads. Picasso. Michelangelo. Leonardo da Vinci. Name recognition does go a long way, but such lists also highlight what many of us don’t know-- a huge treasure trove of talented artists from decades or centuries past that might not be household names, but still have created incredible additions to the story of art. It’s not a surprise that many of these individuals represent the more diverse side of things, too-- women, people of color, different spheres of the social or sexual spectrum.

This season on the ArtCurious podcast, we’re covering the coolest artists you don’t know. This week: Jusepe de Ribera.

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Episode Credits

Production and Editing by Kaboonki. Theme music by Alex Davis.  Social media assistance by Emily Crockett and Caroline Haller. Additional writing and research by Adria Gunter.

ArtCurious is sponsored by Anchorlight, an interdisciplinary creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle.

Additional music credits

"Sky" by Chad Crouch is licensed under BY-NC-3.0; "Un Amour Perdu" by Dee Yan-Key is licensed under BY-NC-SA 4.0; "Rito Occulto" by sawsquarenoise is licensed under BY 4.0; "Chalet" by Meydän is licensed under BY 4.0; "Harmony" by Alan Špiljak is licensed under By-NC-ND 4.0; based on a work at http://freemusicarchive.org/music/; "Lesser Scaup" by Chad Crouch is licensed under BY-NC-3.0. Ad Music: "Good Ol Plan B" by Mela is licensed under BY-SA 4.0 (Objective Wellness)

Recommended Reading

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Links and further resources

The Guardian: Master of gore: the violent, shocking genius of Jusepe de Ribera

The Getty: Profile on Jusepe de Ribera

The Guardian: The Bearded Woman of Abruzzi: a 17th-century hero of gender fluidity

Episode Transcript

Have you ever seen a sculpture so lifelike that you’ve gotta stand there, staring, for a whole minute, trying to determine if you’re seeing a real person or animal? I sure have. Just check out the uncanny life-size works of Duane Hanson and you’ll see what I mean.  Or have you ever seen a painting so naturalistic that you almost want to reach out and touch it to make sure it’s actually oil on canvas, and not something else? Absolutely this happens, though just a PSA, don’t touch the art, ever. It’s far more fragile than you think it is, even in terms of its sensitivity to the oils on our fingertips. Sometimes, art is meant to appear so lifelike that it’s disturbing. There’s long been a precedent for art that shows the darker side of life in the most realistic ways possible, something that we touched on a bit during our Shock Art series with works like Thomas Eakins’s painting The Gross Clinic. Centuries before Eakins created his gory masterpiece lived another painter in Europe whose violent, dark paintings of dying martyrs shown in a very lifelike manner gripped Spain and Italy. And though sometimes compared to Caravaggio, this painter is equally deserving of our attention in art history today. 

Some people think that visual art is dry, boring, lifeless. But the stories behind those paintings, sculptures, drawings and photographs are weirder, crazier, or more fun than you can imagine. In season seven, we’re uncovering the coolest artists you don’t know, and today we’re discussing that other Baroque bad boy: Jusepe de Ribera. This is the ArtCurious Podcast, exploring the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in Art History. I'm Jennifer Dasal.

Born near Valencia, Spain in February of 1591,  Jusepe de Ribera, also known as José de Ribera, was the second son of a famed local shoemaker.  And that’s almost all that we know about his early life-- because, you know, it’s not always super easy to keep nice, clean historical records in the 16th century, etc. etc.  It is thought that perhaps he was originally trained as an artist as a child, possibly being apprenticed to the artist Francisco Ribalta. But we art historians don’t know this for sure since, of course, no documentation exists, and it appears that this connection was first made by a biographer beginning in the 18th century-- someone at a remove of at least a century from the artist himself, so take that with a grain of salt. What we do know, however, is that at the age of 20, Ribera burst onto the scene in Italy in 1611 or 1612, traveling from Spain through Parma and ending up in Rome by 1612.  

As we learned in our last episode on Angelica Kauffman, Rome was, in the 18th century, the center of the art world and of art education-- and that was also true during the 17th century at the time that Ribera was alive and kicking. Like his near-contemporary, Caravaggio, Jusepe de Ribera established himself quickly as the painter-to-know in Rome, but he frequently bristled at the opportunities that came his way from wealthy patrons. His inspiration, it seemed, came from the everyday life around him-- all its struggles and necessities, its less-than-picture-perfect qualities. And while this interest did not endear him to the Roman rich who would otherwise keep him employed, it is what makes him so fascinating to us today. Because of his rejection of the ideal and his inclusion of--ahem--uncomfortable imagery, Ribera became one of the superstars of the Baroque movement.  

Those first few years in Rome were rather integral to Jusepe de Ribera’s training and career, but he didn’t want to blend into the background there, either. One of the ways he stood out was that he embraced his Spanish heritage, deeply proud of his roots even if sometimes mixed on his feelings of having been raised in Spain He would often sign his work as "Jusepe the Spaniard," and also adopting the nickname “lo Spagnoletto”, meaning “The Little Spaniard.” In this way, it was a good bit of marketing, a way to differentiate himself from the likes of Caravaggio, especially since much of his work owed a great deal to the styles innovated by Caravaggio-- deep chiaroscuro and the dramatic nature of his compositions. But eventually the concept of getting a little closer to home did come to play in Ribera’s life. He made the decision to move down to Naples in 1616, a decision that may have been made for two reasons: first,  Naples was under Spanish rule during this period, so he was able to settle there permanently and with all the associated benefits of a Spanish citizen living abroad. It worked for him, apparently, because this is where he would spend the remainder of his life and where his career would reach its greatest heights. Second, we know that Ribera married a woman named 

Catalina Azzolina, a lady that the artist seems to have arranged to meet and marry even before he moved to Naples proper. And it wasn’t necessarily a love match, or at least not just a love match. Catalina was the daughter of a very successful Neapolitan artist and art dealer, Giovanni Bernardino Azzolino. Our pal Jusepe wasn’t a dummy. He must have been doing his homework on who to get close to in order to catapult himself into the exclusive Neapolitan art market.

Like his Italian counterpart, Caravaggio, Ribera took a naturalistic approach to his subject matter, but so intensely focused on the practically grotesque side of things that it’s almost like he wanted to one-up Caravaggio in his imagery. He portrayed his subjects in some of the most unflattering, even ghastly, ways, showcasing saggy skin, concave chests, contorted body angles, and deformed individuals. And no one was exempt-- not even holy men or innocent women. Take, for example, his 1639 canvas, The Martyrdom of St. Philip the Apostle. It is a disturbing image that shows the preparation leading to Philip’s death via Crucifixion. Philip, nude but for a cloth draped over his nether regions, is strung up by his hands and is in the process of being hoisted up onto his wooden cross by several men around him, but our eyes just home in on Philip. Ribera’s skill here lies in the utter physicality of his depiction of the saint, rendered so naturalistically as to be practically beautiful. He shows Philip with a gray, muted skin tone that hints at struggle, malnutrition, and sickness, and Philip’s own gaunt face and bulging ribs just lure us into his suffering. Like with Caravaggio’s paintings, Ribera here makes Philip feel almost bodily, so that we connect so much with this figure as a real-life human being. Such actions draw us in, as an audience, and it’s almost as if we are with the saint here, as one of the onlookers privy to his pain. It’s arresting. And it stays with you. And that’s exactly why Jusepe de Ribera’s works… work for us. 

Violence seems to be the constant theme within many  of Jusepe de Ribera’s paintings. From men being martyred to being flayed, many of the individuals in his paintings are enduring some type of suffering in a very slow and painful way. A lot of onlookers and critics would assume that due to the violent nature of the paintings, Ribera must have been a violent man. And you know what? Like Caravaggio, this might have been the case--but that didn’t make either artist an anomaly. In fact, it was just the opposite. During the time in which Ribera was in Naples, normal people performed, experienced, and witnessed violent public acts as a kind of individualized vigilante justice system. For example, Ribera illustrated an inquisition scene called the strappado, where a man would be strung up and hung by wrists that were tied behind his back. It was pain and violence front and center-- and that was Ribera’s world. It makes sense that he would freely represent such grotesque scenes in his own art. And naturally there was a precedent for this in art history, too. Think of the ancient sculpture that became so popular in Italy during both the Renaissance and Baroque periods-- works like the famed Laocoon group, the sculpture showing the Trojan priest and his sons being devoured by two giant sea serpents, were hugely influential to artists like Ribera, artists who zoomed in on the ancient depiction of horrific suffering and grief. 

Not that all of Ribera’s works were so graphic.  And that’s coming up next, right after this break. Don’t go away. 

Welcome back to ArtCurious.

Like many other European artists long before and long after, Jusepe de Ribera painted his share of glowing Madonnas and chubby Jesus babies, done in a manner that isn’t so shocking or gruesomely naturalistic as his martyred saints, for example. But even some of his non-violent works have a strange side to them. One of the artist’s most famous and most outlandish works of art is a painting known as Magdalena Ventura with Her Husband and Son. In this piece, Ribera included a very intimate moment between a mother and her child-- the mother breastfeeding her baby, with her bare breast exposed to the public.By no means was this strange-- there was a long precedent prior to the Baroque period where the Madonna Lactans-- an image of the Virgin Mary feeding baby Jesus--was popular in paintings, so that didn’t necessarily throw people off guard (not like it does now, when people panic about breastfeeding in public). But what probably did throw people off was the fact that Magdalena Ventura is sporting a full-grown beard. In fact, Ventura was a Neapolitan celebrity during her lifetime, a wonderful example of gender fluidity at a time when that wasn’t necessarily a thing. While her body--especially that exposed, pendulous breast-- is very feminine, almost nothing about her face is. In fact, she looks more masculine, in the traditional sense, than even her husband, who lingers behind her. And this is what makes Ribera the perfect artist for capturing Magdalena Ventura here, because he was always attuned to showing someone naturalistically, not afraid to depict his subjects as they actually are--withered muscles, lined faces, and, yes, fully bearded. And while the woman was probably ridiculed, or at least pointed out as different for having had this beard, there is nothing freak-show or ostracizing about Ribera’s depiction of her. In fact, he imbues her with such presence, such power, and she challenges us, as viewers, to doubt her-- she stares straight out at us and we are powerless to do anything but acknowledge and admire her. 

In 1632, Ribera’s aesthetic and technique began to change slightly, shifting from the dark and ominous tones that characterized the works of the first half of his career and moved instead towards both softer colors and more classically-inspired subject matter. His palette became bolder, brighter, and his brushstrokes loosened up a bit. Some art historians have noted that the influences of artistic styles and techniques from both Venice and also from Northern Europe--especially Flanders-- began to make a huge mark on Jusepe de Ribera, adopting these different styles for different means. Now, don’t picture some fluffy Impressionist image, or the pastel-tinged French Rococo concoctions that would proliferate a century later. Nope. But checking out later works, like his painting, The Holy Family, from 1639, and you can see a striking shift. There’s more brightness, with splashes of red and blue, making his works more akin to Raphael rather than Caravaggio. What’s most interesting is that this shows Ribera’s flexibility, his adaptability to a patron’s wishes or to a particular subject matter, as he would rotate between this brushier, lighter style and his darker, more dramatic style at any given time.  

Even with all his success in the Neapolitan community, the last decade and a half of his life was not the most comfortable one. Tragedy first hit Ribera in the 1640s when he fell very ill, and the exact nature of his illness is still unknown today. Due to his mysterious ailments, he was unable to work, and things really seemed to decline from there.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, in 1647 and into 1648, there was a populist uprising in Naples against Spanish rule, during which Ribera and other prominent Spaniards were forced to take cover and seek safety in the palace of the Spanish viceroy. This obviously didn’t play into Ribera’s favor with the Neapolitan patrons he had previously courted. With the decline in commissions and his health continuing to fail, Ribera found himself in a financial crisis, especially after his eldest daughter lost her husband and had to move back home. Suddenly, Ribera could no longer support his family. Ultimately, he reached out to the King of Spain for financial assistance, hoping against hope that the monarchy would be able to come to his aid. Unfortunately, though, such aid didn’t arrive in time to help- Jusepe de Ribera died on September 2, 1652, without a response to his request. It’s a terribly sad end to an otherwise illustrious life. At the highest point of his career, Ribera could not have imagined the amount of money and fame he would acquire due to his artistic talents, to ultimately die a man who had lost most if not all his earnings.  

After Ribera’s death, his works remained in fashion for some time due to that fascinating combination at which he so excelled: harsh content linked with beautifully-rendered figures. He greatly influenced a number of Italian and Spanish painters who followed in his footsteps, primary of whom was the painter Luca Giordano, who apprenticed with Ribera on the recommendation of the Spanish Viceroy during the last two years of Ribera’s life. But his work also affected artists like Francisco de Zurbarán, Salvator Rosa, and Francisco de Goya, who took things to even greater, darker heights in works like Saturn Devouring His Son, which we discussed in Episode #44. At the beginning of the 20th century, his works had fallen a bit out of favor due to their gruesome naturalism, but a reexamination in the latter part of the century led to a new appreciation of his works and his uncanny ability to create such beautiful nightmares. 

 Thank you for listening to the ArtCurious Podcast. This episode was written, produced, and narrated by me, Jennifer Dasal, with additional writing and research help by Adria Gunter. Our theme music is by Alex Davis at alexdavismusic.com, our logo is by Dave Rainey at daveraineydesign.com, and social media help is by Emily Crockett and Caroline Haller. Our production and editorial services are provided by Kaboonki. Audio production services are provided by Kaboonki, the silliest name in superb podcasts and video. Let them help you too at kaboonki.com. Learn more at kaboonki.com.  The ArtCurious Podcast is sponsored primarily by Anchorlight. Anchorlight is a creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle. Please visit anchorlightraleigh.com. 

The ArtCurious Podcast is also fiscally sponsored by VAE Raleigh, a 501c3 nonprofit creativity incubator. We’re a fully independent podcast, and we rely on sponsors and donations to keep us going, so if you enjoy this show and have the means, please consider giving $10 to help this show, and thank you for your kindness. And if you don’t have money to give, that’s okay! You can help our show as well by leaving a five-star review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen-- believe me, it makes a huge difference and helps new listeners tune in. For more details about our show, including the image mentioned in this episode today, please visit our website: artcuriouspodcast.com. We’re also on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram at artcuriouspod. 

Check back in two weeks as we continue to explore the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in art history.