I arrived in Rome as a pilgrim, drawn by the Jubilee Year and its opened papal Holy Doors. It was then that Jaime Ponce de León, a dear friend and the director of the much-lauded Leon Gallery, with that knowing conviction one feels from a true connoisseur, urged me: “Don’t miss the Caravaggio exhibit at Palazzo Barberini.” And so, temporarily turning my steps from sacred to secular, I heeded his advice. And I’m infinitely grateful I did!

Considering the seven hills of Rome, the exhibition’s proximity to my hotel felt like a divine wink: a leisurely stroll under the unyielding Italian summer sun, just a few blocks from the Quirinale Hotel. What were the odds? It felt less like serendipity and more like a pilgrim’s blessing!

Approaching Palazzo Barberini, I passed through the wide welcoming iron gates that guard the grandeur within. The palace, once a family home of the Barberinis, is itself a testament to Baroque ambition, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. I stepped inside the anteroom, spacious and echoing with history, which was framed by imposing larger-than-life marble statues that felt like silent sentinels. Beyond, the gardens likewise stretched invitingly — green with blooms in the stone heart of the city.

Ascending to the second floor, on view was La Conversione di Saulo, a showcase of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, known better by his mononym: Caravaggio.

I soon found out that from March until July, 24 Caravaggio masterpieces — works rarely seen together — were spotlighted here, and some had recently been returned to their original homes. An usher, combining the quiet authority of a doyenne and the vigilance of security, guided me to the six remaining obras, focusing my gaze where it mattered most.

Caravaggio as the man, history claims, was impassioned, volatile, often violent in spirit, yet always brimming with unfiltered humanity. Fierce in temperament, he constantly wrestled with sheer survival, questionable faith and eventually, redemption. His life was as vivid and tumultuous as his brushstrokes.

As a painter, he was revolutionary: daring chiaroscuro that cut through the sacred with immediacy, figures that breathed with raw intensity, scenes that felt lived rather than painted.

And so, we began the viewing. Before Judith Beheading Holofernes, I was immediately held captive. Judith’s youthful determination, her delicate hand clutching the sword, is met by the horror of the act itself: Holofernes’ contorted face, eyes bulging in shock as blood pours unflinchingly across the canvas. There is no room for distance — this highlights both the resolve of faith and the cost of justice, all in a single stroke.