A pilgrim’s blessing: Caravaggio’s paintings in Rome

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.

St. John the Baptist is altogether different. Here, the young prophet is rendered not as a triumphant preacher we are all familiar with, but as a boy on the cusp of manhood, draped in rustic cloth, with a roughened look — sunburnt hands and neck of a laborer.

With Narcissus, the youth leans over close to the water, transfixed by his reflection, locked in a love that is doomed to dissolve. Caravaggio captures vanity and vulnerability — of desire and obsession. The doubled image on the dark water feels like an echo — an infinite loop which has trapped Narcissus forever.

Saint Francis in Meditation strips away drama and spectacle. Cloaked in a coarse habit, Francis kneels in dim solitude, his face bowed, a skull resting nearby as a reminder of mortality. Caravaggio does not glorify sainthood with celestial visions. The painting is hushed, intimate and profoundly human.

The Conversion on the Way to Damascus — popularly called The Conversion of Saul — stood in two versions. Though it was originally believed two distinct copies exist due to rejection of a patron who was far from pleased, many now claim it was Caravaggio’s own prerogative as his style evolved.

In the first piece, Saul is portrayed as a soldier who had fallen from his horse, surprised by the sound of Christ’s voice. Divine light envelops the scenery, while the Lord himself seems to appear from a branch of a nearby tree. This piece was the distilled essence of the divine apparition.

In the second painting, which was created a few years later, it is much more austere: Saul, cast from his horse, had his eyes closed, but arms outstretched in violent surrender. This is a much calmer presentation of the same moment, with a focus on Saul’s internal spiritual transformation.

The dichotomy between the two versions struck me: One painter with the same miraculous event — one work explosive, the other contemplative. I found myself wondering: did any observer ever see both back in the day? Would one marvel more at one or the other?

Another thought pricked me: if Caravaggio had time — had the patron not allegedly rejected the first approach — might he have painted endlessly, exploring every nuance of that thunderous, lightning-filled biblical moment? Perhaps we may never know.

¡Enhorabuena, Caravaggio!