The panel’s first point of interest lies in its peculiar iconography, which is not precisely that of the Veil of Veronica, even though the absence of any representation of the neck and the way in which the beard and the locks of hair stand out directly against the abstract blue ground closely resemble the image venerated in St Peter’s in Rome and as a copy of the Mandylion in San Bartolomeo degli Armeni in Genoa. The expression of suffering, with the crown of thorns piercing the bleeding flesh and the tears running down from the eyelids, has an important precedent in the simultaneously hieratic and moving image of Christ’s face by Beato Angelico, now in the cathedral of Livorno, a noble response to Jan van Eyck’s depiction of the Redeemer as Rex Regum, the King of Kings, again confined to the face alone but triumphal in character.¹ The late 15th century, the period from which this devotional panel dates, saw a proliferation of bust-length portraits of Christ, often bearing the crown of thorns, displaying the stigmata of the Passion and intended to establish an empathetic dialogue with the worshipper and arouse deep compassion. This panel takes the opposite course to this dominant narrative approach in certain respects such as its explicit archaism, intentionally harking back to 14th-century prototypes (the present author recalls an exquisite neckless Facies Christi on a dazzling gold ground by Agnolo Gaddi [c. 1380, Florence, Museo Horne], which is in any case not characterised as a copy of the Veil of Veronica). Closer consideration reveals, however, an accentuation of pathos, humanising Christ’s suffering in a harsh and harrowing way in line with the climate of intense piety characterising many cultural spheres in the later 15th century, not only in the Florence of Savonarola. The impression of agony is heightened by the narrow eyelids and the open lips drawn back over the teeth. Certain elements of objective stylistic rigidity thus serve the purposes of a highly effective devotional image. 

The iconic singularity of the work then caused it to be set in a flamboyant 17thcentury frame (fig. 1) worked with wings and volutes displaying the Arma Christi or Instruments of the Passion (the ladder used to bring Christ down from the Cross, the hammer used to drive the nails and the pincers to remove them, the basin and jug with which Pontius Pilate washed his hands, the dice used to gamble for Christ’s clothing, the nails, the spear and the reed with the sponge soaked in gall and vinegar, and the lantern of the betrayal). Though very apposite, this frame was carved for a larger painting and the combination with the panel is therefore spurious. 

The painting is previously unmentioned in the critical literature, having been simply presented at an antiques fair in 1995 with a doubtful attribution to Francesco di Gentile da Fabriano.² While the oeuvre of this painter from the Marche region has now been attributed almost entirely to the historical figure of Luca di Paolo by Matelica,³ there are some works bearing his signature that should serve as the basis for new investigations to reconstruct the true Francesco di Gentile.⁴ These include two panels with half-length portraits of the suffering Christ, one at Dumbarton Oaks in Washington and the other formerly in the Mond Collection but both related to the late-period Carlo Crivelli in terms of characterisation and setting, and bearing no comparison with this panel. In our view, comparisons can instead be drawn most fruitfully with Antonio Leonelli da Crevalcore and hence with late 15th-century Bolognese painting. While there is greater rigidity with respect to the highly elegant stylisation of Leonelli, the work can be seen as a precise transcription of his models. As rightly shown by the precise reconstruction commenced by Federico Zeri,⁵ this bizarre Bolognese painter produced devotional images of extraordinary intensity, combining details of agonising cruelty with deliberate archaisms. A good example is provided by the Berenson Collection Head of the Decapitated St Catherine of Alexandria, previously recognised by Zeri, standing out against a dark ground with the hair stretched out like a sword blade and a mixture of blood and water (as in the case of Christ) spurting from the deep gash in her neck as she sighs and looks up towards heaven through her dimming eyes. In the painting examined here, the gleaming skin points securely to northern Italy, the region of Emilia rather than Lombardy, at the dawn of the early classical period. In this connection, various other elements stand out, in particular the drop-shaped hollow in the centre of the upper lip, a recurrent hallmark in the work of Antonio da Crevalcore, and the rigid stylisation of the long nasal ridge, the eyelids and the cold, pearly skin, which also recall a still anonymous painter operating in the same sphere and known as the Master of Ambrogio Saraceno after an altarpiece painted for the donor of that name and dated 1493 (Bologna, Pinacoteca nazionale).⁶ 

Andrea De Marchi

¹ See Rome 2000-01a.

² Turin 1995, p. 6.

³ See Matelica 2015.

⁴ See A. De Marchi, “Pittori a Camerino nel Quattrocento: le ombre di Gentile e la luce di Piero”, in De Marchi 2002, pp. 83-84.

⁵ Zeri 1966, pp. 472-477; for the current situation in the literature, see M. Tanzi, in Strehlke, Brüggen Israëls 2015, pp. 354-359.

⁶ See Cavalca 2001-02, pp. 31-56.