Caravaggio: Painting the Light, Striking the Real
- Mestan Tekin
- Mar 26
- 12 min read
There’s something strange that happens when you stand before a Caravaggio. A tension. An anticipation. As if the painting, still and silent, might suddenly come to life.
At the exhibition held at the Palazzo Barberini in Rome, this feeling is confirmed. Even surrounded by visitors, under the white lights of the museum, The Conversion of Saint Paul, The Calling of Saint Matthew, or The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist grab hold of you. No stepping back. No distance. Paul’s eyes, Christ’s hand, John’s tilted head… you look at them, and they look at you.
But deep down, what is Caravaggio doing? He simplifies, he condenses. He stages. And above all, he changes painting — for good. This article looks at that turning point. A Caravaggio painting is at once a technical feat, a spiritual vision, and a lesson in seeing.
On the occasion of three major exhibitions focused on Caravaggism this year, La Revue de l’Atelier is publishing three articles: one on Caravaggio himself, and two on masters inspired by him. This series on the greatest Caravaggisti marks a pivotal moment in the history of art on multiple levels. This article precedes the next one on Artemisia Gentileschi, whose exhibition is currently held at the Musée Jacquemart-André in Paris, and a third article on Ribera, to appear in the coming weeks, echoing the recent exhibition at the Petit Palais, also in Paris.
1. Milan: A Strict Education in Post-Tridentine Italy
Michelangelo Merisi was born in 1571 in Caravaggio, a Lombard village located between Bergamo and Milan. He grew up in a highly specific religious context: that of the Counter-Reformation, embodied in Milan by Charles Borromeo, a reformist archbishop who would later become a saint. Borromeo imposed a strict vision of religious imagery. Gone were the overloaded scenes and complex allegories. Art, to be effective, had to be understandable. Edifying. Direct.
Caravaggio absorbed this visual model very early on. The Sacro Monte—groups of chapels depicting the life of Christ through life-sized sculptures—formed a kind of open-air sacred theatre. The young Michelangelo saw them. He took away their frontality, their emotion, their impact.
He was later trained in Milan by Simone Peterzano, himself a pupil of Titian. This detail is important. Caravaggio was not self-taught. He received a Venetian education, and it shows. The love of flesh, the richness of textures, the deliberate use of vermilion red—all of these elements stem from that tradition. He would know of Giorgione, Tintoretto, and Bassano—even without studying in Venice, their influence left its mark.
But above all, what Caravaggio retained from these early years was this: religious imagery must not only please. It must strike. And to do so, it must feel true.
2. Arrival in Rome: The Shock of the Real
From 1592 onward, Caravaggio was in Rome. He was in his early twenties. He survived as best he could. He painted still lifes, portraits of young boys, and scenes of everyday life. He worked for a time in the studio of the Cavaliere d’Arpino, a prominent Mannerist painter. But very quickly, he broke away. Caravaggio didn’t like conventions. He was searching for something else.
What characterizes his early Roman works is the observation of reality. Not in a documentary sense, but rather in a quest for accuracy. In The Sick Bacchus, we see a pale adolescent, almost greenish, with dry lips, holding a cup of wine. It is not an allegory. It is a portrait. Perhaps his own. One already senses this desire to blur the boundaries between model and figure.
But it was with the support of Cardinal Francesco Del Monte that his career took a decisive turn. Del Monte, a cultured collector and savvy patron, provided him with a studio, models, and, most importantly, an official commission. It would be the Contarelli Chapel, in the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi.
Caravaggio was 28 years old. And with this commission, he was about to transform religious art in Rome.
3. The Contarelli Chapel: When Light Becomes Narrative
In 1599, Caravaggio received a major public commission: the decoration of the Contarelli Chapel with scenes from the life of Saint Matthew. It was his first true Church contract. Until then, he had painted for private salons, in small formats. Now, he was expected to work on large panels, in a church, before the public.
He painted three works: The Calling of Saint Matthew, The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew, and later, Saint Matthew and the Angel.
The Calling of Saint Matthew (1600) is probably the most frequently cited painting when speaking of Caravaggio. One must take the time to look at it—even if it’s familiar. On the left, a group of men is counting money, dressed in the fashion of the 16th century. On the right, in the shadows, Christ enters with Peter. He extends his arm. A ray of light cuts across the scene and points directly to Matthew.
What strikes the viewer here is the simplicity of the composition. Two groups. One gesture. One beam of light. And yet, everything is there. The moment of transformation. The passage from the profane to the sacred.
Technically, the light comes from the top right. It does not follow a naturalistic logic. It follows a symbolic one. It illuminates Matthew more than the others. It tells the story. And a little-known detail: this beam of light corresponds, in the chapel, to an actual window in the building. Caravaggio conceived his scene in direct dialogue with the architecture of the space.
The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew, on the opposite wall, is more chaotic. A man lies on the ground, an executioner raises his weapon. The faithful flee. All of it bathed in contrasting light. This painting is often considered more confusing, but it is deliberately designed to create a sense of visual assault. The eye is seized by the turmoil. You feel the urgency. Caravaggio even included himself in the painting, as a silent witness to the scene.
The third painting, Saint Matthew and the Angel, has a particular story. Its first version, now lost, was rejected because it depicted the apostle as a coarse old man, being guided too familiarly by the angel. The second version, more dignified, is the one we know today. Proof that Caravaggio, despite his radical style, also accommodated the demands of his patrons.
4. Painting Directly: Method and Materials
What makes Caravaggio’s work unique is not just his subjects or his use of light. It’s also a matter of technique. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he didn’t draw—or did so very little. It’s a fascinating fact, because it shows complete trust in the painting process and in the gradual emergence of form, along with a strong sense of anticipation. One could say that Caravaggio was a genius in the truest sense of the word.
Laboratory analyses (x-rays, infrared reflectography) show that he didn’t produce detailed preparatory drawings beneath his paintings. Instead, he would mark a few reference points into the ground layer using the tip of his brush handle or a pointed tool. Sometimes he would roughly sketch with diluted umber.
He painted directly onto a canvas prepared with a warm brown ground, often a mix of red ochre, black, and oil. This mid-tone allowed him to quickly establish values: he pulled the highlights using pure lead white or mixed it with lead-tin yellow, and deepened the shadows with glazes made of natural umber or even carbon black.
His palette is limited, but masterfully controlled. He uses:
• Lead white for highlights,
• Umber, red ochre, bone black or lamp black for dark tones,
• Vermilion (rarely in its pure form),
• Lead-tin yellow for golden accents,
• Occasionally verdigris (in garments or certain reflections).
He doesn’t need many colors. What matters is the relationship between the light and dark areas. That’s where everything lies—those famous values we so often talk about in the studio.
This process allows Caravaggio to work quickly. But that doesn’t mean he cuts corners. On the contrary. He adjusts, revises, reconsiders his choices. Pentimenti (visible changes, either to the naked eye or through technical analysis) often appear: a hand repositioned, a gaze redirected. Painting, for him, is a gradual construction.
An interesting detail: in certain areas of half-tones, he deliberately leaves the reddish-brown underlayer visible. This adds warmth to the flesh tones. It also unifies the scene, ensuring tonal harmony—something that later artists, like Rubens, followed closely.
5. After Contarelli: The Assertion of a Style
The success of the Contarelli Chapel is immediate. All of Rome is talking about it—artists, patrons, critics. Caravaggio becomes a sought-after painter—and a watched one. In the following years, he receives major religious commissions. But with each one, he pushes his vision even further.
Let’s take The Entombment of Christ (1603–1604), now housed in the Vatican Museums. Commissioned for the Church of Santa Maria in Vallicella, it was intended to be placed above an altar. The canvas thus functions within a liturgical setting: the painted body of Christ is positioned directly above the altar where the Eucharist is celebrated. The visual transposition is immediate.
What strikes the viewer here is the composition. Christ’s body, heavy and lifeless, descends on a diagonal. Nicodemus—likely a self-portrait of the painter—supports him by the legs. John the Evangelist holds him under the shoulders. Christ’s right arm hangs down, his fingers almost touching the lower edge of the canvas. It’s a physical boundary with the viewer’s world.
The light comes from the top left. It illuminates the faces, Christ’s torso, and the raised arms of Mary of Clopas. The background is black. No décor. Just bodies, gestures, and drapery. The effect is sculptural. The emotion, contained.
From that point on, Caravaggio would never turn back. He had found his grammar: simple scenes, dark backgrounds, selective lighting, unapologetic realism. And above all—a kind of painting that engages the viewer physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
6. The Death of the Virgin: Rejected, Bought by Rubens
In 1605–1606, Caravaggio painted The Death of the Virgin for the church of Santa Maria della Scala in Rome. It is a magnificent painting. But it was rejected. Too raw, said the Discalced Carmelites. Too realistic. Too disturbing.
Why? Because Mary is portrayed as a dead woman. Not as an idealized saint. Not as a vision of hope. She lies on a bed, barefoot, dressed in red. The apostles surround her in mourning. Mary Magdalene weeps, her face hidden in her hands. There is no halo, no cloud, no visible divine presence. The scene is human—excessively human.
Caravaggio is said to have used as a model a young woman who had drowned in the Tiber. Perhaps it’s just a legend. But it speaks to the effect of the painting. Here, death is raw. Physical. Devoid of celestial consolation.
Rejected by the clergy, the painting was immediately purchased by the Duke of Mantua, on the recommendation of Rubens. Today it hangs in the Louvre. And it is one of the great masterpieces of Baroque religious painting.
Technically, the canvas is a model of composition. The red curtain at the top weighs down the space. It creates a sense of heaviness. Light falls on Mary’s face, Peter’s hands, and the folds of the sheet. The atmosphere is silent, suffocating. No cries. Just a collective collapse.
7. Naples: A New Beginning, a Darker Tone
In May 1606, Caravaggio killed a man. In a duel, a brawl, a game of pallacorda—the exact circumstances are still debated. He fled. An arrest warrant was issued against him. He left Rome for Naples.
In Naples, he found a city that was more popular, more direct. There, he painted The Flagellation of Christ, The Seven Works of Mercy, and other masterpieces. His style changed slightly. It became darker. The compositions grew tighter. The scale of the figures increased.
The Flagellation of Christ is one of my favorite works. It’s also a matter of personal sensitivity. The composition is vast and hypnotic. Its triangular structure, anchored by strong bases, is exceptional. During the exhibition at the Palazzo Barberini, it stood alone on a large wall, and when you enter that room, the feeling is unique!
In The Seven Works of Mercy (1607), created for the church of Pio Monte della Misericordia, he combines several scenes of Christian charity into a single painting. It is one of his most complex compositions. Yet its clarity remains remarkable. Each group is lit like an independent scene, in the manner of a film edited in sequences.
The palette becomes more limited. The flesh tones are earthy. The backgrounds are almost uniformly black. Light becomes a tool of selection: what it illuminates exists. The rest disappears.
8. Malta: Monumentality and a Signature in Blood
In 1607, Caravaggio left for Malta. He wanted to obtain official pardon from the Church. To do so, he sought admission into the Order of the Knights of Saint John. He succeeded. He was made a knight. He then painted The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist (1608), his largest known painting.
The scene takes place in a prison. John lies on the ground. The executioner holds him by the hair, ready to cut off his head with a small knife. An old woman covers her ears. Salome waits, impassive, holding the platter. Two prisoners watch from behind a grate. The floor is dirty, the wall bare.
The violence is not spectacular. It is cold. Silent. The sword lies on the ground. Blood flows. And in that blood, Caravaggio signs: “f. Michelangelo.” It is his only known signature. It is written into the painting—into the wound. The gesture is powerful. It links the painter to his subject. He signs at the very moment of the murder.
This painting is not just a masterpiece. It is also a turning point. There is a silence here that is very different from his earlier works. His tenebrism reaches an almost abstract sobriety. Few colors. Little décor. Minimal effects. Everything lies in the balance, the tension, the relationship with the viewer.
9. The Final Paintings, or the Ultimate Confession
After Malta, everything accelerates. Caravaggio is imprisoned, then escapes. He returns to Naples and continues painting—among other works, a new version of The Tribute Money. But the mood has shifted. His works become darker—both literally and metaphorically.
His last known paintings, such as David with the Head of Goliath (c. 1609–1610), are marked by an inner tension. The painting shows an adolescent holding the severed head of Goliath… whose features are those of Caravaggio himself. It is likely the most famous symbolic self-portrait in Baroque painting. A double confession: the violence endured, and the violence inflicted.
The treatment is stripped down. The background is black. The light is harsh. The executioner’s face (David) shows no triumph, but rather a kind of hesitation—even pity. Goliath-Caravaggio’s mouth is open, his eyes lifeless. This image is not a victory. It is an intimate condemnation.
Another late painting: The Ecstasy of Mary Magdalene, recently rediscovered (its attribution is still debated, but the most serious experts confirm it). The saint is shown in a trance, head tilted back, light falling on her face. No gold. No angels. A heavy silence. A radical bareness. Here, perhaps for the first time, Caravaggio paints complete surrender—to pain, or to grace.
He died in 1610, in Porto Ercole. He had left Naples for Rome, hoping to obtain papal pardon. The exact cause of his death remains unknown: fever, infection, stroke, assassination? He was 38 or 39 years old. He died before he could return.
10. Legacy: Chiaroscuro, Narrative, Modernity
Caravaggio profoundly changed the way people paint. Not just because of his use of chiaroscuro, as is too often said, but because of everything he transformed:
• He changed composition—making it simpler, more frontal, more immediate.
• He reduced the palette to increase visual impact.
• He reinforced the role of the human body as a vehicle for emotion.
• He brought the sacred closer to the everyday.
• He turned light into a symbolic language.
His heirs are numerous. In Italy: Orazio Gentileschi, Artemisia Gentileschi, Mattia Preti. In Spain: Ribera, Zurbarán. In France: Valentin de Boulogne, Georges de La Tour. In the Netherlands: Rembrandt. All of them drew inspiration from his way of shaping light, composing dramatic scenes, and capturing raw emotion.
But truth be told, Caravaggio left no workshop. He trained no students. His influence spread solely through his paintings. His canvases circulated. They made an impression. And they still captivate the eye today.
Conclusion: Painting the World as It Is
Caravaggio never theorized. He left no treatise, no manifesto. But he left us his works. Powerful, silent, concentrated images. He painted without detour. He rejected unnecessary symbols. He discarded conventions. And he put everything on the canvas: the weight of the body, the tension of the moment, the divide between shadow and light. His technique was reduced to a few pigments, his tools were minimal, and his staging was masterful.
He was a painter of the moment—not of the idealized eternal. A painter of the visible world, of reality charged with mystery. For him, the divine didn’t come from above. It passed through gazes, gestures, faces. Through the folds of a sheet. Through sweat on a forehead. Through the outstretched hand of an invisible Christ, or the fall of a man who believes he hears… and that is enough to tip painting into a new era.
If you have questions about the master, his technique, or his path, don’t hesitate to talk to me at the studio. We’ll discuss several technical points during upcoming museum visits.
In a few weeks, once I’ve compiled all my notes, you’ll be able to read the articles on Artemisia and Ribera.
Get your brushes ready!
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