Making of a Painting II: Our Lady of the Chariot

*Our Lady of the Chariot* in progress (photo courtesy of Zach Fiedler)

Introduction

When two private clients approached us in late 2021 with an idea for the commission that became Our Lady of the Chariot, Polly and I could not have known that we were about to embark on one of the most compositionally challenging projects of our career.

Some patrons come to us with only vague ideas regarding subject matter, while others have a detailed vision that they would like us to realize. Our Lady of the Chariot fell emphatically on the latter end of the spectrum. Although such projects impose constraints on absolute artistic freedom, we often find that, paradoxically, they stimulate greater creativity as we encounter and develop solutions to the compositional problems of working within those constraints.

The Request

As I sat taking notes during our first meeting in the client’s living room, I learned that the commission was to be based principally on a little-known event in the life of an obscure 13th-century saint named Philip Benizi. As a young man, Philip received a vision in which Our Lady of Sorrows approached him in a golden chariot. When Mary presented him with the habit of the Servites, he understood that his vocation was to join this recently established mendicant order.

So far, so good. The program was complicated, however, by the patrons’ idea of poetically merging the content of this Medieval mystical experience with imagery borrowed from the 20th-century Fatima visions. The goal, I discovered, was to create an altarpiece for a chapel dedicated to the Poor Souls in Purgatory that represented Benizi’s chariot-riding Madonna as the last hope for perishing souls in danger of damnation.

Specifically, the clients imagined Our Lady’s airborne vehicle patrolling a limbo-like space between Heaven and Hell, rescuing dying souls who would, in accord with the Fatima conception, be falling “like sparks” into the fiery abyss. They envisioned souls clinging to the chariot’s undercarriage, perhaps reaching out to assist each other, and narrowly escaping the fate of eternal death through the last-minute grace of Mary’s intercession.

Background

Before beginning a painting based on a historical account, I like to review the primary sources. The brief description of Philip’s dream that had inspired the clients was abridged, and little else on the topic could be found on-line. After a good deal of digging, I eventually traced accounts in the published literature to a 19th-century French biography by Pérégrin Marie Soulier that was itself based on documents compiled during Benizi’s canonization process in the 17th century.

As I immersed myself in the sources, I learned that Philip was born near Florence in 1233. He attended the University of Paris and subsequently the University of Padua, where he earned a degree in medicine at the age of nineteen. In 1254, Philip heard the Acts of the Apostles being proclaimed at Mass and was struck by the line addressed to his namesake, the 1st-century deacon: “Go near, and join thyself to this chariot” (8:29). Falling into a trance as he prayed, Philip dreamt that he was traveling through a dangerous landscape. According to Soulier’s account, the place had “a frightful aspect” and was full of “huge rocks” and “gaping precipices” infested with “innumerable deadly poisonous snakes.” Reeling with terror and starting to sink into the mire, Philip called to God for assistance.

Suddenly, the heavens were opened, and he saw the Blessed Virgin in a magnificent golden chariot, drawn by a lion and a lamb (the former of “ferocious aspect”), descending toward him through the air. The vehicle had four wheels (later interpreted as representing the four Gospels), supported an ivory throne, and was draped in black fabric. Mary herself was “dressed in mourning clothes” and “crowned with stars.” Above her head, angels held a “rich silken canopy” of “azure colors.” Nearby, “a dove of dazzling whiteness fluttered gracefully,” emitting “rays of light.”

Upon hearing the familiar invitation, “Go near, and join thyself to this chariot,” Philip approached, and Mary presented him with the black habit of the Servites. At this, Philip awoke and immediately sought admission to the order.

He was eventually elected General Superior and became renowned for his holiness. Nevertheless, he spurned the temporal and ecclesial authority that this reputation could have earned him—according to one story, he even went into hiding in 1268 to avoid being elected pope. He died in Todi in 1285 and was canonized by Pope Clement X in 1671.

Previous Depictions

After having gathered the relevant textual sources, I next researched whether and how previous artists had approached the subject matter. Here, I determined that we were mostly working from a blank slate. Indeed, I was able to find only two prior paintings of the vision in question (aside from the miniature in the medallion above this sketch attributed to Carlo Dolci), both of them quite obscure.

The first is a Renaissance-era fresco by Cosimo Rosselli in the Church of the Annunciation in Florence. The second, previously attributed to Raffaello Vanni but now believed to be the work of Francesco Curradi, resides in the Church of Santa Maria dei Servi in Siena.

Compared with the vivid imagination and dynamic drama of the source material, the existing paintings are static and uninspiring—and it seems doubtful that either artist had ever seen a real lion!

Challenges

In addition to the usual difficulties encountered in composing any multi-figural action scene (particularly one that involves flight and free-fall), the specifics of this commission posed a number of unique challenges.

The first order of business was to settle on a structure for Our Lady’s vehicle. After reviewing the early accounts, I concluded that the term translated “chariot” probably referred to something for which the word “carriage” would seem more natural to us—i.e., an ornate seat with a canopy, mounted on a four-wheeled chassis. The translation used in the popular sources, however, had fixed in readers’ imagination a more martial vehicle, something akin to a Roman racing or Egyptian war chariot. Our task was to stay true to the structural details laid out by the original texts (four wheels, drapery-covered throne, etc.), while still visually evoking the kind of vehicle that our patrons had in mind.

My early thumbnail sketches on scratch paper to brainstorm chariot designs

The next challenge was to determine how to represent the “souls” visually. We wanted to be clear that they were no longer alive (or at least that they were at the point of death), and yet, if they were to be reaching for the golden chariot per our assignment, then they could not be limp corpses. Because their eternal destiny was supposed to be in question, they could not appear glorified like the blessed in Heaven, nor could they be skeletal denizens of Hell.

Of course, there is no time in the afterlife, so, theologically speaking, there is not a chronological state between death and personal judgment. But this state can be conceived of as a mental category, and I carefully reviewed how artists of the past had rendered such souls (logically if not temporally prior to divine sentencing) in, for example, scenes of the General Resurrection. Of these, Sir Frederic Leighton’s, with its compelling integration of elements associated with life (e.g., taut muscles) and death (pale/greenish skin tones, burial wrappings, sunken facial features, etc.), was especially influential on my thinking.

Frederic Leighton, *And the Sea Gave Up the Dead Which Were in It* (1892)

Other relevant images from art history (based on a Bible story, Christian eschatology, and Classical mythology, respectively) include the following.

Adolf Hirémy-Hirschl, *Souls on the Banks of the Acheron* (1898)

Finally, I wanted to balance legibility of the complete story being told with the need to avoid distracting from the most important elements. The only hope of accomplishing this was by means of judicious lighting. The clients requested a full inferno raging in the lower register, but I knew that this would make it difficult to maintain the desired focus on Our Lady. After discussion with the patrons, we agreed that we would visually allude to the hellfire by means of a red under-glow without actually showing the flames, thus allowing the spotlight on the Blessed Virgin to draw the eye without undue competition.

The Process

Though many aspects of this commission were unique, the overall workflow hewed to our standard procedure. I conducted the background research and developed the overall composition, while Polly completed a number of preparatory sketches and anatomical studies based on the evolving design. Once this was finalized and approved by the clients, Polly transferred the layout to the canvas by means of a graphite outline and commenced the painting process.

Some photos of the preparatory studies and the work in progress are below.

Polly transfers the final composition onto the prepared canvas.

Cherubs are outlined in graphite, ready for the painting process to being.

The sky and other background elements are blocked in first.

While painting souls, Polly references anatomical studies that she completed earlier in the process (photo courtesy of Zach Fiedler).

Compositional Analysis

To begin with the painting’s overall geometry, the arrangement of the figures is helical, with left-to-right motion dominant. As we have discussed elsewhere, the left-right flow heightens the sense of dynamism by matching the direction of reading. The helix, meanwhile, emphasizes verticality and thus is often used to structure cosmological scenes showing realms of the afterlife.

The helical geometry in *Our Lady of the Chariot*, left, reflects that of other cosmological paintings, such as Corrado Giaquinto’s *Constantine Presented to the Holy Trinity* (1742), right.

The complex lighting scheme plays an out-sized role in the composition. A dim, neutral ambient light sets the scene in a shadowy, limbo-like realm. To distinguish them from this gloomy background, the figures are back-lit by a stark, cool glow from the upper right, which, together with the break in the clouds, suggests the distant hope of a celestial realm beyond.

*Our Lady of the Chariot*, detail (2023)

A red under-glow indicates the presence of hellfire just beneath the edge of the canvas. While this dominates the lighting on the lost souls in the painting’s lower register, the fainter tinge on the others suggests the looming threat of damnation for all unless they open themselves to the grace of divine assistance through Mary’s intercession.

The virgin herself is the only figure lit by a strong, frontal light—a pure-white beam emanating from her divine spouse fluttering nearby in the form of a dove.

We dressed Mary in a scarlet tunic with a white veil and navy-blue mantle. This accords with the sources’ description of mourning attire as well as with the traditional iconography of Our Lady of Sorrows.

The tunic’s vivid red, the only significant concentration of saturated color in the entire painting, provides a strong visual center of interest, helping to keep the viewer’s attention focused without impairing the legibility of the other elements.

I chose to depict Mary standing to convey a greater sense of urgency in the task of saving souls than would be suggested by a more passive, seated position. As I developed concepts for this aspect of the design, my mind kept returning to another famous painting of a heroine riding a chariot-like vehicle—Raphael’s iconic fresco of Galatea.

In our rendition, Mary’s pose is loosely inspired by that of the eponymous nymph in Raphael’s masterpiece. Like Galatea, Mary projects a sense of calm, peaceful surrender and a quiet self-assurance in the midst of a frenzy of chaotic motion. Even as her chariot darts about in pursuit of souls, her gaze remains fixed on the Holy Spirit, the source of her peace. Like Galatea, too, her neck, shoulders, and hips twist in alternating directions, a sort of mini helix mirroring the larger helical arrangement of the figures. The graceful posture embodies a feminine archetype but is also assertive, presenting a beacon of confidence, light, and hope to the denizens of this shadowy realm. Instead of Galatea’s reins, however, Mary holds the Servites’ black scapular in her outstretched hands, presenting it to Philip as his vocational calling.

Philip himself is among the smallest, most dimly lit, and most distant figures in the painting. I hereby kept the focus on the content of the vision rather than on the visionary himself, after the manner of Raphael’s Vision of Ezekiel (where the prophet is represented as a stick-figure dwarfed by the majesty of the divine theophany).

Philip is dressed in the attire of a 13th-century university graduate, with a hairstyle typical of young Italian men of the time. At his feet is a common attribute that distinguishes artistic representations of the saint—the papal tiara that he famously refused to covet.

In portraying the symbolic beasts pulling Mary’s chariot, I strove to make them duly imposing without being embodiments of evil, like the snakes and other varmint in the pit.

Rather, I wanted them to be able to inspire in the dying souls a healthy fear of God, with the lion perhaps reminding viewers of C.S. Lewis’s Aslan (good but not “safe”).

When designing the composition, I quickly found that rendering both animals to scale resulted in an awkward visual imbalance between the large lion and the small lamb. I suspect that neither Rosselli nor Curradi knew the true scale of an adult lion, but, if they did, then they must have encountered a similar problem, since in both of their paintings the two mammals have comparable mass. In contrast to these earlier artists, however, I chose to exaggerate the size of the lamb rather than to miniaturize the lion in order to heighten the dramatic impact afforded by the presence of these fantastic celestial beasts.

One of the clients’ original ideas was to have a sort of basket in the back of Mary’s chariot, in which she could catch souls as they fell toward Hell. Upon discussion, we agreed that it would be more theologically accurate to show these dying souls reaching for and clinging to the chariot.

This harmonizes with the idea that one’s eternal destiny is determined primarily by one’s freely chosen response to God’s grace, rather than as an externally imposed judgment rendered against that person’s will.

Conclusion

Thanks to the creative vision and active input of the patrons, and to Polly’s virtuosity with the traditional oil media, the final 3.6x6’ altarpiece conveys a complex theological message with striking visual clarity. It builds significantly upon the source material, integrating metaphorical content of immediate contemporary relevance, while remaining true to the richly symbolic imagination of the original Benizi vision. We hope that it will foster prayerful reflection on the reality of the afterlife, inspire renewed devotion to Our Lady, and encourage a fresh commitment to intercessory prayer for the dying.

Further Reading

DiPippo, Gregory. “The Life of St Philip Benizi in Art.” New Liturgical Movement 23 Aug 2022. <link>
Soulier, Pérégrin Marie. Vie de Saint Philippe Bénizi, Cinquième Général de l'Ordre des Servites de Marie. Nancy: Etienne Drioton, 1913.

Making of a Painting II: Our Lady of the Chariot

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Goretti Fine Art

Making of a Painting II: Our Lady of the Chariot

Making of a Painting III: Louis and Zélie

Angels in Art (4 of 4): Compositional Devices

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