Documentary Renaissance HD - Raphael

Choose one of the masters from among the collections at the Louvre. Remove all their works from the wall. Deframe them. Position them on easels at eye level. Place them all together in the same room. Add curators, historians, restorers, scientists and the most eminent specialists of the artist's work from all over the world and keep them in the room with the paintings for two whole days. Leave them to study and discuss the works in total freedom. Sample and enjoy the study days. Baldassare Castiglione, one of the most magnificent portraits in the Louvre, painted by one of the greatest painters of the Renaissance, Raphael. The museum possesses some of the most important works painted by Raphael toward the end of his career when he was summoned to work in Rome by Pope Julius II. These paintings are now being removed from their walls, frames and protective glass coverings in order to be shown to the eminent specialists who have come from all over the world to examine them. Raphael was born in Urbino in 1483 and began his career in the shadow of the two greatest artists of the time, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. He soon became the most popular painter in the courts of Europe as well as among the dignitaries of the Catholic Church. His studio was the most productive in all of Italy. Known for his talent as draftsman and his engaging personality, Raphael died when he was 37 years old, at the height of his fame, stricken by malaria. After his death in 1520 his critical success fluctuated. Considered the prince of painters up until the 18th century, he abruptly fell from grace at the end of the 19th century. Modernists scoffed at his idealism. In spite of his extraordinary reputation, Raphael became rather dull. Oddly enough, he owes his return to favour to the surrealists. Salvador Dali and his companions took to lording, quite provocatively, the fallen painter. And Raphael has since been restored to his place among the greatest masters in the history of painting. The experts are being given an exceptional opportunity on this study day to investigate every little crack, craquelure, touch-up or sign of deterioration on these works that were painted over half a millennium ago, in order to help us to see what is not meant to be seen. I was just discussing with Paul how in fact it seems. About how? How this seems to be in a sense his most Venetian portrait in all sorts of respects. Partly because of the contemporary fashion. You see this in Titian and Palma Vecchio in the second decade, this kind of lacy chemise. Also I suppose the tonality of this as well. This is rather sombre and a lot of those Titian portraits of that period tend to be harmonies of cream and black. This self-portrait with a friend was painted by Raphael in 1519, less than a year before he died. It is one of the rare works that he painted on canvas. Canvas is easier to use, less valuable and above all less expensive than wood, but it is a medium that does not age well. The canvas used for Raphael's self-portrait with a friend has been preserved from the ravages of time at the cost of a certain number of operations. It's quite deteriorated. Yes, it's thickened over here with little gaps. He seems to be okay. It's done a little better, but his beard is flattened. Look, his is too. It's glossed over, unfortunately. The nose is still good. It's the beard and mouth that have really suffered. The eyes too, especially the eyes. The eyes have suffered too. In some cases there is not much you can do. These restorers have sharp eyes, but they're a little severe. It is true, however, that the painting has undergone several major operations since the 17th century. As time goes by, the canvas of a painting starts to change. It can lose its shape, become torn, break. In order to save a painting, it first has to be removed from its original stretcher, turned over, vigorously scrubbed on the back, coated with adhesive and covered with a very fine muslin. Then on a temporary stretcher, a reinforcing canvas is mounted to serve as a lining, and it is also coated with glue. Pressure is applied to make the two canvases adhere to each other. The temporary stretcher is removed, and the whole thing is remounted on the original stretcher. But a painting that is still in good condition can also be relined. If its owner decides, for example, to enlarge the work so as to fit the frame rather than find a frame to fit the work, or someone might want to move the painting and hang it somewhere else, this decision, quite legitimate in itself, might require a fairly radical makeover. A stitch or two to enlarge the canvas, and harmony is once again restored to the environment. The patchwork could be hidden with a few skillful strokes of the paintbrush. Of course, more often than not, it's a lot easier just to change one's mind. Raphael's self-portrait with a friend has itself been altered several times, slightly reduced or enlarged by a few centimetres here and there. Nevertheless, although it is no longer in its original format, it is still considered one of the painter's most important works. It is his last portrait, the result of an entire career of stylistic exploration. A lot has been said about it. The virtuosity of his drawing technique has been praised, the modern use of colours and the boldness of the composition. But five centuries later, there is still one thing, indeed one key element that continues to puzzle us. Who is he? Well, it's... I really don't know. Your guess is as good as mine, you know. A lot of ink has been spilled and is still being spilled over the identity of the two men. Although we cannot be sure, we now believe that the figure on the left is probably Raphael. On the other hand, no-one knows who the famous friend is. It was once thought that he was Raphael's fencing master, or perhaps his executor, or a member of his studio. One of the best, Giulio Romano. Because I know Paul's come up with this idea that he thinks this is Giulio Romano. Probably the dad of the swan, the Giulio Romano, yeah? Exactly. And also, the relative ages, they look not so far apart in age, whereas Giulio was well... We don't know when he was born, but he was obviously very young. I think in a portrait like this, it's more likely that Raphael is going to be associating himself with somebody literary, somebody in a presentation like this. You don't get the impression that this is about art, the impression that maybe they were about to kiss. A little too close, but... Yes, yes, yes, certainly. But Raphael, is he taking his friend like this? I think he's giving his encouragement, a gentle push. The hand on the shoulder can be interpreted as a friendly gesture, but we can't see Raphael's other hand, which is behind his friend's back. Some people have imagined it as armed, menacingly, with a dagger. Like a father with his son, Raphael is encouraging his best student with one hand, while the other is warning him not to forget who the master is. Raphael, upon his death, immediately became a legend, a reference. Stories were told about him, and this painting, which was one of his last works of art, was naturally subject to all kinds of interpretation. Everyone said it had to be Giulio Romano, interpreting Raphael's friendly gesture of laying his hand on the man's shoulder as a way of urging him forward, as if he were saying, you're the one who will take over my studio. The idea that he is thrusting the other man forward into the future is, of course, a psychological interpretation. We don't even know if this man was a painter. He could simply have been a cousin, a friend, a member of the family. We'll never know. But more than 500 years later, we're able to see him as a friend, because Raphael has successfully conveyed a feeling of friendship through his painting. In the end, the identity of the sitter doesn't really matter. The portrait effectively communicates an idea and an emotion. With the rise of humanist thought during the Renaissance, artists became interested in portraying feelings. The portrayal of friendship, something which had never been done before, brought with it new ideas in terms of composition. Traditionally, when a painter wanted to connect two portraits, he would present them as adiptic, or side by side. But they were always separate paintings. During the Renaissance, a new genre emerged, the friendship portrait. Henceforth, the figures would appear together in the same painting. The representation of friendship was subject to very strict codes. If both men had the same social standing, the same qualities and the same values, they were portrayed as equal in height and size. One was the double of the other. Two men from different social backgrounds, however, might also become friends. This difference had to be clearly shown through immediately decipherable codes. Where and how the second figure was positioned, his attitude, the direction of his eyes. Though it was still described as friendship, it was expressed euphemistically as unequal. Sometimes friendship, whether it be equal or unequal, may be accompanied by deeper feelings which do not correspond to any type of code. Although the codes themselves were very strict, their interpretation can be quite subjective. In my opinion, this double portrait portrays an unequal friendship between a master and his pupil or a father and a son. It's a theme that has to do with inheritance. In the portrait of Carondelet and his secretary by Sebastiano del Piombo, which dates from more or less the same period, the secretary is higher than the important minister, who is placed below. I have another response. Figures depicted in profile can be seen as being in inferior positions. In the portrait of Carondelet, it's Carondelet who is looking at the viewer, not the secretary. And it's certainly not a portrait of friendship. Friendship or rivalry? We will probably never know what the relationship was between the two men, nor why Raphael, in his first composition, placed himself at the same height as his companion rather than a clearly dominant position. Nor why the latter, instead of devouring his teacher with his eyes, is simply staring into empty space. This painting is Raphael's last portrait, a genre in which he excelled throughout his career, though his styles often varied. He was not devoted to the single expressive figure, as Michelangelo was, and he was not primarily devoted to, shall we say, textural painting, in the way that Titian was, but he tried to exploit different types of pictorial approach in different pictures. I can think of very few examples in the history of art, Picasso is one of the obvious examples that comes to mind, where an artist could execute works in such different manners at more or less the same time. Raphael was admired far and wide. He became the favorite painter of European royalty and the representatives of the Church, and he often received commissions for official portraits, such as the portrait of Dona Isabel de Requesens, vice-queen of Naples. For this ceremonial portrait, the painter used a monumental classical style that is considered by some, but not by all, to be rather dull. It's a splendid painting, and it's important because he was given the opportunity to paint the vice-queen of Naples. Yes, and she has all of the elegance of Raphael's style. But he never saw her. Really? Who? Raphael, he never saw her. What? He never saw her? No, he never saw her, he never met her. It could be a little problematic, don't you think, to paint the portrait of someone you have never met? I do see what you mean. It's true that it does seem a little stereotypical. It's not very expressive. I've never seen Raphael. But sometimes Paul, he does need contradicting. It seems to me physically that he's, I mean, wonderful. In fact, we know that Raphael never went to Naples to draw the sitter, to make a sketch of Isabelle de Recassance. Instead, he sent one of his garzoni, one of his assistants. We think that it was probably Giulio Romano, and we would love to find some trace of the actual preliminary drawing, something that could be linked to the famous sketch that Giulio Romano supposedly made in Naples and which was used for the painting of this portrait. But unfortunately, we have no substantial evidence of anything at all. Vasari says that Raphael painted this face. I personally have never believed that. But is there any evidence of two different hands in this painting? It's the work of art historians to decide, to assess, to weigh the pros and cons. Unfortunately, we have no answers. That's the whole problem with Raphael and his studio. The purpose of this day of study is, of course, to try to come up with some new elements, although they don't give us the answer. And technically, we don't have any means that would enable us to say, this is Giulio Romano here, and that's Raphael. The new scientific imaging techniques that are now available to researchers help us to answer questions about Raphael's paintings that we've been asking for the past 200 years. They give us some, but not all, the answers. They only give us answers for one or two generations. In other words, and this is probably the specificity of art, a work of art can be interpreted differently as time goes by. We don't see the same Raphael as our great-grandfathers did, and our great-grandchildren will not see him in the same way we do. We know that subjectivity plays a role in how a work of art is perceived. And subjectivity cannot be reduced to scientific analysis. It is, in fact, something that is associated with the mystery of creation that belongs to Raphael or to the works he has given to us. And the way we interpret those works today, in 2011, may be completely discredited in 2015 or 2020. Who knows? Although scientific imaging cannot tell us who did what in this painting, it has revealed that certain changes were made. The person who did the eyes, whether it be Raphael or his assistant, certainly had a hard time deciding how to paint them. He first tried it to the right, then to the left, until he finally settled for something more or less in the middle. But you get the impression that he really couldn't make up his mind and finally opted for a compromise. The painter's indecisiveness is understandable. The direction of the eyes in Renaissance portraiture was a new and particularly tricky issue. During the Middle Ages, portraits were based on a simple typology. Full-face views were reserved for men who were of the dominant class but not of the nobility, and for courtesans. Profile views were for royalty and women of great virtue, since the viewer was not worthy of their gaze. But during the Renaissance, the subject's facial expression became an important feature of the painting. The person's eyes had to reflect the moral beauty, the virtues of his or her soul. In order to do so, two eyes were obviously better than one. Henceforth, any man, whatever his status, could be portrayed facing front. But for women, things were a bit more complicated. How could a respectable princess be distinguished from a courtesan if both were shown in the same way? I hope you'll forgive me, but I thought I'd try, just for fun, to see what she'd look like with her eyes in some of the other positions before they were changed. It's not terribly attractive, but we can see how it changes the appearance of the face, which is turned away. Admittedly, it's not in very good taste. Are there any other examples of portraits by Raphael in which the person's gaze is not turned towards the viewer? No. They always look at the viewer? Well, yes. Here's an example. Is there any historical evidence of a matching portrait? No, no, no. What I mean is the fact that she's looking to the right could suggest that there might be a second portrait. I don't see why that's so funny. Excuse me? No, no. There's no known or written evidence of a matching portrait of the Viceroy of Naples. This painting may continue to baffle the specialists, but that doesn't prevent them from appreciating some of its other qualities. He would have been a great pétissier, wouldn't he? Can't you just see him as a... with cream buns and things? Not cream buns, but wonderful cream cakes. Icing his cakes. Sorry, I'm afraid this is worth it. Indication. Over a period of 10 to 15 years, three of the greatest geniuses in the history of Western painting were active in Florence and Rome. Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. There had to be some kind of interaction between them, for example, in terms of artistic inspiration. Raphael clearly evolved after seeing Leonardo da Vinci's paintings in Florence. It was when he moved to Florence, where Leonardo was at the height of his fame, that Raphael was able to free himself from the stranglehold of his master, Perugino, through Leonardo's great example. It's also obvious that an artist like Michelangelo must have been a rival of Raphael's in a certain way. Raphael was the popular one, while Michelangelo was much more tormented. He had a hard time imposing himself as a painter and as a sculptor. I think his genius as a painter is now universally recognized, but things came much later for him. He was not immediately a part of the discussions that were going on during the High Renaissance, the extraordinary Renaissance period of the 1500s. On the other hand, Leonardo da Vinci, who did not really see himself as a painter, although he was one of the greatest of his time, avoided those discussions by immersing himself in the natural sciences, medicine, technical studies, the arts of war, etc. It's very interesting to see the connections between those artists. They had the same patrons, their works were commissioned by the same people, and they must have had to play a sort of cat-and-mouse game in order to get those commissions. Raphael was certainly one of the winners at that game. The Pope commissioned more works from him than from anyone else, including his holy family that was offered as a gift to the French king, Francis I. This religious theme of the ideal family in Christian symbolism was often portrayed in Renaissance painting. Raphael's studio produced not less than a dozen of them in all shapes and sizes. Someone who was, in many ways, you know, had found a formula and he was repeating and combining elements one after the other, so the works could produce one of these, you know, sacred family after the other. So, I don't know, probably for someone like Michelangelo, that was a scene. It's something like that, you know. There is something industrial, you know, in the production of all these. I don't think Raphael ever had an industrial kind of production. Some artists, some contemporaries, and some artists of a slightly earlier period did. Some Florentine artists, for example, produced the same Madonna, same holy family composition 10, 15 times. Raphael never did that. As far as we know, he never repeated himself exactly and his pupils, again, as far as we know, never produced exact copies of his work for sale. It's possible they did, but we have no evidence about that. The... When Raphael was interested in a compositional subject, his method was to vary its realisation. So, you might think of Raphael as a stage director who is directing the same play on successive nights, but with different groupings of actors, different lighting, different stage machinery. That is, he's working through the possibilities of a certain kind of subject matter for his own artistic interest, for his own artistic excitement, rather than producing it... reproducing his work exactly. Raphael was somebody, I think, who did not like to say the same thing twice. He may not have liked saying the same thing twice, but he was certainly inspired quite a few times by the holy family. What distinguishes the painting in the Louvre is the presence of a mysterious figure, a figure that does not appear in any of the holy family pieces previously painted by Raphael's studio. It is placed rather awkwardly in the centre of the composition, between the Virgin and St Elizabeth, and for a long time it was thought that someone else had painted it, that it had been added afterwards to fill in a gap in the composition. But laboratory studies have revealed that it does, in fact, belong to the original drawing. This discovery has shaken up five centuries of analyses and observations. But it's so difficult now to see in the flesh that I think people probably haven't commented on it much, have they? He's filling in, that's why you have the angel, which is in an ambiguous position, and yet the angel is crucial for pushing forward the other figures. There would be a gap which would allow you to go into the depths, but he wants the contrary effect. He wants to have the child push forward as much, and I think that is probably the purpose of that angel. Is that other figure... Is it a saint? Because she doesn't have a halo. No, there's no halo. No, that's why I think it is actually an angel. A ringless angel. No, I can't believe that, because surely she's responding to the arrival of the... She's looking surprised at the arrival of the angel, who is casting flowers. Well, for angels too, someone's going to surprise one another, I expect. But there's clearly no halo. There could be a bit of this blue drapery, the other side of her arm. I think it's the sleeve of this angel, bulging, falling like that. It's the same purple. So that is sleeve. Has it got wings? It's got wings, and that bit at the top belongs to the one below. Of this one? Yeah. Well, let's have a look at the infrared. The infrared might be able to clear things up for them, or it might just add to the confusion. But that wing belongs to this angel. So it comes out of his back, so that can't be the... But it could be this angel's sleeve, not a wing to this angel. That's the point. I mean, it depends how anatomically exact one wants one's angel wing attachments to be. But then who is that person? Well, could it be...? We are not any closer, it seems, to solving the mystery of its identity. This is an angel too. It wasn't always thought to be an angel. If it's not an angel, who is it? What is it? Initially, it was thought that there was nothing there, that the figure was added later on, and that it was perhaps a saint associated with the royal family. No, I'm sure it's an angel. There are two angels, and this wing belongs to this one. Its other wing must be behind there. I guess, can anyone do any better? I don't know. Anyone else want to have a go at it? Five centuries later, and even under the expert eyes of the world's greatest Raphael scholars, this figure continues to defy interpretation. The monumental Holy Family of Francis I measures over 2 metres in height and 1.4 metres in width. It is one of the largest paintings by Raphael on display in the Louvre, which also possesses another Holy Family that is much, much smaller. A painter who is pleased with a particular composition can decide to make a scale reproduction of it freehand. But it's a laborious and sometimes perilous undertaking. And creating a smaller or a larger copy of the original work tends to increase the risks. So in order to make the task easier, painters use a very simple yet unbeatable technique called the grid method. To begin with, regular parallel lines are drawn on the work to be copied. Then, after the size of the second work has been defined, a perfectly homothetic grid is drawn on the new canvas. The lines serve as points of reference for copying the original composition, whose proportions will be automatically reduced or enlarged. This method of transference ensures the accuracy of the proportions, but if it is poorly executed, the results can be rather surprising. The copying of compositional elements was something that was very common and absolutely necessary. For example, when Raphael had several portraits of the Pope or several similar compositions to deliver, certain things would quite naturally be transferred from one work to the other. It's part of the process of creation in any work of art, even in a piece painted by the greatest and most original artist of all time. In all of Raphael's paintings, even the most original ones, we can assume that some of his very gifted assistants, like Giulio Romano, were involved in applying some of the background colors, copying parts of the sketches, or even painting certain more or less identifiable areas within the work. Indeed, there are many debates that I would call unresolvable by specialists over which parts were painted by Raphael and which parts were painted by his workshop. This holy family does not have the same pictorial qualities as the other one, and so questions of attribution have not been so unresolvable. Specialists have pointed out a certain lack of harmony in terms of the figure's proportions, the thickness of the paint, and a heavy-handed style that resembles Giulio Romano's manner of painting more than Raphael's. However, a relatively rare discovery was made when this painting was restored. It is painted on both sides. Applying a layer of paint to the back of a piece of wood was a way of preventing the wood from warping as it aged. A simple coat of paint usually did the job. But in this case, the artist went as far as to portray the colors, veins, and transparencies of a faux marble motif. If Giulio Romano decided to add an aesthetic finish to the back of his painting, it was because the work was not designed to be hung on a wall. In the 15th century, it was not uncommon for ambassadors or members of the church to travel around with miniature paintings. They were small, portable, but also quite fragile. To prevent any unfortunate incidents, the painted side was usually protected by a wooden cover that could be attached in different ways. The most common method was to use runners and tabs and a board that slid over the precious painting. Another option, less common and more invasive, was to make little holes in the painting and its cover and then attach them together with a cord or with rings. The luxury model was a box that was specially designed for the painting and that could be closed with a sliding panel. Lavishly decorated, these painted boxes were like jewelry cases for the paintings. Very few of them have come down to us. It is believed that this miniature Holy Family was outfitted with the protective cover depicting Ceres, the goddess of abundance. We do not know, however, how these two paintings were attached. There are no slide marks on the edges of the painting. So I would tend to think that the work was protected with a sort of cover, something that probably closed on top of it like a book. But I don't have any example to compare it to. So any other information or knowledge of similar works that you may have would be much appreciated. I wonder whether maybe we've lost a second set. Then, of course, the holes could be an attachment for maybe a runner on either side. Don't you think this is strange to have... Very strange. To have nothing on it. We imagine more something like painting with a frame on both and something, you know, you just take the frame and put it. I'm not aware of any example where you would throw... What you do is either slide up or you slide to the side. Oui, voilà. But... Not like a book. No. I'm not aware of any example like that. The method used to attach the two panels thus remains a mystery. There is one thing we are sure of, however, and that is the identity of the man who commissioned it, the venerable Cardinal Bernardo da Bibiana, who it seemed had very good taste and no qualms about choosing this magnificent goddess, delicately draped in a wet garment for his holy family. An imposing work commissioned from Raphael in 1518 by the Pope said Michael vanquishing Satan was sent over to France as soon it was finished, as a gift to Francis I. The French king soon made it an emblem of his power. And after him, all of the monarchs that ruled France until the Revolution took it for their own. The painting thus travelled extensively from Fontainebleau to the Palais du Luxembourg, from the Tuileries to Versailles. Unlike the works that were to remain in Italy, this painting carries Raphael's signature. The fact that Raphael was one of the first painters to sign his works is quite interesting and indicative of the changing status of the artist at the beginning of the 16th century. Raphael, more than any other, contributed to that change. This can also be seen in the position that Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci enjoyed in the courts of Italy. Their status was practically akin to that of a prince or a royal advisor, which was completely unimaginable for an artist from the 15th or even the late 15th century. It's true that before Raphael, some artists had begun signing their works, notably his master Perugino, who signed several of his pieces. Maybe that's where the idea came from. Anyway, it was relatively new. It was just beginning, and it was a sign of the new status of the artist, which would evolve, become established and confirmed as the 16th century progressed. The artist as a sort of prince among the princes. On the other hand, and I may be oversimplifying a bit, but I don't think we can really make a comparison with Modigliani or Picasso or any other artist of our time, of the 20th century, let's say, who signed their works as a sort of copyright. The attitude of a painter in the 16th century was in fact completely different. This enormous work, originally painted on wood, has had a very tumultuous physical existence. Three centuries of royal itinerancy have taken their toll. That should be a bright blue. Or perhaps a sort of blue-grey. It's lovely. Very precise, and the feet are well done. This is very good over here. All of this is very nice. This is all a big mess here. This part is fabulous. But look over here, this is absolutely dreadful. But over here it's fine. It's been retouched so many times, so many different times over the centuries that it's unbearable to look at it up close. And it defies understanding. In fact, the painting has lost some of its prominence in the museum. That's right. If the curators find this large St Michael to be in such a deplorable state, it is because the painting owes its survival, five centuries after it was painted, to a rather traumatic experience. It was originally painted on wood, but later transferred to canvas. The process consisted of lifting the painting from its deteriorated wooden support in order to transfer it to a new support. This was always a rather risky undertaking. This method of transposing the pictorial surface, elegantly known as saving, remains a mystery. The restorer who practiced it refused to reveal his secret. We hardly dare to imagine how the savvy restorer went about his task or what tools he used. The result was not very satisfying. Although the original support had been saved, the pictorial surface was in very bad shape. Gaps, blisters, displaced surfaces, tears. The severely damaged painting was glued onto a new canvas, but once again, the adherence and the outcome were far from satisfactory. So another operation was needed, which did nothing to improve matters. The painting continued to deteriorate and had to be rescued again via another operation. In the end, the large St Michael was transferred five times in less than a hundred years. A record. The irreversible marks left by this traumatic experience are visible on the painting today. An entire area on the right side, equal to one-fourth of the work, no longer has any trace of the original paint. The rest of the painting has been completely disfigured by innumerable repaintings and smothered under thick layers of oxidized varnish. The mishmash that is now on the surface of this work is made up of different varnishes that have become mutually soluble over time and with each revarnishing. The varnishes completely distort the work and if we keep going, it's going to look like nothing more than a Pompier style painting, like a late 19th century copy of a Raphael painting. Why is it repainted geometrically? In order to examine the victim, the experts had to take a trip over to the restoration workshop in the Louvre where a program is underway to very cautiously remove some of the varnish and secondary paint. I worked on a small sample area in the middle there, which is a little bit lighter. We were able to remove almost all of the varnish and the repaints and so the result is pretty stunning in terms of the colors. These are just trials, experiments, but the varnish does seem to be reversible. When we remove the varnish, we also remove a lot of the retouches, which are only superficial and thus reversible. I'm not sure we can really use the word reversible because it means that it's soluble in the solvent that is employed, which as you know very well isn't true. So we should really say its damage to the original is easy to remove. Reversible is what we always say in order not to face up to the facts when things are difficult. I think we need to speak clearly, honestly and responsibly. We need to be objective. We have to stop saying we can do what in reality we can't do and so I would refrain from using the word reversible. Well, if there were a spectrum, I would probably lean more towards the it's possible side rather than the it's impossible side. I'm a restorer and so by nature I'm always optimistic. If these restorers proceed with greater care than their predecessors did, it is because they're afraid there is hardly anything left of the hand of Raphael on this Saint Michael. We also need to have positive feedback about our projects because if we only get letters saying don't do this, don't do that... Go over the entire painting with a binocular loop and see if anything is left of the artist's shading. If you still have the shading, that is the most fragile part of the surface, that means you have all of the basic material, the visual aspects, and so you can go ahead. You shouldn't always listen to pre-established judgments. Just do the serious work that you've started doing here and perhaps you'll be able to challenge those ideas, claiming that the painting is ruined when it may not be. If there is one painting by Raphael that will never be called a ruin, it is the portrait of Balthazar Castiglione, without any doubt one of the finest paintings from the Renaissance era. There's an entire world in this painting. I'd even say it sums up the Renaissance. It's a whole world that's being offered to us. This portrait is one of the most extraordinary works that humanity has ever produced. Look at his eyes. They remind you of Titian, in the sense that it takes painting to the highest level. It's very serious, and yet there's also a hint of humour. The man is portrayed with such incredible finesse, with such perfection. The man that everyone is speaking about with such rapture is Balthazar Castiglione, who was the Duke of Urbino's ambassador, as well as a poet and a humanist. It is said that the ambassador wished to give his young wife a portrait of himself, as a way of apologising for his many absences. And he entrusted this delicate mission to a very close friend of his from his youth, Raphael. With his intimates, he was not under pressure of time, he was not under pressure of producing public performance. So I think there he could be more relaxed. And that may also account for the fact that on the whole they're compositionally, the portraits of Castiglione, the Donna Bellata, they're compositionally less inventive than the grand estate portraits of the period. I suspect, although it's only a guess, that Raphael enjoyed the possibility of being with friends or intimates and focusing on them without the sense of having to produce work that was going to have a large public resonance. These would be private engagements between Raphael and his friends. The intimacy of the relationship that can be felt in this portrait, both between the husband and his wife, as well as between the painter and his model, made the work an immediate success. The painting has inspired many artists, among them Rembrandt for his famous self-portraits, and Rubens, whose version replicates it in almost every way, except for one little detail. On Rubens' portrait the sitter's hands are entirely visible. On the original by Raphael, they are cut off, which led to speculation that the painting itself might have been cut. However, it was noticed that there was a strange black border around the edges of the composition. The reason for these black borders around certain paintings still remains unclear. We know that during the Renaissance painters set their canvases up on temporary stretchers. A preliminary coat was applied, which, as it dried, tautened the canvas. Then, in order to visualize the outer edges of the composition, the painters would paint in the famous black borders. Finally, when the painting was finished, all they had to do was remove the temporary structure and wrap the canvas around a permanent stretcher. Adding the frame would then conceal this clever compositional technique. By keeping these borders around his painting, Raphael has created a very modern visual effect. The black lines boldly emphasize the outer edge of the composition and subtly bring out the subdued tones of the portrait. We now know that Raphael's painting was never cut, but the sitter's truncated hands continue to be the subject of speculation. I'm a little intrigued by the position of his hands. My reaction is perhaps a little quattrocento, if you will. But it seems to me that they're positioned like a pair of hands resting on a parapet. I know there's the black outline that was traditionally painted around the paintings, but I was wondering if there was any trace at all of the idea of a parapet. No, there's nothing like that. Beneath the black line, you either have plain canvas or the very edge of the painted surface, which is utterly insignificant. We'd be talking about 1 mm, and 1 mm of parapet would be completely meaningless. I have a Leonardo twist, if you like, but it's true that after looking at the Mona Lisa so many times, I feel like there's a sense of something extended, like an armrest perhaps, on which the hands are lying, like the hands of the Mona Lisa. The impression it gives you is of someone who is seated with his hands resting on an armrest. If the Mona Lisa is mentioned, it is for a good reason. The folded hands in the foreground, the sitter sitting in a chair that is merely suggested, the bust turned to the left in a three-quarter pose, the gaze directed at the viewer are all reminiscent of Leonardo da Vinci's painting, to which Raphael is freely paying tribute. And when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911, it was Raphael's Castiglione that was chosen to replace it in the Salon Carré until it was returned in 1913. In addition to their extraordinary pictorial qualities, what these two masterpieces have in common is the intensity of the relationship that connects the painter to his sitter, the beauty and power with which it is expressed. It's one of those portraits where one feels that there is absolutely nothing between the sitter and the painter, that the artist is sitting with a friend with whose personality is intimate, whom he loves, and whom he wishes to convey in his fullness of personality. There is no rhetoric, it seems to me, in that picture. There is no posing. So it evokes the kind of peaceful evening that one might spend with a friend. It's a picture which, as I've said, is like a caress. It's a picture where the... One might say the touch equals the sentiment. The touch is soft, delicate, evocative, continuous. All those things that evoke one's relations with one's closest friends. That gaze is so... His eyes seem to be looking at you from across the centuries. It's very moving. It's Raphael who is looking at us.