The Ecce Homo at the centre of much media frenzy in the spring of 2021 has now undergone cleaning and restoration—excellently carried out by Andrea Cipriani— and it is therefore possible to express a definitive opinion on the work. The painting is now clearly legible, the oxidised varnish and the restorations (of which there were not many, however) have been removed, and the time has now come to analyse the work in order to understand where it can be placed within Caravaggio’s oeuvre. Because there can be no doubts—at least in my opinion—as to Merisi, known as Caravaggio, being its author [fig. 1].

That the painting was an autograph work could probably already have been argued on the basis of its pre-restoration appearance (it is in this condition that I saw it in October 2021). The dramatic power of Caravaggio’s painting emerged forcefully, and no other painter from those close to him possessed that unmistakable emotional power, even before taking into account its painterly qualities. Fellow scholars, such as Massimo Pulini, Vittorio Sgarbi and Maria Cristina Terzaghi (the only one of the three who had seen the painting itself), chose to publish detailed opinions on the work and its probable chronology—all in agreement as to its autograph status, but each scholar reaching more or less conflicting conclusions as to its place of execution.¹

I felt it was better to wait for the cleaning in order to be able to better judge, and I have not regretted this approach because my ideas—regarding the chronology of the canvas—have changed with respect to both my first impressions when confronted with the photographic images and, albeit not entirely, also with respect to those in front of the painting still in its uncleaned state.

But let us proceed step by step, beginning with the elements that manifestly declare its autheticity as a work by the hand of Caravaggio. These concern the composition and the expressive, dramatic force of the scene referred to above, in which the three figures display three different and complementary states of mind. The sorrowful submissiveness of Christ, with his naked, white and tortured body (the central light of the composition), bearing the marks of the lashes, created with breath-taking realism by Caravaggio’s brush [fig. 2].

Behind him we see the striking figure of the torturer, so young, portrayed screaming (perhaps he is shouting “Crucify him,” but in his gaze one seems to read pity rather, or almost fear). His figure is constructed in the half-light, from which emerge his eyes—two deep, dark, lakes in which shines the light from that inimitable touch of white that Caravaggio places with an almost otherworldly accuracy, with complete confidence in the desired result [fig. 3].

A boy with a tiny nose, with a small mouth, who recalls—in a distressed version—the face of Francesco Boneri (Cecco del Caravaggio), immortalised by Caravaggio in several paintings between 1600 and 1606.² His forehead is low, encased within a bowl-cut cap of brown hair. A new “screaming countenance” by Caravaggio, to be added to the gallery of expressions of horror and fear that punctuate the artist’s works throughout his career: from the Medusa to the altar boy in the Martyrdom of Saint Matthew in San Luigi dei Francesi, from Isaac in the Sacrifice of Isaac in the Uffizi to Holophernes in the Barberini Judith, all with their mouths stretched wide open to the point of agony; but it is also close in its expression to the speaking stance of Pero (the shape of the mouth is truly similar) in the Seven Acts of Mercy.

Finally Pilate, placed very much in the foreground, in a complex dialogue with the spectator who is implicated along with the vociferous assembly this side of the stage, and who scream without the possibility of being persuaded to change their minds: “Crucify him!”. The figure, without doubt a portrait (impossible at this juncture to tell of whom), has a meek and mournful look, perhaps a little intimidated, with something of a petty expression, as though he too were almost a victim of the situation [fig. 4]. He opens wide his large green eyes. Another wonderful detail: Caravaggio, in this painting more than ever, makes the eyes speak out and Pilate—incredulous in the face of the cruel obstinacy of the people—seems about to recite the words handed down in the Gospel of John, which he pronounces on two occasions: “I find in him no fault at all” (18:38; 19:6).

In contrast to the many seventeenth-century depictions of the Roman procurator, most of them generic and muted in their insistence on the complexity of the state of mind of the character as revealed by the fourth Gospel, Caravaggio gives Pilate a central role, and his features and his eyes express all the complications, hesitations, and useless resistance that the task he was destined to carry out entailed. I believe that this extraordinary detail is worth highlighting because, even within the gallery of countenances painted by Caravaggio, there are but few examples in which we find such a wealth of feelings brought together in a single gaze, in a single expression. We truly stand before a pinnacle of his art.

In our Ecce Homo we see structural characteristics that recur in other works by the artist. Even with the naked eye, the lead white brushstrokes of the underlying sketch (the abbozzo) present in certain areas of Christ’s body are clearly visible. The artist’s brush emphasizes the areas where he knows the figure will be most luminous: for instance, in parts of the shoulder and on the chest [figs. 5–6]. These are veritable painterly gestures, zig-zagging brushstrokes applied with unprecedented speed, with vehemence, without lifting the brush; they are so loaded in paint that they emerge through the final paint layer. But they are also visible in darker and less luminous areas (the painter’s intentions here less certain), for example also in the half-lights, on the upper part of the left shoulder (of Christ), on the other side of the hair, where furious, almost abstract brushstrokes are clearly visible, surprising in an image such as this, of such strong naturalism [fig. 7].

These same brushstrokes, which belong to the underlying sketch, are to be found, clearly apparent, in the Saint Jerome of Montserrat (on the saint’s knee, as also beneath the part later covered with the red cloak, fig. 8); brush- strokes of this type can also be found, examining the X-ray images, in the whole area of the chest and left arm (of the saint) in the Saint John the Baptist in the Galleria Nazionale di Arte Antica in Palazzo Corsini [fig. 9]; in the Saint Jerome in the Galleria Borghese (in the brightest area of the chest, under the shoulder and next to the beard, fig. 10); they are also present—very clearly visible in the X-ray image, with the characteristic zig-zag pattern—in the foot of Christ in the Vatican Deposition [fig. 11] and in the Christ-child’s leg in the Madonna dei Palafrenieri [fig. 12]; they are conspicuously visible in the deltoid shoulder-muscle (the point of maximum light of torturer’s arm) in the Flagellation which now hangs in the Capodimonte Museum in Naples [fig. 13].³

In stylistic terms also the Ecce Homo, in my opinion, displays similarities with the paintings referred to above: for example, with the Saint Jerome of Montserrat, in addition to the surprising affinity we have seen in the handling of the paint in the abbozzo, notable similarities are also to be observed in the treatment of the deep folds that traverse the drapery of the respective cloaks [figs. 14–15]: these are applied with sabre-like strokes of almost pure, ungraduated, black paint. In the Salome in London one can observe the similarity in the handling of the executioner’s hand—his thumb, with its wide, flat nail, truly indistinguishable from that of the tormentor in the Ecce Homo.

Also similar, in the Borghese Saint Jerome, is the thumb which holds the pen [figs. 16–18]. Particularly close also to the Corsini Saint John, is the flesh of Christ’s chest, in its defenceless, exposed anatomy and light colouring, with the same hollow at the base of the neck [fig. 19]. It should also be noted that in the Corsini painting, precisely as in Ecce Homo, Caravaggio has had an afterthought for the placement of the reed cross, at first positioned in the left hand and then definitively in the right; in the instance of the painting we are discussing here, it is a reed-sceptre which initially was positioned in a left-ward direction.

But perhaps the closest resemblance for the figure of Christ can be seen in the David in the Borghese David and Goliath [figs. 20–21]; the faces of the protagonists of the two paintings are very similar, in their leaning pose and the sad expression of their eyes, but above all it is their noses which appear so similar as to be almost indistinguishable.⁴ The small mouth, with the more pronounced lower lip, and the protruding ear with the hair drawn across it, also reappears. The characteristic horizontal wrinkles on the knuckles of Christ’s fingers [fig. 22] appear in the equivalent passage in the Saint Anne of the Madonna dei Palafrenieri (Rome, Galleria Borghese, fig. 23) and in the hands of the two praying figures in the Madonna dei Pellegrini in the church of Sant’Agostino.

This extensive sequence of comparisons prompts some reflections. As can be seen, most of the paintings referred to, and the subject of stylistic and technical comparisons, were painted in the painter’s last Roman period, but similarities can also be found with works from his first Neapolitan period. This, in my opinion, invites us to limit the possible chronological scenario and original provenance of the work to the years between 1604 and 1607, with a possible preference for the central period between these dates, that is 1605–1606, between the end of the Roman period and the beginning of the Neapolitan one. This gives rise to a number of hypotheses that can be pursued, albeit bearing in mind that none of them should be considered definitive, because burdened with perplexities and questions.

The Neapolitan hypothesis, which must without question be taken into consideration, has already been put forward by Maria Cristina Terzaghi,⁵ who has proposed identifying the Ecce Homo as the painting present in the 1657 inventory of the possessions of the Viceroy of Naples, Garcia de Avellaneda y Haro, second Count of Castrillo.⁶ This inventory also included the Salome—which now hangs in the Palacio Real in Madrid—and the measurements (five palms), are entirely compatible with the height of  the painting in question. The scholar also considers it possible (“It cannot be ruled out”), that the painting is the same as that listed in the Neapolitan inventory of the possessions of Juan de Lezcano in 1631,⁷ whose collection had to be disposed of at the time of his death, at the express wish of its owner.⁸ In Lezcano’s inventory, the painting, valued at a huge sum (800 ducats), was described as “grande” (large), an adjective that leaves one with a degree of perplexity with regard to our Ecce Homo, given that, for example, Orazio Borgianni’s Christ among the Doctors (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 78.1 × 108 cm) is recorded as “mediano” (of middling size).

The Count of Castrillo may therefore have brought the two paintings from Naples—after six years in which he had ruled the city—to Spain, upon his return there in 1659. A scenario that now seems a certainty in the case of the Salome.⁹ The hypothesis is certainly realistic, even though there is no definitive proof of the Lezcano-Castrillo transition, just as there is no definitive proof that the Castrillo painting is the Ecce Homo which we are discussing; however, there is no doubt that it is a reasonable hypothesis, also taking into consideration the closeness in the dimensions.

It is, however, worth taking note of the description of Caravaggio’s painting in the two inventories. The Lezcano Inventory of 1631 speaks of “un eccehomo con Pilato que lo muestra al pueblo y un sayon que le viste de detras la veste porpurea” (an eccehomo with Pilate who shows him to the people and a torturer who covers him from behind with a crimson cloak) which describes almost exactly the iconography of the Ansorena Ecce Homo, bearing in mind that “sayon” in Spanish corresponds to “aguzzino” or “manigoldo” (tormentor, torturer in this context) in Italian. On the other hand, in the Castrillo Inventory of 1657, the scene is described as “un soldado y Pilatos che lo enseña al Pueblo” (a soldier and Pilate who shows him to the people); maybe the difference is negligible, but the term “soldier” might imply the immediate recognition of the figure, perhaps because of the presence of armour or a helmet, for instance, as is the case in Caravaggio’s youthful Ecce Homo, the original of which I believe is the one held in a private collection in Cittadella.¹⁰ In this latter painting the presence of a soldier is unequivocal, as the figure entering the scene from the right is wearing a helmet; and he is placed beside Christ, not behind him (in the Castrillo Inventory the location of the soldier is not specified, but is referred to before the reference to Pilate).

The frequent occurrence of similarities with works that belong to the last years in Rome, that is 1605 and the first half, up to the summer, of 1606, leads one to put forward the suggestion, in addition to the hypothesis already contemplated by Terzaghi¹¹ of the execution of the painting in Naples, that it may have been painted in the papal city.¹² An exercise that inevitably leads to discussion of the elusive Massimi Ecce Homo. I must confess that for a long time I doubted that such a painting had been executed; especially if one wanted it to coincide with the painting in Palazzo Bianco, the fortunes of which have been in decline in recent years, but which I still maintain is an autograph work by Caravaggio executed in his Sicilian period [fig. 24].¹³ The rejection of the Roman context for this work led me, perhaps superficially, to rule out not only the existence of the competition, which had to be invented by Giovan Battista Cardi in order to highlight the talent of his uncle Cigoli, but also Caravaggio’s fulfilment of the Massimi commission.¹⁴

However, if we look at the concrete data at our disposal, it seems instead difficult that he should not have fulfilled such a commission. In Caravaggio’s undertaking to Massimo Massimi on 25 June 1605, is a sentence that perhaps has not received the attention it deserves (I for one did not value it at the time): “Io Michel Ang.lo Merisi da Caravaggio mi obligo di pingere all’Ill.mo S. Massimo Massimi per esserne prima statto pagato un quadro di valore e grandezza come quello ch’ io gli feci già della Incoronazione di Cristo p. il primo di Agosto 1605”¹⁵ (I, Michel Angelo Merisi da Caravaggio undertake to paint for the Illustrious Massimo Massimi, having already been paid for it, a painting of the same size and value as the one I already painted for him of the Crowning with Thorns, 1st of August 1605). The sentence in question concerns the payment: Caravaggio had already been paid, so it seems to me difficult to imagine—even taking into account the difficulties encountered by the artist during the summer of 1605, what with denunciations, brawls, injuries and even an alleged escape for a few weeks to Genoa—that he did not execute the painting. Massimi would have denounced him and some traces of this would have survived.¹⁶ In support of the painting’s existence is also Bellori’s clarification, which also reveals the future fate of the painting: “Alli signori Massimi colorì un Ecce Homo che fu poi portato in Ispagna” (For the Massimi he painted an Ecce homo that was later taken to Spain).¹⁷

But the matter is complicated because Caravaggio undertook to paint a work “di valore e grandezza come quello ch’io gli feci già della Incoronazione di Cristo” (of the same size and value as the one I already painted for him of the Crowning with Thorns). The disclosure of this fact contained in the document which was published in 1989, imposed constraints; as the Cecconi Crowning with Thorns had re-emerged a few years earlier, acquired by the then Cassa di Risparmio di Prato, it was thought (and to some extent it continues to be thought) that the canvas at the centre of the 1605 pledge should have those same dimensions (that is, those of a large painting, 175 centimetres in height). The contemporaneous discovery of the document relating to Cigoli in 1607¹⁸ confirmed this hypothesis because the latter’s Ecce Homo in Palazzo Pitti has exactly the same dimensions as the canvas in Prato (which now belongs to the Banca Intesa Sanpaolo) [figs. 25–26]. Caravaggio’s Massimi Ecce Homo (because it had to be an Ecce Homo, Bellori is not easily circumvented) could therefore in no way be identified with the Genoese canvas in Palazzo Bianco which is much smaller, which painting from then on began its decline as an autograph work by Caravaggio.

But such a logic is not without its weaknesses: in the first place, at least to the same degree as the Genoese Ecce Homo, the Prato Crowning with Thorns has not found a unanimous consensus among scholars (I myself, who in many ways favour it, cannot help but notice several stylistic contradictions in the figures surrounding Christ, which are the most significant element when deciding on autograph status). But another element seems inexplicable.

A watercoloured pen drawing by Cigoli exists, in the Cabinet des Dessins of the Louvre [fig. 27],¹⁹ in which appears the “framed” image of the Ecce Homo in Palazzo Pitti (with, however, a conspicuous difference: the head of Christ is facing the opposite way, that is leaning to the right and not to the left). The drawing, which is probably preparatory (this would account for the alteration in the position of the head), has three very interesting sketches at the bottom of the sheet. Particular importance has been accorded to the bottom left sketch of a Crowning with Thorns. It has been suggested that it is a promemoria by Cigoli sketching Caravaggio’s Massimi painting so as to then adapt his own work in relation to it.20 But if one looks closely, its iconography does not correspond to that of the Prato Crowning.²¹ What does this mean? How can it be explained? Perhaps Caravaggio’s Massimi Crowning was different? Or perhaps the presence of the sketch is to be interpreted differently?

Then there is another critical point. Why should Massimo Massimi commission Cigoli to paint another Ecce Homo only two years after the one Caravaggio had painted for him? The most logical explanation, in my opinion, is that of a lack of appreciation for Caravaggio’s painting, for reasons that are difficult to imagine today.²² Not having respected the stipulated dimensions may be one such reason. The only document in our possession is that of 25 June 1605, and we cannot exclude that discussions or new agreements between Massimi and Caravaggio occurred at a later date. On the other hand, taking into account the size of the figures in the Prato Crowning (a work that, as we have seen, is problematic on several counts, but can nevertheless be used to understand Caravaggio’s procedure), we can see that they are of exactly the same dimensions as those in the Madrid Ecce Homo. This is to say that Caravaggio, especially in paintings destined for private spaces, would choose a recurring size for his figures that corresponded to (or was slightly smaller than) the natural size of his models. It seems to me a verifiable fact that Caravaggio, from 1600 onwards, did not conceive of a painting with figures placed in the foreground that were larger than life-size or with other than a frontal perspective; given the subject matter, he could not therefore deviate from a specific size of support which had perforce to be of a smaller size than that of the Crowning, to the dimensions of which Cigoli would instead adapt in 1607.

Clearly, this is a hypothesis, but it may have some foundation. The fact remains that the request to the Tuscan painter for a new Ecce Homo is inexplicable if had Caravaggio’s version been valued. If, however, it had not met with Massimi’s satisfaction, it is reasonable to think that the canvas may have been given away as a gift or sold shortly afterwards. I therefore think that the painting with this subject that hung in Massimo Massimi’s bedroom in 1644 at the time of his death, next to a Crowning with Thorns,²³ must not have been Caravaggio’s painting, but an unknown work (provided of course that Cigoli’s painting really arrived in Florence shortly before 1630 and not after 1644, since it is only a ricordo that documents it).²⁴ For instance, it could have been a painting by Passignano, whose presence in Cardi’s account, however fanciful, might have had some foundation in fact.²⁵

I think it would prove of great interest, with regard to this, to take into account a painting by Cresti (Il Passignano) recently published by Federico Berti,²⁶ a Christ at the Column [fig. 28], which in my opinion shows a link with the image of our Ecce Homo²⁷ and in any case seems to display the influence of Caravaggio on Passignano. But the fact that cannot fail to attract attention are the dimensions of the painting (175 × 136 cm), corresponding exactly to those of Cigoli’s Ecce Homo, and also to the Crowning with Thorns in Prato. Could this have been the painting that Massimi had in his room in 1644 alongside the Crowning with Thorns?

It is useless to deny that Bellori’s report affirming the transfer of the Massimi Ecce Homo to Spain takes on new importance now that we are aware of what was probably the extensive sojourn of the painting under discussion in that country.²⁸ From a stylistic point of view, as I have tried to emphasize above, it does not seem to me that there are insurmountable obstacles to dating the execution of the painting to late 1605 or early 1606, given the affinities—both technical and of painterly vocabulary—with works of that period. Thus, it cannot be ruled out that the Massimi painting, as Vannugli²⁹ had already proposed, was sold (or given as a gift) to Juan de Lezcano and then travelled to Sicily and Naples, only to be transferred definitively to Spain. However, with this scenario, perplexities arise: how could Bellori have been informed of all these transfers? Could not an Iberian destination have been achieved more quickly and through a more direct transfer?

As is clear, we are in the realm of hypotheses, but I would like to reiterate that the hypothesis of a Roman execution in 1605–1606 (which entails the possibility of identifying the Ecce Homo with the one executed for Massimo Massimi) is one to be taken into serious consideration. Just as, of course, the possibility of the execution of the work during a stopover in Zagarolo, in the summer of 1606, or in the following months in Naples, must also remain in place given its affinity with the Borghese David and Goliath, the Salome in London, and therefore the Flagellation in Capodimonte.

The chronology of the Ecce Homo thus appears somewhat complicated; however, in conclusion to all these reflections, its date could reasonably be circumscribed to the period between the second half of 1605 and the first half of 1607. There is another element, relating to the figurative sphere, that leads me to insist on the possible execution of the painting in Rome. It concerns a painting that seems to me to be openly dependent on the image of Caravaggio that we find in our Ecce Homo. I refer to the Sorrowful Christ with a Tormentor by Giovanni Baglione, in the Pinacoteca di Ferrara [fig. 30].³⁰

The work is signed with the monogram “IBF” and is also dated with an inscription; however, the last figure of this is of uncertain interpretation. Enrico Ghetti,³¹ who identified it in the small metal plaque adorning the tormentor’s hat, proposed the reading “1604”, which truly would be incredibly early. Having examined Baglione’s painting in the flesh, I would not exclude the possibility of reading “1607” instead, which would be a more plausible date, also taking into account the chronology of Caravaggio’s Ecce Homo. In my opinion, the elements of figurative dependence are too clear for them to be coincidental: first of all, the position in the rear of the painting of the tormentor with his round face and wide-open eyes, the cloak stretched just below his face and the hand that clutches it, grasping it with all his fingers. The figure of Christ also has an obvious family resemblance, both in the slant of his face, the gentle eyes with lowered eyelids, and the small, half-open mouth, and in the emphasis given, in both instances, and in Baglione’s work particularly, to the deltoid muscle of the shoulder. It is hard to believe that the date on the Ferrara painting could be 1604; one would have to either admit to an invention by the painter unrelated to Caravaggio, or accept a very early date for a prototype (our painting?) executed by the latter. On the other hand, it seems quite impossible that Caravaggio should later have been inspired by his rival’s image. It is more reasonable to think that both Baglione’s painting and the two works by Passignano, which are dated to around the middle of the first decade, signal the presence in Rome of an influential iconography of the Passion, to which they refer. The work in question by Caravaggio would have these characteristics.

Before concluding I would like to draw attention to a detail that has strangely been overlooked, yet it is evident, both in the Ecce Homo in Palazzo Bianco and in our painting: Pilate’s very unusual attire. Caravaggio is the only artist, to my knowledge, to present the Roman procurator in these black robes, with a soft, almost floppy, hat on his head, also black. The iconographies of the other two Ecce Homo paintings that can be attributed to Caravaggio (whether copies or originals, depending on the opinion of scholars, as far as I am concerned they are both autograph) also present the figure dressed in a similar fashion, with a more or less identical hat.³² In the paintings of this subject by other contemporary artists (think of Cigoli, for example, or Fetti, among many others, fig. 31), Pilate is always clad in a style reminiscent of the East, with a sumptuous satin robe, very colourful, and above all with an unmistakable turban, referring to the Arab world. Caravaggio is the only artist who presents the procurator in a garment that certainly does not recall the Roman world, nor a generic Orient. What robe, then, is Pilate wearing? It is that of the Jewish rabbis.

It seems to me that there can be no doubt about this. We need only make the comparison with other old images which have come down to us in which the rabbinic attire is represented. Rembrandt, for example, depicted the ministers of the Jewish faith many times in his paintings [fig. 32]; the comparison seems to me to be entirely convincing. The discovery may seem surprising and incomprehensible. One won- ders what could have been behind such an unusual choice (it bears repeating—it is Caravaggio’s alone). I am convinced that the answer is of a “philological” nature. The artist in this way reaffirms his absolute belief in dressing the protagonists of his scenes in contemporary clothes. The mental path taken must have been this: Pilate was procurator in Judea, where the vast majority of the population was Jewish, he therefore had to wear Jewish clothing. Caravaggio then dressed Pilate as a Jew, drawing on the clothing of the rabbis he had seen in Rome. There will be time to reflect on this small (or big?) innovation.