The Native Expression

Nothing could be a more natural subject during the Renaissance than the Nativity. Western man himself was then being reborn into a world where he occupied the center of his own attention; artists could not avoid depicting the compelling paradox of Christ as a combination of both God and fleshly man. And yet, the discovery of Christ's humanity, far from diminishing the mystery, only added to the glory of the Christmas story.

The wholly new dimension that this humanistic revelation gave religious art can be seen superbly in the treasures of Munich's Alte Pinakothek, one of the world's oldest royal repositories of art. A testimony to the taste of the Wittelsbachs, who passionately collected more than 80,000 works of art, the 130-year-old Pinakothek's bounty of art works, including many paintings invisible to the public for decades, has been restored today to the luster that first seduced kings (see color pages).

Pumpkins & Artichokes. A reminder that the birth of Christ has fruitfulness for one of its main themes is The Holy Family, a collaboration between Jan Bruegel ("the Velvet Bruegel," to distinguish him from his father, Pieter) and a virtually anonymous fellow Fleming, Pieter van Avont. With pagan profusion, Bruegel lavished his brushwork on the garlands shaped like an M in homage to the Virgin. Incorporated into the salady festoon are samples of all that the hothouses, orangeries and private zoos of Flemish aristocracy could offer. Roses and carnations are mixed with more pungent garlics, cabbages and peppers; common wheat is intertwined with pumpkins and artichokes. Even a capuchin monkey in a clown costume drags a fruit basket toward the Madonna. Avont's maternal scene in the center, except for some winged cherubs, is more touched by pastoral piety than divine illumination.

With greater directness, the Pinakothek's altarpiece by Holbein the Elder (see overleaf) barkens back to the medieval tradition that aimed at letting art speak out the Gospel truth. The work spells out the Scriptures visually, spares earthen colors, such as ochers and umbers, to enhance the clashing confrontation, as in the cloaks, of liquidy greens and reds. The carved and gilded frames are showpieces of Gothic craftsmanship, but within the woodcarving can be seen classic marble columns, first tentative annunciation that the new spirit of the Renaissance was beginning to blow through German art. And the Virgin is no longer hieratic and remote; she is instead a distillation of young girlhood and Bavarian beauty.

Only 18 years after the completion of Holbein's Kaisheim altarpiece, Hans Baldung (also called Grien for his verdant tones) painted an almost surrealistic Nativity. By then, the firm order of the Middle Ages was collapsing in Germany, Martin Luther was challenging the church, and Baldung reflected the tottering universe in strange, dislocated paintings.

Anxious Age. A religious mystic, Baldung made his nocturnal Nativity into a stage set dark with symbolism. In the eerie ruin, light glows from a trinity of sources: a misty moon, an angel announcing Christ's birth to a shepherd, and Jesus himself, who casts a cool white aura over Mary and Joseph.

One age of faith has clearly ended; a new, and more anxious age, has dawned. The Christian miracle is that it is still dominated by the miraculous shimmer of the greatest birth.

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