There’s no nice way to put it: in medieval art, babies were pretty damn ugly.
But why?
It’s not because artists hadn’t worked out how to paint them properly – in fact, this was a deliberate stylistic choice… In medieval artwork, one baby popped up a whole lot more than the others: Jesus Christ.
There was a popular notion that Jesus was born “perfectly formed” and remained “unchanged” over time; this led to artists depicting him as a sort of weird little old man – and influenced portrayals of other babies too!
This all changed with the dawn of the Renaissance, and a new emphasis on realism in art.
Plus, as artists began to embrace non-religious subjects, wealthy patrons could commission portraits of their own families – and they didn’t want their own children looking like little old men!
So, ugly babies were out and cute babies were in. Way less disturbing, but nowhere near as fun…
In 1642, Captain Frans Banning Cocq commissioned Rembrandt to paint his civic guard company. Eighteen militiamen paid to be included, expecting equal prominence in a traditional group portrait. Instead, Rembrandt created a dynamic action scene with dramatic lighting that highlighted some figures while obscuring others in shadow.
The men in the shadows weren't pleased. They'd paid the same fee (roughly 100 guilders each, about $2,000 today) but appeared as mere background characters. Some were so dark you could barely make-out their faces. This wasn't just bad positioning: it was a social insult in 17th-century Amsterdam.
The painting's strangest element is a small girl in a golden dress, illuminated by mysterious light, wearing a dead chicken at her belt (a symbol of the civic guard). No one paid for her inclusion. Who is she? Art historians have debated for centuries. Some believe she's Rembrandt's deceased wife Saskia, who died that same year, inserted as a ghostly presence.
Recent analysis suggests the painting may reference a real scandal. The chicken claws on the girl's belt form a symbol that in 17th-century Amsterdam was code language used by members of a particular civic guard faction. The way certain figures' hands are positioned may indicate secret society signs. Was Rembrandt documenting internal power struggles and betrayals within the guard?
After the painting was delivered, Rembrandt's career mysteriously declined. He never received another major commission from Amsterdam's elite. Coincidence?
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Patron saint of cooks, chefs, and comedians
Burned on a rack
As he endured the excruciating torment of being cooked, the story goes that he turned to his tormentors and calmly uttered:
“I’m done on this side, flip me over”
Patron saint of soldiers, archers, and plague
Shot by arrows
His survival from a rain of arrows did little to sway the Roman emperor who had issued his death sentence. He was then brutally beaten, and his lifeless body cast aside into a sewer.
Patron saint of girls, students, philosophers, and craftsmen working with wheels
Breaking wheel
Initially condemned to the breaking wheel, she left onlookers astounded when the wheel disintegrated at her mere touch. As the execution proceeded with a beheading, legend has it that instead of blood, a milk-like substance flowed from her severed neck...
Patron saint of inquisitors and midwives
Murdered by cleaver
Vengeful Venetian nobles hired his assassins in response to Peter's persecution of heretics.
Patron saint of the blind
Eyes removed
Paschasius commanded his guards to remove her eyes when she prophesied his impending punishment. Another version has Lucy taking her own eyes out in order to discourage a persistent suitor who was captivated by them.
A shared symbol among all martyrs is the palm leaf of victory, reminiscent of what Greek or Roman athletes received upon winning sporting contests. Martyrs are victorious in death, reborn in Heaven.
Spot a palm leaf - Spot a martyr!
If so, you might have experienced something called ‘museum fatigue’. This phenomenon can affect even the most enthusiastic culture buff, and refers to a sense of feeling increasingly overwhelmed and exhausted as you mooch around a museum or gallery.
The term ‘museum fatigue’ was first coined by Benjamin Ives Gilman in 1916. He focused on how the placement of exhibits led to unnecessary physical strain, causing us to tire ourselves out. But since then, researchers have also come to recognise the mental toll of a museum visit. This stems from a number of factors, including:
Information overload – where the sheer amount of information in a museum gets a bit much. This includes lengthy gallery labels and descriptions, as well as the exhibits themselves!
Object competition – when different exhibits in the same space battle it out for our attention. This prevents us from focusing properly on a single piece and erodes our overall engagement with a museum.
And last but not least, satiation – where we take in a number of similar pieces in a row, causing us to become progressively less interested. (One ancient Greek statue? Fantastic. One hundred? OK, now you’ve lost me.)
Together, these elements can contribute to an acute case of cultural burnout – and more than 100 years on from Benjamin Gilman, museum fatigue doesn’t look like going away.
So, it’s clear that something has to change; that we need a whole new way of approaching museums, and the amazing things in them. Because if we’re getting tired of Da Vinci and Van Gogh – of the Rosetta Stone and the Venus de Milo – then something has gone seriously, seriously wrong!
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