Decisions, Decisions

The seemingly unrelated parts of this painting create a puzzle for the viewer and have led scholars to offer differing interpretations. Key to the understanding of this work is the anamorphic figure at the bottom—anamorphic because it only comes into focus when viewed obliquely from the right. It represents a crowned soldier falling on a sword, suggesting the fate of King Saul.

Identifying the anamorphic image helps explain the scene in the upper right as Saul’s encounter with the medium at Endor, when the spirit of Samuel is roused (1 Samuel 28:3–25). Making reference to that story provides a backward-looking perspective that gives a history to Saul’s demise, something the 1 Chronicles version makes explicit in its conclusion (10:13–14).

If these interpretations are right, then the central scene seems to require us to interpret it as the destruction that the Philistines bring upon Israel after the defeat of Saul. However, the painting may have a wider perspective, which gives rise to its alternative title. There are parallels with the book of Joel, such as distressed animals and burning fields (1:18–19) and the Day of the Lord which is there described as ‘a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness. … Fire devours in front of them’ (2:1–2 NRSV). This extends the scope of the painting.

The tale of Saul’s death is recounted both in 1 Samuel and in 1 Chronicles. The latter version comes at the beginning of the book, right after a series of genealogies (1 Chronicles 1–9), and it makes a clear reference to the reason for Saul’s rejection by God: it was because of Saul’s unfaithfulness that ‘the LORD put him to death’ (10:13 NRSV). Chronicles will go on to recount the uneven history of the kings of Israel and Judah, concluding with the people’s exile in Babylon (which had also been imposed for unfaithfulness) and the promise of their return (2 Chronicles 36:15–23).

Connecting the death of Saul with imagery from Joel creates a more universal image that spans the history of Israel and extends into the future—even to the eschaton. In this way, the painting creates a melancholy memorial of how key moments of decision can start a chain of events that lead to both self-destruction and devastation for others.

References

Baltrušaitis, Jurgis. 1976. Anamorphic Art, trans. by W. J. Strachan (New York: Harry N. Abrams), pp. 24–25

Panofsky, Erwin. 1958. ‘December 17 correspondence’, Dayton Art Institute, Dayton, Ohio

Pieter Bruegel I’s painting attracts the eye like an anthill: teeming with bodies and movement, the spectacle is dizzying. The cacophony of the armies in the lower right corner is balanced by the open expanse in the upper left and we get a bird’s-eye-view of the event.

The most surprising thing is how the core event of the story—the suicide of Saul—is pushed aside. If one does not know the title of the painting, and perhaps even if one does, it could take a while to pick up on this detail and figure out what the scene is about. Once the eye finds it on the left margin, what is conveyed is a sense of loneliness, as if Saul and his armour-bearer float on an island above the tumult below. The biblical accounts are ambiguous about the proximity of Saul to his sons (1 Samuel 31:2–3; 1 Chronicles 10:2–3). Bruegel exploits this gap, isolating the father from the diminutive figures who lie slain on the rock jutting up in the middle of the painting.

Saul’s marginalization in this composition is further reinforced by the line of archers depicted at the centre of the panel. They all point to the right, away from Saul. The text states that Saul was wounded by the archers and then asked his armour-bearer to kill him (1 Samuel 31:3–4; 1 Chronicles 10:3–4). Yet, in Bruegel’s version it is not obvious that Saul was ever struck; indeed, the overall composition suggests otherwise; that Saul is almost ignored, an afterthought. Even the soldiers clambering up the rock face in the lower-left foreground—it is unclear whose side they are on—appear surprised to stumble upon the dying Saul. The uncanny scene summarizes the loneliness that marks the life of this tragic figure, from the man who did not particularly want to be king to the megalomaniac who later did not want to relinquish power. 

When is the moment you decide you have had enough? If Pieter Bruegel I’s treatment of this scene presents a panorama, Mattia Preti’s painting is a tight focus. Bodies crowd the canvas, especially the bare torso of Saul, stretched out in a way that is reminiscent of Rembrandt’s Flayed Ox (1655) or Titian’s Flaying of Marsyas (c.1570s). Almost dead centre is the wound in Saul’s side, presumably the result of a Philistine archer’s arrow (1 Samuel 31:3; 1 Chronicles 10:3).

The armour-bearer crouches over Saul, inspecting the wound. Saul appears to look at his assistant, suggesting this is the moment when he asks to be killed. It is an intimate scene, a mutual recognition that the end is near. The emotional impact is intensified by the addition of figures who are not mentioned in the text, adding faces of different generations who register the tragic event in ways that invite multiple interpretations—compassion, shock, disbelief. The biblical text reports the suicide briefly, as if decided and executed in minutes. Here, it is stretched out and we feel a process underway. We sense time being taken to examine, consider, and discuss all options. We sense the remembrance of things past (the battles shared, Saul’s complex record as king). And we sense forebodings of the future—would this be the end of the Israelite kingdom that had just begun?

This focus on the wounded Saul brackets out the other action described in this biblical episode. We are not shown Saul falling on his sword, as in the other works in this exhibition. Rather, our imaginations must fill in the details of his death, and more besides. We may picture Saul’s dead sons; how the Philistines will overrun the Israelite armies; and how ultimately the admiration of those who served under Saul will drive them to reclaim his body—ending this tragic story with a note of hope that perhaps all is not lost.