The Flight to Egypt

There is a dreamlike quality to William Holman Hunt’s depiction of the flight, particularly in the presence of the holy innocents joining the travellers on their journey towards Egypt.

Neither Joseph nor the donkey seem aware of this mysterious band of travellers which now surrounds them. The infant Christ, by contrast, sees his fellow infants clearly, and reaches out to them in solidarity. The innocents, however, though presumably aware of Christ’s presence, are more concerned with investigating their new existence, or resuming the games cruelly interrupted by their murderers. Mary smiles, as she looks downwards, her maternal gaze apparently directed towards her newly-expanded family.

The children themselves are in various stages of ‘reality’, those at the upper left barely awake from their own dreaming. Do they exist only in a visionary world, or also in our world?

The large bubble in the centre foreground contains an image of the tree of life, a promise of paradise restored. But bubbles can so easily be burst; hence their frequent use in Vanitas paintings as symbols of transience. Is this, then, just a dream? Or might Hunt be challenging that qualifying just? For it is as the result of a dream that Joseph flees to Egypt. Another dream directs the eastern Magi to return home ‘by another way’, thus enabling Christ’s escape from Herod (Matthew 2:12). Pilate’s wife will later be troubled by a dream about the adult Christ, though her warnings will fail to preserve him from death (Matthew 27:19). Matthew’s Gospel reiterates how dreams are part of the very fabric of how God communicates in this world. Hunt’s painting likewise proposes that it may be in the world of dreams that one comes to see the world as it truly is.

The Flight into Egypt provided an opportunity for Vittore Carpaccio, like other Venetian artists of his generation (e.g. Giovanni Bellini, Madonna of the Meadow, c.1500, National Gallery, London), to experiment with idealized landscapes. The overall impact is impressive: rolling hills; jagged peaks; elegant trees; water calm as a millpond. But this landscape does far more than allow Carpaccio to showcase his artistic skills. There are hints of older biblical stories here, just as Old Testament narratives already saturate the Gospel text.

In the background on the far left of the panel, a prominent rugged mountain appears behind the vibrant tree which connects heaven and earth, the divine and the human. Is this merely a nod in the direction of the Dolomite Mountains, bordering the Veneto countryside to the north? Or does it recall that great mountain, Mount Sinai, the place of encounter between God and Moses after the departure from Egypt?

In the centre of the composition, a bridge straddles the river, reminding the viewer that water is a barrier, but one which can be crossed. God’s people passed through the water dry-shod as they left the land of Egypt on their Exodus journey to freedom. Later, they would cross the River Jordan, to enter the land of promise. The adult Jesus will also come to the Jordan to be baptized, on the verge of his public ministry. Carpaccio seems to have understood this well: Christ is the new Israel, whose journey to Egypt is but the first stage in a new Exodus, whereby he will ‘save his people from their sins’ (Matthew 1:21).

But there is more. Joseph, veering off from the road, tramples on lush greenery, a common symbol of Edenic paradise in visual art (e.g. Giovanni di Paolo, The Annunciation and Expulsion from Eden, c.1435, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC). Carpaccio’s richly symbolic landscape invites the following question, as it already hints at possible answers: what might this journey, ostensibly a flight from a paranoid tyrant, ultimately make possible?

References

Boskovits, Miklós, and David Alan Brown. 2003. Italian Paintings of the Fifteenth Century (Washington: National Gallery of Art)

The journey of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to the land of Egypt takes place under the cover of darkness. The fact that it happens ‘by night’ (Matthew 2:14) underscores the urgent note of danger and the threat of death. As the angel announces to Joseph, Herod is seeking to ‘destroy’ the child (Matthew 2:13).

Henry Ossawa Tanner was haunted by this story of flight, shaped by his formative years in the African Methodist Episcopal Church, of which his father was a bishop. He painted no less than fifteen versions of the story. Here, the fugitive character of the Holy Family is clearly foregrounded. With strong shades of blue and the use of shadows to intensify the drama, Tanner heightens the sense of forced migration. Mary’s donkey keeps close to the wall, moving slowly as if to avoid detection. The child is kept close to his mother’s breast, safely secured in her cloak, almost invisible. Joseph brings up the rear, fulfilling his traditional role as protector of the Holy Family. This is a family on the run, their ultimate destination uncertain.

Yet there are also visual clues that the fugitive family will find a ready welcome amongst the strangers they encounter. First, they are escorted by an anonymous figure, leading them through the darkened streets. The intensity of the light emanating from the lamp he carries, illuminating their path, is a reminder that this child too will be a ‘great light’ for the people dwelling in darkness (Matthew 4:16, quoting Isaiah 9:2). Second, the location of this scene is uncertain. Is it Bethlehem? Yet the family has apparently just passed through the gateway (suggested by the arch just visible in the background) into the town. More likely, then, they have arrived at their first port of call, offering a temporary respite from the dangers of Herod’s henchmen.

References

Harper, Jennifer J. 1992. ‘The Early Religious Paintings of Henry Ossawa Tanner: A Study of the Influences of Church, Family, and Era’, American Art, 6.4: 69–85