Oh, dear me, what a thing to contemplate! Is it truly possible for “purity” to exist in this world, rolled out before us in such a cruelly naked state? Tell me, are you familiar with a man named Giovanni da Fiesole? Of course, the only people who would address him by such a stiff, complicated name are students dozing off in an art history lecture or perhaps some exceedingly peculiar enthusiasts. To the rest of the world, he is known by the bashful yet undeniably perfect name “Fra Angelico”—the “Angelic Friar.”
Generally speaking, painters are a wretched lot. They drink and braw, flee from their debts, and find themselves tossed about by the passions of women, only to smear that agony onto a canvas and brag that it is “Art.” That is the standard rate for the profession. However, this man Angelico is a different matter entirely. He was a friar of the Dominican Order, and for him, the very act of painting was his prayer to God. Faced with that, I haven’t a single word of protest to offer.
Imagine, if you will, the dim corridors of the Convent of San Marco in 15th-century Florence. There he was, silently moving his brush against the walls. And these were not paintings intended for public display; they were created for his fellow friars to use in meditation. Take his famous Annunciation. That scene where the Archangel Gabriel kneels before the Virgin Mary to announce she will bear the Son of God. How quiet, how elegant that painting is! The modest smile of the angel with those pink wings—just looking at it makes the mud-like, servile emotions gathered in my chest feel as though they are becoming transparent. It almost makes one feel uncomfortable.
Usually, an artist wants to assert their individuality as loudly as possible. “Look at me!” “Know my suffering!” the clumps of paint seem to scream. But Angelico was different. It is said he never picked up a brush without first offering a prayer, and whenever he painted the Passion of Christ, he invariably wept. Furthermore, once a stroke was placed, he never retouched it. He believed that the brush was moved by the will of God, and to correct it with human shallow-wittedness would be an act of sacrilege. Ah, what humility! It feels somewhat rich coming from a shiftless fellow like me, but is this not the very definition of true “sincerity”?
The most amusing part is that no matter how high the praise he received, he never grew arrogant. When the Pope offered him the position of Archbishop, he declined, saying, “I am not fit for such a heavy responsibility. There is a brother more suited for it than I.” To us modern folk, who spend our days in a rat race, ready to pull the rug out from under anyone just to get ahead, such selflessness seems almost comical. Yet, when I realize that this very lack of greed birthed those untainted colors, I can only sigh in awe.
The blue he used was “ultramarine,” a pigment made from crushing stones that were, at the time, more expensive than gold. Yet, the blue in his paintings never carries the vulgar, boastful glitter of a wealthy man’s treasure. It is the color of an eternal, heavenly silence. And his use of gold leaf is not the gaudy decoration of a parvenu’s mansion; it is warm and soft, as if light itself had taken up residence there.
We tend to be captivated by complex things, stimulating things, or tragic things. But what Angelico’s paintings teach us is a simpler, more fundamental “joy.” Life is overflowing with helpless despair and shame so thick you want to run away. I admit that. However, at the same time, a pure goodwill—like that light carved into the walls of San Marco—certainly exists in this world.
If you ever find yourself disgusted by the ugliness of your own heart, or if the world begins to look like a complete sham, please remember this “Angelic Friar.” Despite possessing genius-level skill, he did not use it for his own fame, but dedicated it solely to aiding the prayers of others. That thorough “erasure of the self” is precisely what granted his works an eternal radiance that does not fade, even after hundreds of years.
Of course, asking you to believe the words of a profligate like me, who knows not what tomorrow brings, might be asking too much. But this much I can say with certainty: in front of a painting by Fra Angelico, a person cannot tell a lie. His art gently waters the tiny, unpolluted seed deep within our souls. Just that alone gives one the courage to live through this troublesome life for just one more day.
One does not need difficult logic to look at something beautiful. There is simply light. There is simply compassion. It is enough just to accept it. The moment Angelico set down his brush, he surely felt a quiet, oh-so-quiet happiness—a happiness that we, too, can share across the boundaries of time. Ah, the sky is so blue. If only it were that transparent blue from his paintings.