An Artful Relic: The Shroud of Turin in Baroque Italy 9780271091082

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a n a rtf u l relic

An Artful Relic the shroud of turin in baroque italy

Andrew R. Casper

The Penns y lva ni a State Univer sit y Pr e ss Univer sit y Pa r k , Penns y lva ni a

Frontispiece: Shroud of Turin. Cathedral, Turin. Photo by Giandurante—Copyright Arcidiocesi di Torino. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Casper, Andrew R., author. Title: An artful relic : the Shroud of Turin in Baroque Italy / Andrew R. Casper. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “An art-historical analysis of the Shroud of Turin as a sacred image in the artistic culture of early modern Italy”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2021023470 | ISBN 9780271090399 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Holy Shroud—History—17th century. | Holy Shroud in art. | Christian art and symbolism—Italy—17th century. Classification: LCC BT587.S4 C375 2021 | DDC 232.96/6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023470 Copyright © 2021 Andrew R. Casper All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992.

Contents

List of Illustrations  vii Acknowledgments ix List of Abbreviations  xii Introduction 1 1 Relic, Image, and Devotion  15 2 Made Not Begotten: The Shroud as Divine Artifice  43 3 The Art of Resurrection  67 4 Reproducing the Shroud  89 5 The Roman Shroud of Turin: Relic, Icon, Copy  121 Epilogue 147 Notes 153 Bibliography 173 Index 193

Illustrations

1. Girolamo and Ignazio Danti, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, 1583  2

12. Anonymous, Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Shroud, early 1600s  38

2. Shroud of Turin. Cathedral, Turin  3

13. Giulio Cesare Grampin, Turin with Holy Shroud, Corpus Christi, and Patron Saints, engraving, 1701  40

3. Antonio Tempesta, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, engraving, 1613  4 4. Frontispiece to Daniele Mallonio, Iesu Christi Crucifixi stigmata sacrae sindoni impressa (Venice: Baretium Baretium Bibliopolam, 1606)  4 5. Giovanni Battista della Rovere, Deposition of Christ, ca. 1620  16 6. Shroud of Turin (detail)  22 7. Woodcut illustration of Shroud of Turin in Alfonso Paleotti, Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Bologna: Heredi di Gio. Rossi, 1599)  24 8. Giacomo and Giovanni Andrea Casella, San Carlo Borromeo in Adoration to the Shroud, ca. 1655 27 9. Giovanni Tabachetti and Giovanni d’Enrico, detail of The Road to Calvary, 1599–1600  34 10. Giovanni Battista Crespi (“Il Cerano”), Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Dead Christ at Varallo, ca. 1610  36 11. Gaudenzio Ferrari, Dead Christ, late fifteenth century  36

14. Shroud of Turin (negative image)  44 15. Shroud of Turin (detail)  48 16. Titian, detail of Tarquin and Lucretia, 1570 48 17. Francesco Vanni (attributed), Adoration of the Holy Shroud, late 1500s or early 1600s  69 18. Michelangelo, detail of Last Judgment, completed 1541  78 19. Vittrice Chapel, Santa Maria in Vallicella (Chiesa Nuova), Rome  81 20. Detail showing Shroud of Turin in vault of Vittrice Chapel  83 21. Caravaggio, Entombment, 1602–4  84 22. Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, 1601–2  88 23. Jean-Louis Daudet, Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud, engraving on silk, 1737  91 24. Giovanni Testa, Il Verissimo Ritratto del Santissimo Sudario, engraving, 1578  93

Illustr ations

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25. Charles Maillon, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, in Filiberto Pingone, Sindon Evangelica (Turin: Nicola Bevilaqua, 1581)  95 26. Joannes Guettus, Il vero ritratto del santissimo sudario, woodcut, 1582  95 27. Anonymous, Il verissimo ritratto, woodcut, 1608 96 28. “Anatomia Sacra della imagine di Christo Signore nostro impressa nella Santa Sindone,” in Vittorio Amedeo Barralis, Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (Turin: gl’heredi Giannelli, 1685)  97 29. “Corona Sacra da Presentarsi a Christo appassionata nella Santa Sindone,” in Vittorio Amedeo Barralis, Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (Turin: gl’heredi Giannelli, 1685) 97

36. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, Santa Maria della Pieve, Cuneo, 1653  109 37. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, San Giuda Taddeo, Rome, ca. 1692  110 38. Francisco de Zurbarán. The Veil of St. Veronica, 1635–40  112 39. “Ritratto della Sacra Sindone,” in Camillo Balliani, Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone di N.S. Giesu (Turin: Luigi Pizzamiglio, 1610)  117 40. High altar of Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi, Rome  123 41. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, high altar of Santissimo Sudario, Rome  131 42. Illustration in Alfonso Paleotti, Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Bologna: Heredi di Gio. Rossi, 1599) 133

30. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, Saint Gommaire, Lier, 1516  90

43. Francesco Comi, frame for Mandylion of Edessa, 1623  134

31. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, Santi Pietro e Caterina, Savona, 1653  99

44. Girolamo Rainaldi and Pompeo Targone, Altar Tabernacle of the Virgin, completed 1613 135

32. Albrecht Dürer, Angel and the Veronica, etching, 1516  100 33. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, Cathedral, Bologna, 1646  107 34. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, Museo Diocesano, Bitonto, 1646  108 35. Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, San Giuseppe della Madre di Dio, Moncalieri, 1634 109

45. Peter Paul Rubens, Madonna della Vallicella, 1608 136 46. Peter Paul Rubens, Madonna della Vallicella, first version, 1607  139 47. Pietro Strozzi, Copy of the Veil of Veronica, 1617  142 48. Francesco Mochi, St. Veronica, 1640  143

Acknowledgments

This book is the result of a fascination with the Shroud of Turin that has gripped me ever since I was a kid. The vantage from which I examine this most unusual of artifacts in the following pages germinated in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania. However, my thoughts went dormant while I completed my dissertation and eventual first book on an entirely different topic. My work on this book finally began in earnest in 2010 when I traveled to Turin for the first time to see the relic in person. It continued up through the moment the covid-19 pandemic curtailed face-to-face interaction with both people and things. It is thus all the more crucial that I take the time to acknowledge the contributions by friends, colleagues, and institutions that have helped bring this book into fruition. I am grateful to have received generous research funding from the American Philosophical Society, Italian Art Society, Miami University, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. I completed this manuscript during the 2019 calendar year thanks to a Faculty Improvement Leave from my university, all made possible by a Howard Foundation Fellowship from the George A. and Eliza Gardner Howard Foundation at Brown University. A deep gratitude is owed to Robert Robbins, Chair of the Department of Art, and Elizabeth Mullenix, Dean of the College of Creative Arts, at Miami University for their unquestioned support for this project and the time and resources necessary to complete it. My research required numerous visits to Turin, where I had the true pleasure of availing myself of some of the richest and most accommodating research venues I have ever encountered. Much of this was done under the superlative conditions provided by the Biblioteca Reale, whose attentive reading room staff unfailingly welcomed me with a deferential flattery that I never deserved. One of my biggest regrets was never learning their names. I am equally grateful to the Archivio di Stato, whose personnel also remained anonymous to me for years until my final expedition there in November 2019 coincided with the building’s sudden closure to the public for repairs. Erika Cristina and

Acknowled gments

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Luisa Gentile personally invited me to their offices to see some materials at which I desperately needed to take one last look to shore up the final loose ends of the manuscript. I also thank the Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, Biblioteca Storica della Provincia di Torino, and the Museo della Sindone for furnishing the primary sources at the core of the investigations that follow. No less accommodating were institutions elsewhere in Italy, including the Archivio Centrale dello Stato and Archivio di Stato in Rome and the Biblioteca Universitaria di Bologna. Certain individuals in Italy deserve special mention for their generosity. Paolo Cozzo and Andrea Nicolotti at the University of Turin have offered friendship, guidance, suspiciously prompt responses to all my frantic inquiries, and warm welcomes to me and my family while in Turin. Others in Italy who provided crucial support for this project include Suor Paola and the Madre Superiora of the Monastery of San Giuseppe della Madre di Dio in Moncalieri, Antonio Sicolo of the Archconfraternity of Santa Maria del Suffragio in Bitonto, and Mons. Massimo Nanni at the Cathedral of Bologna. Special thanks as well to Ilaria Peano for arranging contacts in Cuneo, where Don Renzo Giraudo, priest at Santa Maria della Pieve, and his colleagues welcomed me with great hospitality. Others facilitated research much closer to home. Among them are the nuns at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Rosary in Summit, New Jersey, who greeted my arrival to view their seventeenth-century painted copy of the Shroud. Richard Orareo graciously invited me to see his private collection of historic Shroud paraphernalia, then in Wabash, Indiana—the best I have seen anywhere and under three hours from my house—at a time when we he was preparing to ship everything to its new home in Shreveport, Louisiana. Even after his collection moved it has always felt within arm’s reach, and I thank Richard for that. This book benefited from ideas and insights offered by colleagues during all stages of its gestation. I presented portions of this material at the Allen Memorial Art Museum at Oberlin College, Ohio State University, University of Michigan, and in various sessions at the annual conferences of the Renaissance Society of America and the Sixteenth Century Society. One of these chapters featured in a workshop hosted by the Lichtenberg-Kolleg Institute for Advanced Study at Georg-August-Universität in Göttingen, Germany, where it was the subject of rich exchanges with my good friend Christian Kleinbub—a longtime supporter of this project—as well as Christine Göttler, Klaus Krüger, Marsha Libina, Lorenzo Pericolo, Amy Powell, and Rose Marie San Juan. Others who have assisted in significant ways include Erin Benay, Carla Benzan, Michael Cole, Wietse de Boer, Barbara Haeger, Grace Harpster, Mike Hatch, Patrick Hayes, Megan Holmes, Erik Inglis, Carolyn Korsmeyer, Steve Lippmann, Josh Magee, Walter Melion, Christina Neilson, Kirstin Noreen, Ruth Noyes, Chris Nygren, Steven Ostrow, Felipe Pereda, Barrie Schwortz, Larry Silver, Pam Stewart, Livia Stoenescu, Marisa Tabarrini, Allie

Acknowled gments

Terry-Fritsch, Cheryl White, and Tom Willette. There are surely others, and I humbly apologize for their omission. Some portions of this book reproduce previously published material. Sections of chapter 1 appear as “Blood Kinetics and Narrative Performance in Early Modern Devotions to the Shroud of Turin,” Sixteenth Century Journal 50, no. 2 (2019): 3–29. Others are republished with permission of Brill from “Display and Devotion: Exhibiting Icons and Their Copies in Counter-Reformation Italy,” in Religion and the Senses in Early Modern Europe, edited by Wietse de Boer and Christine Göttler (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 43–60; permission conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. Parts of chapter 2 can be found in “Painting as Relic: Giambattista Marino’s Dicerie sacre and the Shroud of Turin,” in Art and Reform in the Late Renaissance: After Trent, edited by Jesse M. Locker (New York: Routledge, 2018), 278–93, reproduced by permission of Taylor and Francis Group, LLC, a division of Informa plc. Finally, my wife, Pepper, and daughter, Louisa, have accompanied me on nearly every research trip to Italy and have proven to be the greatest travel companions I could hope for. The city of Turin most especially has become a special place to all of us, and so I dedicate this book to our shared experiences there as a family.

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Abbreviations

ACOR Archivio della Congregazione dell’Oratorio di Roma ACSR Archivio Centrale dello Stato di Roma ASR Archivio di Stato di Roma AST Archivio di Stato di Torino ASV Archivio di Stato di Venezia BNUT Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria di Torino BRT Biblioteca Reale di Torino BUB Biblioteca Universitaria di Bologna DRA Douay-Rheims Bible (1899 American Edition)

Introduction

The Shroud of Turin as we know it today was born out of an act of piety met by a gesture of kindness. In 1578 Carlo Borromeo, the cardinal and archbishop of Milan, embarked on a pilgrimage to worship the fourteen-and-a-half-foot linen sheet believed to have been used in the preparations for Jesus Christ’s entombment. Borromeo’s commitment to undertake this voyage, done in gratitude for surviving the devastating plague that ravaged his city in 1576, is indicative of his trust in the Shroud’s intercessory power. In an effort to spare the frail cardinal the arduous journey all the way to the holy cloth’s resting place at the Sainte-Chapelle in Chambéry (now France), its owner, Duke Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy, sent the Shroud across the Alps to Turin, the new ducal capital since 1563 and conveniently positioned halfway to Borromeo’s Milan. The Shroud arrived in Turin with great fanfare on September 14, 1578, and some weeks later the cardinal began his march on foot toward the city. Borromeo’s passionate reverence for this sacred artifact fueled an astonishing physical and devotional stamina. Throughout his four-day journey to Turin he retreated into prolonged states of prayer while enduring discomfiting exposure and constant pain from blisters. Once he arrived in Turin on October 9, the opportunities to meditate on the Shroud further triggered his intense spiritual fervor. He was afforded a private showing, during which he repeatedly kissed and caressed the sacred cloth. Borromeo then assisted in displaying the Shroud publicly in Turin’s Piazza Castello to a crowd of forty thousand adoring worshippers on October 12, and again two days later to satiate a continuing influx of pilgrims. Otherwise the cloth was kept in the cathedral, where the cardinal presided over a full spectrum of religious activities, including the Forty Hours Devotion.1

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figure 1 | Girolamo and Ignazio Danti, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, 1583. Galleria delle Carte Geografiche, Vatican City. Photo © Governorate of the Vatican City State –Directorate of the Vatican Museums.

Borromeo’s pilgrimage proved to be a watershed for the Shroud of Turin’s rapid ascent to becoming one of Christianity’s most precious religious artifacts. It provided the impetus to keep the relic permanently in the new Savoy capital—thus earning it the appellative by which it is best known—and helped spur the city’s transformation into a setting worthy of ducal power.2 Of course, the Shroud was by then already recognized as a holy relic. In 1506 Pope Julius II designated May 4 as the Shroud’s annual feast day for Savoy territories on the French side of the Alps. But in 1582, soon after its transfer to Turin, Pope Gregory XIII extended the feast to the ducal realm on the Italian side as well and authorized plenary indulgences in perpetuity to attendees at future exhibitions.3 Borromeo returned to Turin for a public showing that same year, this time joined by Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, the archbishop of Bologna.4 So significant were these early public ostensions to Turin’s civic and spiritual identity that one of them already came to symbolize the Savoy capital city in the Vatican’s Galleria delle Carte Geografiche, completed in 1583 (fig. 1).5 Exhibitions occurred with increasing frequency from the 1580s onward, drawing thousands of pilgrims to Turin, usually on May 4, but also on important secular feasts for the ducal family.6 In an effort to further incentivize pilgrimages to Turin, a Savoy secretary was dispatched to Rome on September 15, 1588, with instructions to “acquire the most comprehensive indulgences possible to whomever will visit the Most Holy Shroud of Our Savior Jesus Christ” (Procurarete le più ampie indulgenze che saranno possibili à chi visitarà la Sant.ma Sindone di N.S. Jesu Christo).7

Introduction

3

figure 2 | Shroud of Turin. Cathedral, Turin. Photo by Giandurante—Copyright Arcidiocesi di Torino.

What prompted this sudden, fevered attention in the late 1500s was a religious artifact unlike any other (fig. 2). Regarded as one of the sheets that wrapped Christ’s dead corpse, the Shroud of Turin features a scattering of vivid red marks that believers maintain to be drops of his blood. These provided one of the only means anywhere for worshippers to venerate Christ’s bodily remains. But those marks overlay other features that made the holy sheet especially captivating as an object to be put on display: ethereal, sepiatoned stains that allegedly coalesced miraculously into the shapes of the front and back of Christ’s recumbent body. In other words, the Shroud of Turin supports a direct visual manifestation of the dead Christ. Yet those faint, bloodied forms and their lengthwise, head-to-head arrangement are without peer in medieval or early modern religious imagery. As “true images” formed through direct contact, these monochromatic impressions defy the standards of pictorial clarity and mimetic naturalism governing artistic portrayals of Christ’s passion. The lifeless body, veiled by a translucent haze that blends it into the cloth support, is marked by a tantalizing obscurity that hovers precariously between unmistakable presence and illusory apparition. Finally, parallel lines of scorch marks left by a fire in 1532 run alongside the Shroud’s bodily imprints. The fact that these bloodstained images escaped incineration proves, for believers, this sacred object’s divine protection. One measure of the Shroud’s success in conveying Christ’s material and figural presence to the eyes of viewers is the raucous spectacles that near-annual public ostensions inspired for over a century after Borromeo’s first pilgrimage in 1578. An engraving by Antonio Tempesta from 1613 presents a wide-angle view of Turin’s Piazza Castello with huge crowds gathered on balconies and rooftops. Mounted guards control the masses clamoring to catch a glimpse of the sheet’s faint image of Christ’s body and blood displayed from a platform at the center (fig. 3).8 Documentary records further highlight repeated manifestations of unbridled excitement in enormous scale, including a reported attendance of over forty thousand in 1606; public demand for an ostension inside the cathedral after the cancellation of the usual outdoor festivities in 1646; deaths among the crowds swarming to see it in the cathedral in 1647; a gathering so large as to gridlock the piazza

figure 3 | Antonio Tempesta, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, engraving, 1613. Photo: akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library. figure 4 | Frontispiece to Daniele Mallonio, Iesu Christi Crucifixi stigmata sacrae sindoni impressa (Venice: Baretium Baretium Bibliopolam, 1606). Photo: PBA Galleries / Dana Weise.

Introduction

and surrounding streets in 1648; sixty thousand pilgrims showing up in 1653 for an exhibition moved back two days due to torrential rain;9 and reportedly, in 1676, a number of pilgrims that exceeded what the city could accommodate.10 Posters publicizing the 1674 and 1684 ostensions invite “all Christian faithful, foreigners and citizens alike, to partake of the sight of that holy treasure.” But they give no hint that these public events would suddenly wane after the Shroud’s installation in 1694 into Guarino Guarini’s reliquary chapel behind the cathedral choir.11 After 1697 no public exhibition took place for twenty-five years, and only four are documented to have occurred in the entire eighteenth century.12 The Shroud never recovered its former glory. This book examines the Shroud of Turin’s status as a religious image during this period of unprecedented devotional enthusiasm from 1578 to 1694. These dates encompass the period of Catholic Reform in Italy and its aftermath, which saw ruling regimes embrace charismatic cult objects as evangelizing tools to bolster religious piety. The Council of Trent’s decree from 1563 validating images and relics propelled the Shroud’s rise to prominence, since these very categories, which scholars today too often regard as distinct, converged on the bloodstained sheet.13 In fact, the Shroud was one of a trio of Christ’s holy image-relics popular around that time. The Mandylion of Edessa, a cloth on which Christ miraculously imprinted his face, arrived in the hands of King Abgar of Edessa as the first “true image.” By the sixteenth century images at San Bartolomeo degli Armeni in Genoa and at San Silvestro in Capite in Rome made competing claims to be the original.14 The Veronica, the principal religious artifact in Rome, received its own impression of Christ’s face when used to wipe away blood and sweat while Christ carried the cross to the crucifixion.15 The frontispiece to Daniele Mallonio’s Iesu Christi Crucifixi stigmata sacrae sindoni impressa (1606) emphasizes the shared genealogies of these images as contact relics and miraculous icons. It features angels displaying the two cloths showing Christ’s face underneath the Shroud, unfurled to reveal the impressions of his entire body (fig. 4). Yet neither the Mandylion nor the Veronica achieved as widespread a public following as what the Shroud inspired after the Council of Trent, making the Savoy palladium especially ripe for prolonged inquiry into its status as an object of religious devotion in early modernity. Scholarship on the Shroud’s historical importance only partly explains the widespread rapture witnessed at its regular public exhibitions from the late 1500s through the 1600s.16 Much attention has focused on the interweaving fortunes of the Shroud and the dukes of Savoy who owned it, highlighting the Shroud’s deployment as a dynastic relic to legitimize the political ambitions of its custodians.17 John Beldon Scott’s commanding Architecture for the Shroud analyzes the mechanisms by which the Savoy publicly displayed the Shroud and how those spectacles shaped Turin’s urban infrastructure and court architecture, culminating in the definitive analysis of Guarini’s Chapel of the Holy Shroud.18

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However, the very image-bearing relic whose ardent promotion established a major public cult remains underexamined. Art historians who are otherwise attracted to issues involving images and the religious devotion they arouse in this period have paid curiously scant attention to the Shroud’s bloodstained impressions of Christ’s body. Consequently, while we know much about the rituals and spectacles that the House of Savoy staged to promote the Shroud for dynastic and devotional gain, we know far less about how devout followers squared their regard for this unusual religious artifact with the multitude of sacred relics and images that routinely generated fervent expressions of piety. This book offers the first examination of the Shroud of Turin from the vantage of art history to demonstrate how it was understood as a sacred image in the era of its rapidly expanding public cult. In particular, these chapters reveal how believers defined it foremost as an artful relic crafted by God, and in so doing asserted a reliance on early modern artistic culture unnoticed by the discipline of art history and its modern scholarship. The major contribution of this book, therefore, is a recovery of the foundtional formulation of what remains one of Christianity’s most controversial religious objects. This, in turn, encourages us to reexamine the contentious authenticity for which it is best known today, but this time in historicized terms as an early modern sacred image.

Art History and the Shroud

The hegemonic canon of the history of art has left little room for the Shroud of Turin to be recognized as the preeminent religious image that it once was. Yet several treatises on the Catholic defense of images and other mainstream works of art theory enshrine the Shroud’s significance as an early modern sacred image in its own right and regard it as a quintessential justification for the validity of Christian imagery generally.19 Most prominent is Gabriele Paleotti’s Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane (1582), which signals the Shroud’s place within a taxonomy of diverse types of devotional imagery that includes but is hardly limited to those most readily embraced by art history. Paleotti established eight criteria for classifying sacred images, the second of which pertains to “anything that came in physical contact with the body or face or some other part of our Lord or one of his saints and that retained an impression of the shape of the body, or of whatever part was touched.” For examples of this criterion he turned to the Veronica and “the sacred linen shroud in which the blessed corpse of our Savior was wrapped after death, leaving an imprint that is still visible today on the cloth, which is safeguarded with great veneration in the dominions of the Duke of Savoy.”20 While Paleotti’s only direct reference to the Shroud of Turin thus pertains to it being a contact image, it also satisfied his fourth and fifth criteria for defining sacred images by virtue of its status as an

Introduction

acheiropoieton (image not made by human hands) and by its propensity to perform miracles.21 The Shroud’s promoters eagerly publicized the latter, and in so doing deployed what was perhaps the most potent strategy for highlighting the special power accorded to certain religious images. Testimonies for the Shroud’s miraculous qualities granted an agentive legitimacy, aligning it with other miracle-working images that benefited from Counter-Reformation attitudes toward the sanctity of religious artifacts.22 Even so, those thaumaturgic powers were not the primary cause of the Shroud’s cult appeal. Instead, it garnered significant authority from its visible mediation of Christ’s body—that is, from its function as an image. Of course, the Shroud’s pictorial style and material composition—amorphous, monochromatic, and blood-flecked stains of a human corpse, lingering on the brink of abstraction—have understandably defied categorization alongside even the most marginalized ranks of medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque art. But its exclusion from art history on those grounds has effectively silenced its early modern devotional significance as an image. Hans Belting’s notorious definition of the Renaissance as the “era of art,” during which appreciation for an image’s artistry overshadowed its cult power, is reflective of the discipline’s schematic framework, which tends to disqualify objects like the Shroud from being relevant subjects of consideration.23 The merits and distortions of Belting’s characterization of the Renaissance are open to debate. But less disputable is that as the field has evolved religious objects to which traditional authorial and stylistic analyses do not apply have been omitted. Granted, recent scholars have recognized the integral importance of supposedly miraculous icons to the image culture of early modernity on account of their function instead of their artistic merits. Yet however much those humble, often anonymously made objects stray from the period’s advanced standards of artistic style, as panel paintings and carved statuary they still resemble the types of objects traditionally accommodated by the discipline enough as to merit inclusion.24 The Shroud, meanwhile, made no such claims to artistic convention. The rare art historians who do take notice of the Shroud and its brethren of true-image relics, such as the Veronica, often prioritize those objects’ incongruity with conventional images due to their having purportedly captured the formal and material composition of their subjects through miraculously mechanical rather than artistic means. Scholars have effectively created a distinct class for them as the antithesis of the representational functionalities of images more readily recognized for their artistic craft. For example, such preoccupations resulted in a foundational work of scholarship defining true images of the Holy Face as the “paradox of representation” in its very title.25 Georges Didi-Huberman has elevated “resemblance by contact,” the “auratization of the trace,” and the “dialectic of proximity and distance—that double distance of the auratic object” as the issues of most salient concern for the Veronica and Shroud.26 Didi-Huberman’s Confronting

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Images does criticize the discipline for equating the history of art with the history of artists and a privileging of craftsmanship that results in the exclusion of image-relics claiming alternative etiologies. But in so advocating for the Veronica and Shroud’s relevance, he nonetheless emphasizes their essential difference as “impossible objects and unthinkable forms.”27 For Belting, similarly, the inherent discrepancy between the “concept of a portrait and that of a mechanical trace” means that “Christ’s icon is a contradiction in itself, even an impossibility.”28 No other images in the early modern artistic canon earn such treatment. This attention by influential voices in the field has helped signal the importance of these sorts of objects to the image culture of early modernity. But their modes of analysis, often laced with elaborate jargon, simply reinforce paradoxicality as the primary allure of some of the most devotionally potent of Christian artifacts. This creates a closed loop that leaves the images themselves languishing in an unresolved categorical impasse awkwardly detached from the mainstream currents of the culture that nurtured their prominence as vehicles for religious devotion. Consequently, I question the usefulness of these treatments for understanding how or why the Shroud of Turin generated such a passionate cult following. “Paradox,” “contradiction,” and “impossibility” might be clever and perfectly apt philosophical constructs to characterize its undeniably unique ontology. But early modern viewers did not regard it in such terms, and neither should scholars of early modern religious imagery. Instead of merely reinforcing the Shroud’s distinctiveness, a major preoccupation of this book is also to demystify the Savoy relic by seeing it as a special example of something commonplace in the history of art—namely, an image of Christ that inspired widespread religious devotion. In order to accommodate the Shroud of Turin, art history must recognize the fabric’s bloodstained representation of Christ’s body as one of many sacred images existing alongside a host of artistic masterpieces, miraculous icons, and humble pictures alike—not unlike the varieties of sacred images classified by Paleotti’s Discorso. Art historians thus need to protect the Shroud from being defined too narrowly against the restricted canon of their own discipline. In this regard I am indebted to the path that Lisa Pon pioneered for art-historical inquiry when she ventured outside the traditional boundaries of the discipline to examine the miraculous fifteenth-century woodcut of the Madonna of the Fire. Pon settled on an approach that “embeds [it] not within any closed category of similar objects”—because none exist—“but within a rich miscellany of things and places.”29 Similarly, the present book does not frame the Shroud’s early modern relevance through comparisons to traditional religious imagery alone. Neither do conventional methodologies of connoisseurship, stylistic attribution, formal and technical analyses, or iconographical identification feature in the investigations that follow.30 Instead, this book marks the Shroud’s myriad connections to the period’s devotional image culture in ways that counteract art history’s disciplinary myopia. In the process,

Introduction

this new art-historical treatment dislodges the Shroud from the grip of modern curiosity. It subverts paradigms of what is real and what is artificial that have both contributed to its exclusion from the history of art and distorted its function as a religious image.

Authenticity and Its Discontents

The Shroud of Turin’s current popular notoriety has long eclipsed its acclaim as a Christian image at the height of its fame. Rapturous demonstrations of piety toward an image— and toward this image in particular—seem antiquated, superstitious, and naive to secular viewers. Meanwhile, certain audiences burden the Shroud with the weighty and highly contentious obligation of proving or disproving religious belief. Most notably, evangelical debates over authenticity that overwhelm the Shroud’s existing literature persist even after the carbon 14 analysis in 1988 established the cloth’s origins as no earlier than the thirteenth century.31 To be clear, this book takes no position on that matter one way or another. It does not declare the Shroud of Turin to be either a “fake” work of art or a “real” relic. What it does do is hold these rampant modern preoccupations with authenticity at arm’s length on account of their irrelevance for understanding the historical significance of this mysterious object. What one believes now changes nothing about prevailing attitudes centuries ago. In fact, by 1578 the Shroud’s status as a sacred image had emerged from over two centuries of periodic episodes that addressed, questioned, and ultimately framed authenticity on its own terms. Documentary records securely trace the cloth’s existence at least as far back as the mid-1300s, when the chivalric knight Geoffroi de Charny reportedly displayed it to pilgrims in the collegiate church of Lirey, France.32 Even then doubts over the materiality of the Shroud’s blood-stained imagery and its means of coming into being frustrated universal agreement on the relic’s claims to legitimacy. The notorious late fourteenth-century memorandum of Pierre d’Arcis, bishop of Troyes, to the antipope Clement VII alleged that the cloth was the work of a forger and that the unnamed artist responsible had even admitted it to be “cunningly painted . . . a work of human skill and not miraculously wrought or bestowed.” D’Arcis then pleaded for the pope to end its public display.33 While Clement evaded any definitive position on the issue of the Shroud’s credibility as a relic, his bulls from 1390 reinstating its exhibitions still stipulated that it be declared a mere representation—that is, an image, a work of art.34 Audiences in the 1400s evidently continued to consider the Shroud a mere proxy for Christ’s actual burial cloth.35 Further insistence on the inherent artificiality, and hence inauthenticity, of the Shroud comes from a Benedictine monk at the abbey of Saint James in Liège who in 1449 described it as a sheet “in which the form of the body of our Lord Jesus Christ was admirably painted” and done so in such a way that the bloody wounds appear as if freshly

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administered.36 The context for those doubts was the burgeoning market for spurious relics. Certainly one as provocative as the Shroud, whose primary features are unmentioned in the Scriptures, would alert the suspicion of bishops hoping to attract pilgrims to their churches and who were justifiably skeptical of the tactics used by others to draw attention to their own. But it also reveals distrust of devotional objects that could too easily be dismissed as man-made, artificial, and therefore fake. The eventual acceptance of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity is due in part to the power and influence of its owners. Upon acquiring the Shroud in 1453, the House of Savoy combated the relic’s reputation as a symbol or representation through a concentrated campaign to promote it as a holy relic worthy of a widespread cult.37 In 1466 Duke Amadeus IX and Duchess Yolande of Valois requested that Pope Paul II approve plenary indulgences to anyone visiting the ducal chapel housing the Shroud on Good Friday and during its exhibitions.38 In 1471 Pope Sixtus IV published De Sanguine Christi, first written in 1462, which officially defined the Savoy relic as the “shroud in which the body of Christ was wrapped when he was taken down from the cross, . . . and is colored red with the blood of Christ.” It goes on to affirm the authenticity of its traces of Christ’s blood beyond any shadow of doubt.39 In 1506 Pope Julius II approved Duke Charles III’s request to designate May 4 as the Shroud’s feast day and establish the liturgy for its Mass, thereby sanctioning a public cult. Moreover, Julius’s reaffirmation that the Shroud’s threaded fibers trap traces of true blood muted earlier doubts over its authenticity.40 The Shroud’s cult expanded in the following decades through numerous public processions and exhibitions as well as increased indulgences offered to those undertaking pilgrimages.41 One event more than any other consecrated the Shroud’s authenticity as a sacred object. On the night of December 3 in 1532 a fire began that devastated the Sainte-Chapelle in Chambéry. It narrowly missed consuming the Shroud but left a permanent reminder in the form of parallel rows of scorches caused by a molten piece of the relic’s silver casket dropping onto a corner of the cloth folded up inside.42 The bloodstained images of Christ’s body were barely touched. Accounts of this fire all credit its survival to a miracle and regard the burn marks as signs of divine protection. The Shroud’s subsequent fortunes would remain inflected by this fire and the opportunity it afforded to proclaim the cloth’s authenticity. Pope Clement VII dispatched Cardinal Louis de Gorrevod to investigate the Shroud’s survival, which the cardinal affirmed in a report filed in 1534.43 This escape from annihilation would play a major role in the Shroud’s hagiography as a sacred object after its transfer to Turin. Carlo Borromeo’s confessor, Francesco Adorno, who joined the cardinal on his pilgrimage in 1578, characterized the fire as having been mysteriously impeded when it reached the delineated image of Christ’s body.44 Filiberto Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) more explicitly signaled the burn marks as an “eternal testimony of the miracle” of the Shroud’s survival.45

Introduction

At the same time, skeptical Protestants turned their sights on the Shroud as evidence for fraudulent church practices. Just a decade after the Chambéry fire, John Calvin revived suspicions that the Shroud was a human forgery. His Treatise on Relics (1543) discredited the Shroud alongside a host of other ostensibly original burial sheets at Carcassonne, Aachen, Trier, and Besançon. “For whoever admitted the reality of one of these sudaries shown in so many places,” Calvin reasoned, “must have considered the rest as wicked impostures set up to deceive the public by the pretense that they were each the real sheet in which Christ’s body had been wrapped.”46 Even after the 1578 exhibition the Shroud’s problematic reconciliation with Gospel accounts of the linens found in Christ’s tomb provoked some hushed suspicions concerning the cloth’s authenticity (discussed in chapter 1). But these hardly encumbered the Shroud’s meteoric rise to prominence. A treatise written in 1587 by Agostino Bucci confidently proclaimed the Shroud’s authenticity on the bases of its matching ancient descriptions of Christ’s physiognomy, the miraculous works it performed, and, vaguely, the authorization of the church.47 From the late 1500s on, therefore, the Shroud’s authenticity was as broadly accepted as ever thanks to persistent Savoy promotion, regular ecclesiastical endorsements, the fortuitous survival of a fire, and, we must allow, Counter-Reformation propaganda that brandished the preservation of a prestigious relic as a sign of Catholic triumph. Importantly, the conceptualization of the Shroud as a religious image from the late 1500s through 1600s offers an alternative to the unwavering opposition of artifice and authenticity that marks the debates still waging today over its credibility. Since the early twentieth century, physicians, botanists, chemists, physicists, forensic investigators, and others have used the Shroud’s physical properties to advance theories crediting the mysterious image to painterly, natural, or even supernatural forces.48 In all cases, the unquestioned premise that an artful image is a fake relic revives the basis for fourteenth- and fifteenth-century doubts. Studies of the Shroud’s blood most pointedly reinforce this paradigm. For example, Walter McCrone found traces of iron oxide and mercuric sulfide, which make up the pigment vermilion. For skeptics, these findings substantiated a long-held belief that the image had been painted onto the cloth and is consequently a counterfeit.49 Yet other studies of samples extracted from the Shroud claim to uncover physical characteristics consistent with hemoglobin, thereby providing evidentiary support for those wishing to see the Shroud as an authentic relic whose image results from a process of direct imprinting from Christ’s bloodied body.50 Some even allege the presence of both substances, but nevertheless uphold blood as a marker of originality and paint as a sign of more recent artificial intervention.51 Consequently, for modern observers, to recognize signs of artfulness is to discredit the Shroud’s authenticity by arguing that it is a medieval work of art—either one crafted as a deliberately deceptive forgery, or one painted as an innocent prop for Easter liturgies and only later misunderstood to

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be the original.52 However, such treatments of artifice as the antithesis to authenticity frame the Shroud very differently than audiences did in the late 1500s and 1600s. 12 An Artful Relic

Recognizing the Shroud’s authenticity as a relic of Christ’s body in early modern terms also reveals its unexpected relevance to art history, and by consequence the discipline’s schematic inadequacy for detecting how viewers then regarded objects of devotion they accepted as real. This book addresses the point where the issues of artifice and authenticity intersect by demonstrating how the Shroud came to be defined as an artful relic. Supporters did not believe that the Shroud originated in performances of artistic craft. And yet the artistic culture of Renaissance and Baroque Italy still provided an epistemological frame through which to understand the bloodstained image as both a verifiable relic of Christ’s body and a divine painting attributed to God’s artistry. In other words, seemingly routine conceptions of pictorial artifice promoted rather than negated the Shroud’s authenticity. They offered broadly comprehensible ways to attribute the origins of this extraordinary image to sacred artistry, articulated a resurrection theology that accounts for the existence of a bloodstained body image on Christ’s burial cloth as an artfully authored (and authoritative) image, and provided the means, through painted and printed reproductions, by which the Shroud could be worshipped in absentia. All the while, the Shroud emerges as a devotional image of uncommon multivalence—a divinely crafted work of art, a true icon, and a material relic of Christ’s passion. The conclusions advanced in this book concerning the Shroud’s standing as an artful relic result from the close study of two bodies of material produced between 1578 and 1694 to perpetuate its cult following. First, its burgeoning popularity catalyzed the publication of printed texts promoting its status as one of Christianity’s preeminent devotional relics. Duke Emanuele Filiberto commissioned Filiberto Pingone to draft the first official history of the Shroud, Sindon Evangelica (1581).53 Alfonso Paleotti followed with his Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (1598; revised 1599), which became, in the words of one scholar, the Shroud’s first “best-seller.”54 These two texts, the first historical and devotional treatises on the Shroud, respectively, inspired scores of others throughout the 1600s in an expansive range of genres that included songs and poems; sermons, homilies, and panegyrics; theological discourses; forensic analyses; and even a major work of art theory by Giambattista Marino.55 Second, a variety of graphic reproductions of the Shroud in the form of small printed images, some of which were souvenirs distributed to pilgrims during public ostensions, as well as full-size painted reproductions, furnished especially direct experiences replicating encounters with the original. Through an analysis of these textual and pictorial presentations, this book reveals for the first time the

Introduction

persistence with which conceptions about art and artifice not only shaped understanding of the Shroud of Turin but also reinforced its veracity as a relic. The published texts record how technical and philosophical speculations on the nature of images, their aesthetic properties, and their artistic formation informed theories on how the Shroud came into being. Meanwhile, the Shroud’s printed and painted copies merge strategies for pictorial presentation with period practices of copying to mediate devotional access to the original. These textual and visual materials concoct the Shroud’s identity as an artful relic by synthesizing three categories of devotional objects. First, writers and artists both portrayed it as the definitive devotional icon from which one could rehearse the events leading to Christ’s death because it preserved an authentic likeness of all the wounds on his corrupted body. Second, belief that the fabric absorbed Christ’s blood through physical contact consecrated the cloth’s status as a primary relic supporting traces of his corporeal matter. This privilege was conferred upon painted copies as well by being pressed against the original to absorb its sacred essence. Third, and most curious, writers signaled this hybrid icon/relic’s categorical versatility through language denoting artistic practices of image making. The resulting designation of the image as a painting composed of actual blood and Christ (or God) as its artist constitutes a trope found throughout the early modern literature on the Shroud. The Shroud of Turin was conceived as a divine work of art that was both materially authentic and artfully crafted. Painted and printed copies of the Shroud parallel this understanding of the original by openly acknowledging their artificial conditions as copies while at the same time making their own claims to authenticity as objects of devotion. Therefore, the understanding of the Shroud as an alloy of art, icon, and relic revealed through the pages of this book relies on historicized conceptions of artifice. Rather than portending modern associations of artifice with counterfeit figural resemblance through human manufacture, defining the Shroud as a work of art was a means to embrace its authenticity and the material presence of Christ’s body. • Chapter 1 examines the Shroud’s identification as a devotional image of uncommon prestige that stems less from its miraculous abilities common to other prominent religious images than from its semiotic function as icon and index. That is, its status as an image cannot be separated from the traces of Christ’s bodily matter that it contains— constituting a doubled indexicality that sets it apart from most other objects of Christian devotion. Consequently, the devotional contours of the Shroud were shaped by its myriad connections to blood relics, representations of sacred violence, the Eucharist, and the modes of spiritual engagement that resulted in static images activating visionary encounters with the divine. Chapter 2 introduces rich new material on the early modern cult of the Shroud, in which commentators attributed the formation of Christ’s body image to Deus artifex—God

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as artist. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts uphold the Shroud of Turin as an analogy for artistic creation by applying such art-theoretical concepts as abbozzo (sketch), disegno (drawing or design), colorito (color), and others informing contemporary understanding of the bloody stain as an image both authentic and artificial. These identify it as a painting composed out of blood that bears indexical marks of God’s artistic craftsmanship. Tropes of artistic creation reinforced belief in the Shroud as proof of Christ’s resurrection. Chapter 3 explores how commentators defined it as an artistic by-product of Christ’s revivification by deploying terminology describing the cloth’s bloodstained image as a subtractive painting—residual traces left behind after the resurrecting body partially reabsorbed its discharged fluids. These treatments align Christian theology of the resurrection with early modern theories of artistic facture. In particular, the infusion of living spirit into Christ’s physical restoration resonated at this time with theories of artistic animation that bestowed upon artists the power to enliven incarnate bodies. The final two chapters contribute to the interest in copies and reproduction in the wider discipline of art history by examining dozens of printed and painted copies of the Shroud of Turin. Chapter 4 treats these copies as discursive commentaries on the authority of artistic productivity and its role in disseminating an image whose own generation is credited to divine creation. Such efforts to propagate the Shroud through reproductive media put pressure upon its singularity as a cult object. Multiplied copies draw complex and even contradictory relationships to the original they reproduce, mediating between viewer and prototype while also asserting their own autonomous authenticity as devotional objects. Chapter 5 focuses on a particular copy dating to the early 1600s at the Church of Santissimo Sudario in Rome. Though openly acknowledged in contemporary sources to be a painted reproduction, it is distinguished for being the only one at that time put on permanent display at the altar of a church. Its lavish Baroque framing device, coupled with the belief that it had touched the original Shroud, bestow the same qualities of the artful relic attributed to the original and offer new insights into the multivalent relationship between copies and originals in seventeenth-century Rome. These chapters extend the traditional domains of art history by incorporating within prominent scholarly discourses an image-bearing cloth whose origins and material composition might seem contradictory to the works of art normally examined in the field. The Shroud of Turin, explored here as a religious image that inspired a widespread devotional cult, emerges as an object both peculiar and representative of its context within early modern Christianity. This book thus charts an unexpected compatibility of artifice and authenticity in an object conceptually regarded as a painting without diminishing its authority as the material remains and true image of Christ’s body.

Chapter 1

Relic, Image, and Devotion

Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s Deposition of Christ (ca. 1620) depicts the Shroud of Turin’s use in the removal of Christ’s body from the cross and the preparation for its burial (fig. 5).1 Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, and John the Evangelist have lowered Christ on one half of the sheet and carefully drape the excess fabric over the front of the supine body. This pallid, broken corpse, by dint of its contact with the absorbent cloth, then produced a direct pictorial likeness composed of discharged bodily fluids in the form of the twin corporeal impressions for which the Duke of Savoy’s sacred artifact is best known. Above these figures, three angels, backed by a hierophany of clouds and putti, display the sheet lengthwise in a manner reminiscent of the public ostensions that took place in Turin from the end of the 1500s onward to propagate the wondrous imprints of Christ’s body. Della Rovere’s doubling of the Shroud of Turin—its practical function exhibited below and its resulting miraculous features spread out for view above—elucidates key binaries by which early modern viewers understood the Savoy relic. First, the Shroud is both earthly and divine. While the circumstances of Christ’s terrestrial death and eventual entombment generated the imprints of his body, the image also attracted divine agency to ensure that a coherent representation took shape. Second, the Shroud exists as both a relic and an image. It is a material participant in the passion that contains traces of the body that touched it and also a true likeness, in the manner of a relief print, of Christ’s suffering and death. This painting’s manner of presentation thus bifurcates haptic and visual characteristics that bring the Shroud into symmetry with the tradition of Christian artifacts. On the one hand, it is one of a number of contact relics that derive authority from

figure 5 | Giovanni Battista della Rovere, Deposition of Christ, ca. 1620. Galleria Sabauda, Turin. Photo: Realy Easy Star / Alamy Stock Photo.

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having physically touched a sacred body.2 On the other, by yielding a visible image— an icon—through this incidence of cloth and body, the Shroud substantiates one of the primary models formulated by Saint Theodore the Studite’s On Holy Icons in the second iconoclastic period to explain the close semiotic relationship between Christ and his images: that of a seal transferring its image when impressed into wax.3 Thus conceived, the Shroud of Turin exemplifies what Caroline Walker Bynum characterized as a symptom of late medieval piety: an intense awareness of and focus on the physical materiality of objects that do not easily fall into distinct categories of image and relic.4 For observers today, the Shroud’s status as an image formed out of Christ’s bodily matter constitutes what could be called a “doubled indexicality.”5 Early modern viewers, on the other hand, would have considered it a reliquary image, a representation of a body that contains material traces of that same body, ultimately making relic and image mutually dependent.6 Regardless of terminology, what set the Shroud apart from ordinary religious images was this ability to draw devotion through iconic and corporeal presence simultaneously.7 To fully account for this indelible categorical pluralism, this chapter analyzes key texts and images to reveal how witnesses to the Shroud’s public ostensions, authors of devotional and theological tracts, and even the singularly devout Carlo Borromeo all regarded the Shroud’s fusion of material and pictorial presentations of Christ’s body as its most devotionally potent feature. These observers positioned the Shroud at the confluence of a network of interrelated avenues for early modern Christian piety that included the cult of blood relics; the taste for sacred violence in Counter-Reformation image culture; devotional practices that inspired otherwise static images to furnish activated, even visionary, encounters; and renewed eucharistic theologies that celebrated real presence through visual means.

“Relic of All Relics”

The Shroud’s fifteenth-century deposit among the passion relics at the Sainte-Chapelle at Chambéry reinforced its status as a preeminent example of its kind. According to a 1753 inventory, these included pieces of the cross, two thorns, parts of the lance and the cup from which he drank while on the cross, and even stones from Calvary.8 Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the Shroud fortified belief in the efficacy of relics.9 The strong post-Tridentine relic devotion in Turin in particular propelled the Shroud’s prestige after its arrival there.10 The cloth attracted the translation of other important civic relics, including those of Saint Maurice, which the Savoy brought to Turin in 1591.11 Perhaps the most visible manifestation of the Shroud’s centrality to Turin’s culture for relic veneration was the procession in 1599 celebrating the city’s divine favor in escaping

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the plague.12 The Shroud was brought together with the relics of Saint Maurice and Saint Secundus, the finger of Saint Catherine, and pieces of the Cross and crown of thorns and taken to the high altar of the cathedral for veneration. A contemporary account records the heightened reverence for these relics and the intercessions that they provided.13 Such was Savoy belief in the preeminence of Christ’s bloodstained cloth that the private testament of Carlo Emanuele I (who died in 1630), which ceded protection of the family’s collection of relics to his son and heir, prince Vittorio Amedeo, singled out the “most holy Shroud, relic of all relics” (Santissma Sindone reliquia delle reliquie).14 When Carlo’s daughter Maria Francesca Apollonia died in 1656, she donated another piece of the true cross and a thorn to the chapel of the Shroud to further buttress its prestige.15 It is not surprising that the Shroud of Turin’s identity as a preeminent “relic of all relics” was a frequent topic of discussion and elaboration in the published texts dedicated to it. Camillo Balliani, the Dominican inquisitor general of Turin, dedicated over forty pages of his third Ragionamento to the Shroud’s role as a testament to the importance of sacred relics—even to the point of declaring that the Shroud existed for the very purpose of proving the essential viability of holy images and relics.16 The theologian Agaffino Solaro offered one of the most sustained discussions of the Shroud’s theological importance in comparison with other relics of Christ. He proposed a hierarchy in which those containing traces of the body earn a higher standing than anything that merely touched the body. Furthermore, the Shroud remains superior on account of the true likeness it bears as an image. Meanwhile, the cross, Solaro continues, is a sign and thus only intelligible to those who understand what it signifies. Consequently, “among all the relics and images of the Savior, [the Shroud] is the most admirable and revered, the most majestic and lovable, the most gracious and desirable to see and to contemplate.”17 While a consensus existed on the Shroud’s importance as a relic, the precise role it played in Christ’s passion and the circumstances by which it received imprints containing traces of his body were far more controversial. In fact, Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s portrayal of the Shroud of Turin’s participation in the deposition from the cross would not have been universally endorsed. It represents the culmination of decadeslong debates concerning the identity of the Shroud with the various burial linens only briefly mentioned in the Gospels, many of which became relics in their own right.18 The Gospel of John offers the fullest account of these linens found in the empty tomb after the resurrection: “Then Simon Peter came along behind him and went straight into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen [linteamina] lying there, as well as the cloth [sudarium] that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. The cloth was still lying in its place, separate from the linen” ( John 20:6–7, DRA) The fact that this passage does not make any mention of an image of Christ’s body, in part or in whole, appearing on any of these fabrics allowed Protestant skeptics like John Calvin to doubt the Shroud’s authenticity.19 This

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discrepancy with John the Evangelist’s account even engendered uncertainty from such luminaries of the Counter-Reformation Church and enthusiastic Shroud promoters as Cardinals Carlo Borromeo and Gabriele Paleotti, archbishops of Milan and Bologna respectively.20 After the 1578 ostension, where Borromeo saw the relic in person for the first time, Paleotti, who was not present but apparently saw a copy of the Shroud, noted the discordance between the scriptural accounts of Christ’s burial linens and the Shroud’s portrayal of the entire body on a single sheet.21 Borromeo himself, in a letter from December 1579 addressed to the bishop of Vercelli, reasoned that the sudarium in the Gospel of John refers to an entirely different cloth. The Shroud must have been draped over this face cloth in order to render, by way of a miracle, the double images of the entire body.22 Paleotti apparently did not deem this hypothesis satisfactory. In an effort to settle the matter, he solicited the input of the Bolognese naturalist Ulisse Aldrovandi, prompting Aldrovandi’s sweeping comparative treatise (never published) on burial practices across cultures in history, “De ritu sepeliendi apud diversas nations” (also titled “De sepulchris et condiendis cadaveribus”).23 He reversed Borromeo’s theory by concluding instead that the head cloth covered the Shroud, thus putting the entire length of the Turin sheet in direct contact with Christ’s full face and body.24 By showing the Shroud draped underneath and over Christ’s body while deposited at the foot of the cross and not inside the tomb, Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s painting illustrates what had by then emerged as an alternative theory to those cumbersome reconciliations of the Shroud with John’s description of the various burial linens found in the sepulcher. In this regard Filiberto Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) identifies the Shroud with the sindone and linteis used immediately after the crucifixion to begin preparations of the dead corpse, as described in the Synoptic Gospels: “And Joseph taking the body, wrapped it up in a clean linen cloth [sindone munda]” (Matthew 27:59, DRA); “And Joseph buying fine linen [sindonem], and taking him down, wrapped him up in the fine linen” (Mark 15:46, DRA); “And taking him down, he wrapped him in fine linen [sindone]” (Luke 23:53, DRA); “They took therefore the body of Jesus, and bound it in linen cloths [linteis], with the spices, as the manner of the Jews is to bury” ( John 19:40, DRA).25 Considering the Gospel descriptions of events occurring between the crucifixion and the discovery of the empty tomb, and noting in particular the haste and incommodious circumstances in which the preparations took place, Pingone charts out a process where Joseph of Arimathea collects the body from the cross, wraps it in a cloth identified as the very Shroud of Turin, and transports the draped body to the tomb. Only there and then does Joseph complete the embalming process with ointments and the application of additional linen wrappings.26 Consequently, Pingone identifies the Shroud as the initial covering applied immediately after the body was taken down from the cross—that is, prior to its final preparations for burial. In this scenario the body was placed over one

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end of the sheet with the remaining half folded over the head and down the front of the body all the way to the feet. The Shroud became imprinted, Pingone explains, because the handling of the body reopened the wounds and the fresh blood that soaked into the fabric preserved an index of the front and back of the corpse prior to the entombment itself.27 Other writers contributed a chorus of broad (if not entirely universal) expert consensus to corroborate Della Rovere’s decision to depict the Shroud the way that he did in his painting of the Deposition. Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione had similarly concluded that the Shroud was the same linen sheet in which Joseph of Arimathea wrapped Christ’s body after it was taken down from the cross. Only afterward, Paleotti repeats, did Nicodemus anoint the body with myrrh and other precious unguents and apply the new cloths that covered the head and tied the whole body together. He also concluded that the sheet had received the image of Christ’s entire body while being transported to the tomb.28 By far the most exacting of these early texts that endorse this same identification for the Shroud is Jean-Jacques Chifflet’s De Linteis Sepulchralibus Christi Servatoris Crisis Historica (1624). Chifflet, in a more elaborate fashion than Pingone, identified the Shroud of Turin as the cloth used to wrap the bloodied body only immediately after the crucifixion, and designated the now-lost Shroud of Besançon as the burial sheet later discovered in the empty tomb.29 Still, the persistence of other conflicting theories that equate the Shroud with the linens found in Christ’s tomb makes Della Rovere’s portrayal an informed hypothesis rather than conclusive doctrine. Prospero Bonafamiglia’s La sacra historia della santissima Sindone (1606) declared the Shroud to be the same sudarium wrapping Christ’s head that, according to the Gospel of John, Peter found bundled together by itself apart from the other sheets and wrappings later venerated as relics in Maastricht, Besançon, and Tuderta.30 Daniele Mallonio’s Historia admiranda de Jesu Christi stigmatibus sacrae sindoni impressis (1607), a lengthy commentary on Paleotti’s Esplicatione, contradicts Paleotti himself by also identifying the sindone as this same sudarium.31 Agaffino Solaro’s Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica (1627) joins Pingone and Paleotti in emphatically differentiating the Shroud from this head cloth. Solaro openly criticizes Mallonio’s misidentification and its apparent influence on Bonafamiglia, even though the latter was published first. Solaro maintains that the Shroud was in fact one of the linens that wrapped the body in the tomb but of course rejects any identification of it as the sudarium. Instead, it was the first cloth applied to the deposed corpse and bonded by sticky myrrh to Christ’s flesh. All other linens, including the sudarium, were then placed on top of the Shroud when the body was prepared for burial.32 But Solaro denies that the image on the Turin cloth was generated from its first contact with the body at the foot of the cross, as described by Pingone, or during the anointed body’s transit to the sepulcher, as vaguely suggested

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by Paleotti. Rather, Solaro’s most notable contribution to these theories is to credit the miracle of the resurrection for creating the images of Christ’s corpse on the Shroud of Turin (to be explored in chapter 3).33

Blood Relic

Far less controversial than reconciling the Shroud with the linens used in the preparations of Christ’s body for burial was the fact that it became an elevated type of contact relic because of the fluids from Christ’s body that soaked into it. Supporters asserted the Shroud’s preeminence as a blood relic within a devotional environment that had celebrated other blood relics since the medieval period.34 Solaro mentions a vase of blood and water with the body of Mary Magdalene in Provence, the famous blood relic of San Genaro in Naples, drops of Christ’s blood preserved in Mantua, as well as various bleeding icons and hosts as examples elsewhere in France and Italy that framed the Shroud’s own status as the most preeminent of any.35 His reaffirmation of blood devotion effectively refutes Calvin’s attacks against the practice in the early sixteenth century. Calvin doubted the authenticity of such a widespread array of relics of Christ’s blood surviving after such a long period of time. Solaro’s insistence that anyone looking at the Shroud could clearly see that the blood originated in Christ’s body masks what is otherwise a deceptively complex theological rebuttal.36 It is in fact the blood’s stark visibility that distinguishes the Shroud. Whereas other blood relics consist of tiny droplets dwarfed by their ornate and outsize containers, the blood on the Shroud appears through assertive flows that dramatically punctuate the otherwise faint and ethereal imprints of the body itself. These bloodstains record the active bleeding of a man suffering the torments described in Gospel accounts of Christ’s passion. Runs of bloody matter ooze out of pricks in Christ’s forehead administered by the crown of thorns, overflowing the crevices of his wrinkled brow. Thick rivulets of blood seep out of punctures in his forearms in meandering paths, while more forcefully squirting out of holes in the wrists. A broad stain gushes out of the side of the body gashed by Saint Longinus’s spear (fig. 6). On the reverse appears a great constellation of lacerations festering with bloody discharge from Christ being whipped at the column. This distribution of blood consolidates to form an arresting pictorial ambivalence between figuration and abstraction. In contrast to artistic representations of Christ’s passion that show blood and body with equal clarity, the activated outflow of blood on the Shroud overlays far fainter impressions of the body from which it leaked. Georges Didi-Huberman characterizes these stains of blood as nonfigurative indexes for the body that formerly touched it. The abstract, seemingly mutable whorls of blood operate more or

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figure 6 | Shroud of Turin (detail). Photo by Giandurante—Copyright Arcidiocesi di Torino.

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less autonomously from any pictorial burden, signaling the body in a direct but inversely pictorial way. It is, in Didi-Huberman’s words, “in that very place where figuration abolishes itself—as in this stain—it also generates itself. . . . The absence of figuration therefore serves as a proof of existence.”37 The stains of blood are indexical, not fully pictorial, and signify the absent body by recording its relief topography. This means that a careful observer could, as have forensic investigators, use the paths of blood to map out the shifting and twisting positions of the very unseen body writhing on the cross, thereby reconstructing the sequential movements of Christ’s corpse that allowed the blood to exit the wounds and turn in the directions that they did. These bloodstains are not pictorial marks so much as traces that encode narrative time.38 This assertive visibility of Christ’s blood became a frequent focus of attention from the time of the Shroud’s transfer to Turin in 1578. Written descriptions subordinate the Shroud’s uneven image resolution to the overriding expectation that images achieve pictorial clarity. The Venetian ambassador to the Savoy court wrote in a letter recounting the 1578 public exhibition that “the impressed features of the figure of our Lord were explicitly visible, both in terms of the front image and the back of his most holy corpse.” Further, it is “not just the face and arms being most clearly discerned, but also the wounds, and the still most vivid sign of the blood that exited through the fissures from the nails in the hands and the lance in the side. And that which renders this relic most miraculous, on the part that represents features of the back of Our Savior, the thrashing and flogging that took place during the passion are most strongly comprehended.”39 Cardinal Agostino Cusano, present at the same ostension, wrote of the Shroud’s supreme devotional merit over all other relics on account of its “true and natural, yet miraculously impressed, likeness of the Lord with the signs of all of the most holy wounds; and, even more, for the most precious blood of which you see it is tinted and soaked with much abundance in so many places.”40 Cusano describes in rare detail the measurable characteristics of the marks of blood scattered around the impression of Christ’s body: “On the forehead there remain some traces of the crown of thorns with some trickles of blood that flow down above the eyes; the chest wound is on the right side and almost three fingers wide with as much an abundance of blood as the width of the palm of the hand.” He notes that the nail holes in the wrist are “the size of a rather large finger and [have] a quantity of blood as big as an egg,” and describes “the arms as if flayed from the elbow down, drenched in blood” and as much blood on the feet as on the hands.41 What stands out among many recorded witnesses to the Shroud’s appearance is a persistence with which they emphasize a volume of discharged blood that exceeds what is actually there. Most of these texts were published for circulation to worshippers who often had no direct visible access to the original cloth. They are instructive or at least suggestive of how to imagine what it looks like. Paleotti’s Esplicatione includes an

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figure 7 | Woodcut illustration of Shroud of Turin in Alfonso Paleotti, Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Bologna: Heredi di Gio. Rossi, 1599). Photo: author.

accompanying woodcut reproduction of the Shroud that labels each of the wounds on Christ’s body, with an exaggerated outpouring of blood scattered about it (fig. 7). This text reflects at length on each of the deposits of blood as indexes of the bloody member that left its mark. Paleotti is especially effusive about the blood on the head drawn forth by the crown of thorns and that from the spear wound in Christ’s side.42 Descriptions of other wounds scattered around Christ’s body demonstrate Paleotti’s penchant for dramatizing the physiological trauma inflicted by the instruments of the passion. For example, the Shroud brings to fruition the prophecy that the soles of the feet “were supposed to shed such copious amounts of blood that wherever they rest they would not even stamp bloody footprints; instead, it would look like the foot itself was immersed in blood.”43 Additionally, the hands “were throwing off an abundance of blood” (gettavano abondanza di sangue) to such a degree that they became “irrigated by drops of blood that was running through the fingers” (furono irrigate da gocciole di sangue, che scorreva fra le deta).44 Other writers corroborated Paleotti’s treatment of Christ’s blood on the Shroud. Balliani remarked in his homilies on the Turin relic that “the Son of God did not leave behind to the world anything where one sees more clearly the outpouring of his blood than in this divine Shroud.”45 Consequently, the Shroud bears evidence of the blood coming not just from the heart but from the entire body, exiting Christ’s five wounds, in Balliani’s words, “copiously, like a great wave” (di grand’ onda copiosamente).46 The rhetorician Emanuele Tesauro’s panegyric on the Shroud, titled “La simpathia,” delivered before the Savoy family and subsequently published in 1659, considers the greater glory of seeing Christ’s scourged corpse than an image of Christ in heaven. While in the latter one sees the source of the blood, the former evinces in what quantity it was shed.47 In his words, the blood left on the Shroud is the culmination of a continuous discharge that increased

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progressively with each episode of the passion: “In the Temple the blood was a simple sprinkle, a dew in the Garden of Gethsemane, a spring in the atrium, a storm cloud in the praetorium, a torrent on the way of the cross, and a deluge on the cross.”48 Eugenio Quarantotto calculates 547,500 drops of blood on the Shroud as evidence of the extreme torment that Christ endured.49 Solaro makes clear that the quantity of blood on the Shroud exceeds even that which soaked the cross because the cloth enveloped Christ’s body for three days.50

Passion Icon

However effectively the blood by itself stimulated devotions to the passion, assessing the Shroud’s full devotional impact must account for its pictorial qualities as an image of Christ’s desolated body. It is a common trope that from the Shroud alone one can rehearse the events of the entire passion because it shows each of the wounds inflicted on the body. “Where,” Tesauro asks, “do there remain more impressed or more expressed traces of the wounds and the entire record of atrocious lashings—in fact, the whole passion in compendio—if not on the Shroud alone?”51 Consequently, as Tesauro would explain in his “Commentario,” the bloody imprint enables a perpetually on-demand performance of Christ’s death: Indeed, what mystery, what moment of his life is not represented to you in the place and form of these two images? Do you want the birth and the death? Suspend the Shroud, and you will see there one image that rises and another that falls. Do you want the entombment and the resurrection? Lay the cloth back down and you will see one image in the act of entering the tomb and the other of leaving it. Do you want the descent into limbo and the ascent into heaven? Hang the Shroud back up and you will find one image that descends and the other that rises.52 Tesauro invites the viewer to interact directly with the Shroud, either by handling a copy in order to rehearse Christ’s bodily movements or by mobilizing an imaginary cloth through inward contemplation.53 Either way, the Shroud’s capacity to trigger reenactments of the passion and resurrection allows viewers to engage in narrativized forms of devotion. In accordance with the Gregorian justification of images as the bibles of the illiterate, commentators routinely describe the Shroud as a didactic book that tells the passion story through images much as the Gospels themselves record it in words.54 Buonafede even terms the Shroud a “fifth gospel” that reveals marks not relayed in the New Testament

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accounts of Christ’s death.55 Balliani likens the Shroud to “a marvelous book left to us by Christ for our instruction.”56 But such an analogy to printed text is only metaphorical. The Shroud is celebrated much more often as a Counter-Reformation image that demonstrates the superiority of the pictorial arts to the written and spoken word. For as Balliani would declare, “Now there is no doubt that objects and examples that we see with our eyes more effectively move and awaken our souls than do words that we hear with our ears.”57 We can assess the impact of seeing the Shroud’s totalizing image of Christ’s passion by looking at it through the intense devotions Carlo Borromeo directed toward it. The cardinal and archbishop traveled to Turin to see the Shroud on four occasions in the final years of his life—in 1578, 1581, 1582, and just before his death in 1584.58 While Borromeo’s biographies are riddled with encounters with, promotions of, and performances of piety before a variety of images and relics, the Shroud was especially dear to him, and he helped establish its cult in post-Tridentine Italy.59 An altarpiece by Giacomo and Giovanni Andrea Casella at the Church of San Carlo in Turin (ca. 1655) immortalizes his special affection for the Shroud (fig. 8). Putti suspend the cloth in a monumental church setting, while the cardinal appears transfixed in adoration before it. Borromeo’s posture here matches how his early biographer Giovanni Pietro Giussano describes him in front of the holy relic during his 1578 pilgrimage: “The cardinal, on his knees, keeping his eyes so fixed on the Savior’s sacred figure that he seemed unable to pull himself away from it, never moving until [the Shroud] was put back and covered in its chest.”60 Giussano further recounts how the Shroud captivated Borromeo’s devotional attention during his first private viewing: The holy cardinal, not being satisfied with that external visit alone, stopped for a long span of time to fathom with his internal thoughts what and how many were the bitter sorrows that the world’s redeemer suffered on his most sacred body, wounded in so many places and with cuts so savage and all torn up. This moved his entire spirit, and while he made great strains to hide his internal feelings of compassion, he could not, however, conceal them so much that the eyes would not yield manifest signs through tears that flowed through them, all those same wounds remaining engraved on his heart.61 Borromeo’s actions before the Shroud’s vivid display of violence and suffering show the internal affect this bloodstained cloth could trigger and the emotional reactions that come about from devotions enacted before it. The impact the Shroud’s violent rendering of a ravaged body exerted on spectators must have been profound because of the abject bluntness with which Christ’s torment

figure 8 | Giacomo and Giovanni Andrea Casella, San Carlo Borromeo in Adoration to the Shroud, ca. 1655. Church of San Carlo, Turin. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

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becomes apparent. As a surrogate for that body, its presentation of evidentiary proof could furnish experiences that effectively parallel Doubting Thomas’s visual and tactile probing of Christ’s pierced flesh to verify the miracle of the resurrection.62 Further, because it records the pathology of Christ’s death, the Shroud sustained devotional engagement through a kind of “autoptic vision” that early modern audiences often directed toward secular and sacred bodies.63 Examinations of the Shroud at close hand reveal its effective power as a site for devotionally charged investigations into the nature and extent of Christ’s bodily torment. Carlo Bascapè, who accompanied Borromeo to Turin in 1582, wrote a letter full of vivid evocations of the cruel violence wrought upon Christ’s body visible in the Shroud: “You know that for ordinary beatings there would not have remained such bloody marks. [Instead,] a diabolical anger was needed to deliver blows so bold that the flesh did not even get bruised; rather, the skin broken, blood drew out of it.”64 So great was the volume of blood, Bascapè continues, that “the image of those not injuries nor wounds but bloody fountains, the streams rushing from various parts of the body that are seen to be practically overflowing to the lower back. . . . All of it remains portrayed and impressed on my heart.”65 Borromeo recalled the Shroud’s portrayal of Christ’s battered face in a sermon that enumerated how “the crown of thorns pierced every part of his head and the blood flowed down over his cheeks, which, beaten by slaps, defiled by spit, stained by blood, and rendered black and blue, no longer had any beauty whatsoever.”66 Bascapè and Borromeo were hardly the first to be captivated by the Shroud’s pictorial presentation of violence wrought on Christ’s body. The materiality of blood marking the corporeal stains frequently allowed the Shroud to serve as a proxy for that very body in a way that the fractioned nature of blood relics ordinarily could not. The report by the Poor Clare nuns who repaired the damaged cloth after the 1532 fire in Chambéry reads in part as a forensic postmortem of Christ’s bloodied corpse: In fact, we see, on this rich tableau, sufferings which could never be imagined. We also saw traces of a face all plummeted and all bruised with blows, his divine head pierced with great thorns from which came streams of blood which ran onto his forehead and divided into diverse branches, clothing it with the most precious purple in the world. . . . The cheeks, swollen and disfigured, show well enough that they had been cruelly struck, particularly the right. . . . And we saw a long trace which went down onto the neck, which made us think that he was bound by an iron chain when he was taken in the Garden of Olives; because it is seen to be swollen in different places, as if he had been bound and pushed; the lead-marks and lash-marks are so thick on his stomach that one can hardly find a place as big as a pinpoint free of blows. . . .

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. . . And they re-opened also by the jerk of the cross when it was put into the mortise, and beforehand when he was made to fall upon the cross in order to nail him there; the shoulders are entirely torn and brayed with whip lashes, which spread all over. The blood drops appear as large as marjoram leaves; in several places there are large rents from the blows they gave him; on the middle of the body, one notices the vestiges of an iron chain which bound him so tightly to the column that it appears all blood; the diversity of the blows shows that they used different kinds of whips . . . which so cruelly tore him that, when looking through the underside of the Shroud, we saw the wounds as if we had looked through a glass.67 Similarly, Paleotti’s entire Esplicatione effectively amounts to a detailed analysis of all the wounds visible on the Shroud as a means to present the full scope of Christ’s bodily corruption, with numerous borrowings from such graphic accounts of Christ’s suffering as sermons on the passion by Saint Bernard and the Revelations of Saint Bridget. Later writers throughout the seventeenth century also made efforts to describe the bodily violence recorded through the Shroud’s markings. For instance, Barralis emphasized the destruction caused by the nails, the tightness of the ropes, and other beatings.68 For Paolo Segneri, the depiction of Christ’s physical torment was an intentional self-portrait. Christ could have preserved his likeness in any number of ways, but he decided on one that shows himself “all miserable, all filthy, all wounded” (tutto squallido, tutto sozzo, tutto piagato), deformed and riddled with horrible lesions.69 These visceral descriptions of the Shroud’s graphic marks show the formative influence of a religious image culture spanning the medieval and early modern eras that normalized the pathology of twisted bodies, outpouring blood, and other such depictions of “saintly” violence.70 Already in the mid-sixteenth century Pietro Aretino’s I quattro libri de la humanità di Cristo (1539) described the horrific assault to Christ’s body, most vividly during the flagellation.71 Indeed, the Shroud’s features can be likened to traditional iconographies of the Man of Sorrows and Pietà that emphasize Christ’s bodily torment and death.72 In particular, the emergence of the Shroud’s depiction of sacred violence in the late 1500s became integrated into a growing Counter-Reformation taste for explicit images of Christ’s suffering. When discussing images of the passion, the reform theologian Giovanni Andrea Gilio da Fabriano admitted the devotional gains rendered through depictions of the ravaged body, saying “it would move people to repentance much more if he were seen bloody and deformed, rather than beautiful and delicate.”73 Contemporary sermons even began to emphasize the body of Christ from the perspective of the torturer.74 But

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the visible medium of images was thought to be more devotionally effective. In consonance with early modern art theory, the sight of the Shroud’s evidence of pain would even cause a reciprocal sensation in the spectator.75 In a chapter titled “Christian images serve to move the feelings of persons,” Gabriele Paleotti’s Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane (1582) remarks that “to hear the story told of the martyrdom of a saint, or the zeal and constancy of a virgin, or the passion of Christ himself—those are things that really hit one inside. But when the saintly martyr practically materializes in front of your eyes in vivid color, with the oppressed virgin on one side and Christ pierced by nails on the other—one would have to be made of wood or stone not to feel how much more it intensifies devotion and wrenches the gut.”76 To that end, Giovanni Francesco Blancardi urges readers to consider the profound effect the Shroud’s visible signs of violence has on a Christian spectator given the effect that the sight of any other murdered corpse would exert.77

Visionary Devotion

What might Borromeo and his contemporaries have experienced when gazing upon the Shroud’s portrayal of Christ’s bloodied body and its physical suffering? As seen above, the Shroud collapses multiple episodes of Christ’s passion into a single image, capturing the full array of physical tortures enumerated in the Gospels. Authors of published texts betray a persistent desire to see the Shroud not simply as a reminder of those past events, but as a stimulus to their devotional reenactment. Remarkably, many descriptions of Christ’s blood on the Shroud employ an active verb tense that sets the torments he experienced into motion. The marks left on the cloth are not treated as residual drops and splatters of completed actions but are rather comprehended as an ongoing phenomenon where blood excretes over the surface of the body right before the viewer’s eyes. In other words, seeing the Shroud of Turin could approximate the experience of witnessing a profuse bleeding and narrative performance of the passion. For instance, Tesauro’s “La simpathia” relays that the Shroud shows still today the exact number, quality, and size, not only of the five healed scars, but of all the wounds that are still open and oozing: with as many eloquent mouths it pathetically represents and recounts the unspeakable sufferings of his first to his final act: the hemorrhaging of the bloody sweat, the cuts from the knotty branches, the atrophy from long starvation, the tearing from the hooked flagella, the grazing of ravenous thorns around the temples, the deep furrows of the ignominious gallows above the shoulders, the pits from the disturbing nails,

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the chasm from the ruthless lance, the overflow of all the blood from the gaping veins, the abandoning of the Spirit, the laying out in the Tomb, his wrapping up in the Shroud saturated with aloe and myrrh. (Emphasis mine)78 Just as in Bascapè’s description of Borromeo’s desire for an internalized contemplation of Christ’s wounds left engraved on his own heart, one need not be in the physical presence of the Shroud for it to be devotionally effective. Innocenzio Baldi urges worshippers to contemplate the image of Christ’s sanguineous body with the eyes of the mind when it is not possible to do so with those of the body. For the power of the Shroud to convey the kinetics of blood issuing from festering wounds provokes the worshipper into formulating a memory aid for the mental rehearsal of the events contributing to Christ’s death.79 Therein lies this image’s potential to induce an imaginative contemplation of it. The sight of blood can ensnare the viewer’s attention, haunt the mind, and ultimately compel one to regard the image as if witnessing the action itself. Prospero Bonafamiglia offers an evocatively rich suggestion for how one might engage in an activated form of imaginatively viewing Christ’s blood that could even trigger a visionary event. In his published history of the Shroud, which helped further perpetuate the relic’s prestige, Bonafamiglia encourages readers to envision a direct physical encounter with the very progression of blood seen exiting the body: Contemplate those fountains, whence [the blood] flows: see how rich and abundant [in blood] those most sacred veins of the five wounds are. Christ on the Shroud extends to you his punctured feet so that kissing them you satiate yourself with blood; he shows you his wounded hands, so that you enrich yourself with the blood distilled from them; he opens wide his side with its bleeding wellspring for you, so that through the opening of the wound you let yourself enter into Christ’s heart, and you get drunk on divine love from the blood that pours out. A rain of most copious blood showers down from his entire person, so that with that [blood] watering your soul, not only does it cleanse and wash it, but draws it to him, and conjoins it as a perpetual spouse, and makes your soul truthfully sing and tell: You are a bridegroom of blood to me.80 Evidently, seeing and imagining the Shroud carries the potential to witness the bleeding Christ—with an emphasis on the present progressive tense of the word “bleeding.” Contemplating the cloth’s visible marks, Bonafamiglia makes clear, can result in getting drenched in the blood seen gushing out of the wounds, thereby collapsing the distinction between image, subject, and viewer while eradicating the distancing effects of time.

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This perceived physical encounter conjured through the contemplation of blood rushing out of Christ’s body perpetuates the legacy of a medieval devotional experience. Bonafamiglia’s description of a “rain of most copious blood [that] showers down from his entire person” is reminiscent of the late twelfth-century English monk from Evesham found on Good Friday with his face covered with fresh blood that issued from a miraculous crucifix. As the monk reported: While I was kneeling before the image and was kissing it on the mouth and eyes, I felt some drops falling gently on my forehead. When I removed my fingers, I discovered from their color that it was blood. I also saw blood flowing from the side of the image on the cross, as it does from the veins of a living man when he is cut for blood-letting. I do not know how many drops I caught in my hand as they fell. With the blood I devoutly anointed my eyes, ears, and nostrils. Afterward—if I sinned in this I do not know—in my zeal I swallowed one drop of it, but the rest, which I caught in my hand, I was determined to keep.81 The report continues by stressing how the vision brought viewer and viewed phenomenon into temporal coexistence: The tongue cannot reveal nor human weakness worthily describe what we saw as we went on. For who could worthily explain it in words? In the middle of endless thousands of blessed spirits who stood round, as if present at the sacred solemnity of the Lord’s passion, the pious redeemer of the human race appeared. It was as if he were hanging on the cross with his whole body bloody from scourging, insulted by spitting, crowned with thorns, with nails driven into him, pierced with the lance; while streams of blood flowed over his hands and feet, and blood and water dropped from his holy side!82 Accounts like these commonly emphasize the active flow of blood. In so doing they widen the temporal parameters of contemplative engagement to situate the visions firmly in the presence of the beholder. The worshipper is thus cast as both a witness to and participant in the image’s activation of Christ’s death. The expectation of and even desire for these sorts of visionary encounters must have been what compelled some artists spanning the medieval and early modern eras to create images that carry profound performative potential by exhibiting an emphatically effusive issuance of sanguinity.83 Commentators on the Shroud, apparently conditioned by a taste for free-flowing bodily emissions, saw not just a cloth upon which blood was spilt, but a devotional stimulus for conjuring in their minds the active process by which

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the blood exits the body and is soaked into the linen weave of the sheet. And yet, while the Shroud’s representation of Christ’s body does display a certain archaizing Christocentrism that found favor in the sixteenth century, it nevertheless resists easy integration into the period’s artistic taxonomies.84 Artists in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were less apt than their predecessors to portray the gruesome effects of an extravagant violence on the body. In fact, Gilio, who favored a more medieval way of depicting Christ’s extreme physical torment, admitted to having discussed this idea with contemporary painters, only for them to respond that such depictions “would go against the conventions of their art.”85 By this token, the Shroud’s blood—and most especially the effusive flowing of blood that commentators envisioned in it—provides the very blunt portrayal that was, by comparison, then lacking in many early modern artistic depictions of Christ’s body in Italy. Nevertheless, similarities to some types of images reveal a tantalizing blurring of boundaries between the fictive and the material that helps explain the Shroud of Turin’s sudden appeal and rise to prominence. In particular, the Sacro Monte of Varallo in northern Italy presents vivid three-dimensional reconstructions of the events of Christ’s passion through intense fixations with optical verism rendered through full-scale polychromy and the incorporation of real materials such as clothing and even hair.86 Despite a pictorial realism verging on a hyperreality lacking in the Shroud’s flattened two-dimensional impressions, the ensembles at Varallo share an insistence on material directness that fosters immersive and even participatory devotional experiences for pilgrims.87 Displays such as the encounter between Christ and Veronica, created in 1599–1600 (fig. 9), were so direct that they, in the words of William Hood, “obliterate any subject/object distance that could separate the devout observer from the realities conveyed through the language of symbols.”88 Of course, the image on the Shroud of Turin differs from these installations of polychrome sculpture in its more restricted and selective use of pictorial realism. For instance, its nebulous stains only suggestively intimate a corporeal presence. And yet against this matrix of a ghostly imprint suspended between figuration and abstraction the stains of blood forcefully emphasize an abject violence and consequent graphic focus on the physical pathology of Christ’s dying body. The Sacro Monte of Varallo’s use as a site for stimulating devotional engagement provides a way to understand further the role of the Shroud in Carlo Borromeo’s devotional practices—and therefore to recognize just what it is that captivates his mind and body in painted portrayals of him adoring the Turin relic. Borromeo visited Varallo several times in his life.89 At least two of these visits, in 1578 and 1584, came immediately after pilgrimages to see the Shroud. According to Carlo Bascapè, who accompanied Borromeo on these visits, the residual impression that the Shroud left in the cardinal’s memory informed his subsequent devotions at Varallo. That is, the Shroud and Varallo were two parts of a united

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figure 9 | Giovanni Tabachetti and Giovanni d’Enrico, detail of The Road to Calvary, 1599–1600. Sacro Monte di Varallo. Photo courtesy of Allie Terry-Fritsch and Stefan Fritsch.

devotional experience. Bascapè recounts that in 1578 Borromeo “made a stop at the mount of Varallo to meditate again, even from afar, while he traversed the chapels of the passion constructed in that place, on the anguishing image of the Lord depicted with his wounds and all his sufferings on the Holy Shroud.”90 In 1584 the same author, speaking of the pleasure derived from his meditations on Christ’s death stimulated by Varallo’s polychrome sculptures, attributes Borromeo’s state of mind there to his previous devotions before the Shroud.91 Consequently, the Shroud of Turin and the installations at Varallo became intertwined points of reference for a direct engagement with Christ himself. A painting by Giovanni Battista Crespi (“Il Cerano”) from 1610 that shows Borromeo kneeling in prayer before the dead Christ at Varallo on his final visit in 1584 visualizes this interchangeability between relic, image, and body (fig. 10).92 The life-size polychrome sculpture by Gaudenzio Ferrari at the Chapel of the Holy Sepulcher was a subject of especially intense and lengthy devotions by the cardinal in which he reportedly shed an abundance of tears (fig. 11).93 As is typical of the installations at this site, its material realism offers visual encounters with Christ’s body that approach the hallucinogenic.94 Indeed, Crespi’s painting makes no distinction between Christ as a real presence or an artificial

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representation. He achieves instead a figurative ambiguity to suggest that the sculpture could have transformed into the very body itself during Borromeo’s spiritual contemplation of it.95 If we accept Bascapè’s insistence that the Shroud was also present in Borromeo’s mind at this same time, then what this painting in fact depicts is the mutable transactions between the material and pictorial traces on the Shroud, the realistic rendering through painted sculpture at Varallo, and the suffering body itself. Despite their differing modes of presenting Christ’s body, Borromeo could have seen the Shroud and Ferrari’s polychrome portrayal as sympathetic images; while the modes of presentation differ, they equally deliver the viewer toward a contemplative mode in which Christ’s body is presented, and hence directly encountered, as palpably real.96 But this transformation of image into body does not happen by itself. That is, the image of Christ on the Shroud of Turin does not actually enact the things these viewers attribute to it. It does not really issue blood or move in accordance with the dramatic events of the passion. Instead, these are internal visionary events occurring in the imaginations of the people who contemplate this singular image of the passion.97 Viewers from the Renaissance onward were readily prepared to interpret an image as activated, conditioned by an evident delight induced by images that appear so lifelike as to suggest real vitality. As Ludovico Dolce claimed in his Dialogo della Pittura (1557), “It is genuinely pleasing and astonishing to the spectator’s eye to see in stone or on a canvas or in wood an inanimate object which gives the appearance of moving.”98 Baroque viewers did not evidently become desensitized to such imagery either. Scholarship reveals the affective power that so-called moving images wielded over spectators even at the time writers on the Shroud were elaborating the amount and mobility of blood visible on the cloth.99 But the descriptions analyzed earlier seem to transcend the clichéd Renaissance taste for dramatic lifelike imagery alone. Baroque devotional strategies that activate, internally, religious imagery are paramount to understanding the kinds of habits that viewers like Carlo Borromeo evidently put to use when confronting the Shroud of Turin.100 Saint Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises, and in particular the technique of “composition of place,” comprised the primary devotional strategy for activating the simulation of movement within a fixed representation.101 Borromeo was especially fervent in his meditations on Christ’s passion in late sixteenth-century Milan and was instrumental in bringing renewed emphasis on the forms of contemplation on the passion that were marked by immersive and intensely sensorial devotional tactics.102 His use of the Spiritual Exercises at Varallo is well known, and they evidently found especially intense implementation during that final pilgrimage in 1584 under the guidance of his confessor, Francesco Adorno.103 In those practices the worshipper applies his senses to reconstruct imaginatively the physical circumstances of the subject of meditation, establishing active contemplation as a hallmark of Baroque spirituality triggered

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figure 10 | Giovanni Battista Crespi (“Il Cerano”), Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Dead Christ at Varallo, ca. 1610. Museo del Prado, Madrid. Copyright of the image Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York. figure 11 | Gaudenzio Ferrari, Dead Christ, late fifteenth century. Chapel of the Holy Sepulcher, Sacro Monte di Varallo. Photo courtesy of Grace Harpster.

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through images.104 This elicited especially strong visionary experiences when applied to renderings of Christ’s passion. Worshippers were guided through a process where they imagined themselves present in the time and place in which the subject on which they meditate occurred. In essence, this devotional technique enhances the image’s effect. The reconstitution of the real circumstances of Christ’s death triggers a deeply emotional response to that image, one equivalent to being in the presence of Christ’s original suffering and the despoiled body lying lifeless in the tomb.105 In the end, in order to unlock fully the devotional power of the Shroud of Turin, one must understand the potential for the image to act beyond its own materials, as well as the ritual of devotional viewing, which grants the image of the dying Christ the power to act before the eyes and impress itself in the memory.

A Eucharistic Image

An examination of the Shroud’s devotional function as an image-relic must consider that such a figuration of Christ in image, combined with his material presentation through corporeal matter, fosters an interchangeable relationship between the Shroud and its prototype.106 Another depiction of Carlo Borromeo by an anonymous painter in the early 1600s at the Church of San Martino in Revigliasco, outside Turin, brings the Shroud’s multivalence as an image, relic, and body to the fore (fig. 12). It repeats the familiar composition of Borromeo kneeling before the Shroud, which, suspended by putti, seems to take shape in a visionary apparition. But in this example the Shroud is also positioned lengthwise across the top of an altar table. In this guise it invites comparisons to the Eucharist. As the Shroud signals the suffering of Christ’s body in image and substance, it substitutes, like the Man of Sorrows, for that body.107 If Borromeo comprehended the Shroud’s image through his devotional engagement with it as the presence of Christ’s active bleeding, then what this painting shows is the Turin cloth implicated in a scene directly reminiscent of the eucharistic Mass of Saint Gregory. Further, even the manner by which the Shroud’s image came into being, imprinted by Christ’s body, evokes connections with the stamping of communion wafers and draws association with the wine press as a form of sacramental iconography.108 The recognition of the Shroud’s eucharistic features elicited a special kind of devotion unavailable to images that do not incorporate the material vestiges of Christ’s body. Giambattista Marino positioned the Shroud in opposition to “ordinary painting,” revealing the Turin cloth’s greater prestige: Artificial painting is imitation of nature, but this supernatural painting is inimitable by nature. Earthly painting is barely the object of a single sentiment of

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figure 12 | Anonymous, Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Shroud, early 1600s. Church of San Martino, Revigliasco. Photo courtesy of Marino Briccarello.

the body, but this celestial painting satisfies all the powers of the soul. Ordinary painting consists of nothing apart from appearance and illusion, since it is the art of representing with color visible things on a flat surface, but this extraordinary painting retains in itself real truth, or rather is all being and all substance, since it contains he who is everything, in everything and for everything. Human painting is not able to do anything but awaken the memory of God in our mind with the instrument of the eye, and is therefore revered and not adored unless with dulia. But this painting by God reveals and represents to the external and internal eye the same God himself, and, because of the contact that it has with the divine blood, deserves the adoration latria.109 While painted representations only serve as transparent semblances of the subjects portrayed, the Shroud sets itself apart because of the material qualities that made it such a revered relic. Not only is it an authentic likeness of Christ, but it contains traces of Christ’s physical matter in the form of his blood that seeped into the sheet from direct contact. From a devotional point of view, this gives the Shroud an authority that no conventional

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artistic image could claim. Namely, Marino declares, the Shroud is worthy of receiving adoration, in the form of latria, normally reserved for devotions to God alone. Francesco Adorno’s account of Borromeo’s pilgrimage in 1578 and Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione appear to be the first to assign this level of devotion to the Shroud. They do so on the rationale that it preserves material traces of Christ’s blood.110 The Shroud’s absorption of blood and the devotional levels it earns as a result became essential to its special status as an image and relic. Solaro remarked that if one were to divide the Shroud into a hundred thousand pieces—thereby destroying any coherence as an image—each fragment would still be deserving of latria because of the cloth having touched the body and soaked up Christ’s blood.111 Other images, no matter how refined their artistry, only merit dulia, a lesser form of veneration (not adoration) owed to saints and images because of their physical and compositional distinction from the prototypes they represent. The argument that the Shroud deserves latria was at odds with some theologians debating the proper form of devotion owed to images leading up to the Council of Trent. Ambrogio Catarino Politi argued against images meriting this highest form of devotion on the simple grounds that “the image, however considered, is not God.”112 While the Council of Trent itself hardly resolved the matter in any definitive form, outside of appearing to come down on the side of images being mere representations of the prototype, Gabriele Paleotti’s Discorso reinforced latria being due to God alone.113 Importantly, by virtue of earning adoration in the form of latria even in the face of these hesitations, the Shroud earned a status equivalent, devotionally speaking, to that of the Eucharist, which the Council of Trent also declared to merit the same devotional rank. In this regard we can attribute part of the Shroud’s emergent appeal as a religious object of devotion from the late 1500s onward to Catholic emphasis on the doctrine of real presence—a subject of much theological debate to which the Shroud could have been seen to provide tangible reinforcement. Simply put, the Shroud deserves the same form of devotion owed also to God himself because it, too, as a relic, contains the real presence of Christ’s body.114 It was this composition of the Shroud, and in particular its preservation of Christ’s blood, that allowed it to be conceived as a form of spiritual nutriment similar to the host.115 Buonafede also goes further in assigning the Shroud a liturgical role as a sacramental relic by declaring that it is honored at every celebration of the Eucharist.116 Fittingly, worshippers throughout the Shroud’s early modern history readily associated it with the Eucharist. The Shroud’s ostension in 1582 was accompanied by a feast and procession of the Corpus Domini.117 Most crucially, sixteenth- and seventeenth-century revisionist hagiographies asserted an alignment between the Shroud’s acquisition by the Savoy in 1453 and the so-called miracle of the host that occurred in Turin that same year. For instance, the ephemeral constructions for the bicentennial of this event,

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figure 13 | Giulio Cesare Grampin, Turin with Holy Shroud, Corpus Christi, and Patron Saints, engraving, 1701. Photo © 1999 Barrie M. Schwortz Collection, STERA, Inc.

in 1653, incorporated images of the Shroud.118 Later, a print issued in 1701 to celebrate the city’s recent expansion further underscores this linkage, showing angels suspending the Shroud in the sky with a radiant host floating above the Turin cityscape (fig. 13).119 One key manifestation of the Shroud being recognized for its eucharistic characteristics is the practice of performing the Forty Hours Devotion (quarant’ore), a form of continuous adoration usually expressed toward the Eucharist for the duration of time in which Christ’s body lay in the tomb.120 The first occurrence took place immediately following the first public exhibition in Turin in 1578.121 Indeed, Carlo Borromeo was among

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the most fervent promoters of the quarant’ore and codified aspects of the ceremony in his Avvertenze per l’oratione delle quaranta hore (1577). The 1536 exhibition of the Shroud in Milan, which Borromeo must have witnessed, may have contributed to the spread of this devotional practice.122 Crucially, because the quarant’ore was typically directed toward the Eucharist, its application to the Shroud forges an implicit equivalence between the remnants of Christ’s body absorbed into the cloth and the transubstantiated body in the blessed sacrament. Perhaps even more important indicators of the Shroud’s eucharistic significance are the ostensions themselves from the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. On one hand, the opportunities to see the Shroud draw parallels to the Holy Corporal from the Mass at Bolsena. This bloodstained cloth, which was otherwise installed in a reliquary shrine at the Cathedral of Orvieto, was featured in annual Corpus Christi processions to prove the real presence of the Eucharist.123 Putting the Shroud repeatedly on public display similarly established a causal relationship between sight and belief. The Catechism of the Council of Trent, published in 1566, asserted that the consecration of the blood especially “places before our eyes, in more vivid colours, Christ’s passion, crucifixion, and death.”124 The host had always performed an intensely visual role within the theology of Holy Communion and its reenactment of Christ’s sacrifice.125 But these issues concerning the role of sight were especially emphasized beginning in the second half of the sixteenth century. After the extensive discussions about and reaffirmations of transubstantiation at the Council of Trent, theologians directed focused attention to the manner by which the host was displayed to congregants at the Mass. This preoccupation with the mystery of the Eucharist and the evidence of its miraculous conversion from bread into flesh engendered new strategies that further enhanced the worshipper’s experiential communion with Christ’s body. Alterations to liturgical practices enforced by the Tridentine Mass included an increase in the number of instances in which the priest performed the elevatio of the host. This ritualistic act of display provided a visual spectacle that brought the worshipper into a direct visual engagement with the consecrated bread.126 It allowed congregants to see with their bodily eyes, if not the miraculous transformation itself, then at least the species in which this miracle occurs. The repeated public showings of the Shroud of Turin starting in the years after the closing of the Council of Trent might have come directly out of these efforts to bolster belief in the Savoy relic’s own real presence through the performance of visual spectacles of display. The Counter-Reformation emphasis on the miraculous transubstantiation of the Eucharist had a corollary effect of reinvigorating the importance of the Shroud as an object especially worthy of veneration. Just as viewing the host will affirm the real presence contained inside it by way of transubstantiation, sight of the Shroud will also allow for a visible witness to divine matter coalesced into an image.127 In this regard the Shroud

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provides visual confirmation of the real presence that remains invisible in the species of the host. When describing the eucharistic qualities of the Shroud, Buonafede encourages viewers to “unite the most holy Sacrament with my Shroud, and hence with your faith you will believe in my real presence in the Sacrament, and with your eyes look at my blood colored on the Shroud. . . . Now in the Sacrament I am alive but invisible, and on the Shroud visible but not alive. Bring the Sacrament and Shroud together and here I am both visible and alive. On the former you will believe with faith, and in the latter you will see me with your senses.”128 The Shroud of Turin makes available to the bodily eyes the very accidents of Christ’s presence that in the Eucharist are only intellectually sensible. Besides the shared emphasis on display to bring the public into direct visual contact with an object of extreme devotional importance, the transfer of fluid from the seeping wounds of the body to the Shroud’s absorbent weave of linen imparts a relationship between divine image and sacred prototype in which the pictorial and material presence of Christ’s body are indelibly joined.

Chapter 2

Made Not Begotten The Shroud as Divine Artifice

To the naked eye, the Shroud of Turin’s evanescent stains only partially coalesce into the recognizable shape of Christ’s body. To viewers at the ostension of 1898—one of remarkably few to have taken place after the Shroud was installed in its reliquary chapel in 1694—this emergent form lingered precariously between visibility and dissolution. As Ernst von Dobschütz recounted, “The white cloth, stretched on a golden frame and displayed in the incense-heavy air of the chapel, was illuminated by means of reflectors, and yet, despite the glaring light, very little more than the bare outlines of a human body was recognizable in the two shadowy images.”1 Another reported, “I was disappointed: ‘non si vede niente’ (you can’t see anything) everyone was saying; we tried something else, and little by little we could see.”2 Discriminating the Shroud’s ghostly impressions of Christ’s body from the confusing blend of faintly colored stains, bloody matter, and linen threads was evidently, in the words of Peter Geimer, “a matter of intuition rather than seeing.”3 So indifferent are these reactions to seeing the Shroud that the 1898 exhibition—and perhaps the Shroud’s elusive image itself—would have faded into oblivion were it not for an unexpected discovery when the cloth was photographed for the first time by the amateur photographer Secondo Pia. During the process of developing the photographic plates, the negative image emerged with stunning clarity—markedly clearer, in fact, than the fully developed photographic positive (fig. 14). The implication

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figure 14 | Shroud of Turin (negative image). Photo by Giandurante— Copyright Arcidiocesi di Torino.

was that the secrets of Christ’s body image remained visually encrypted for nearly two millennia until the advent of photography provided the means to decode it.4 We might liken efforts to make sense of the Shroud’s image to distinguishing between signal and noise, with an intervening filter enabling the body to be more sharply perceived against the indecipherable matrix of the cloth’s material support. While in 1898 the medium of photography exposed unknown features of the cloth’s bloodstained impressions of Christ’s body, an analogous conceptual apparatus in the early modern period allowed for similarly new insights into the wondrous nature of this extraordinary image. Carlo Bascapè’s account of the 1582 ostension attended by Carlo Borromeo and Gabriele Paleotti used artistic metaphors to describe the Shroud, remarking that its markings appeared “more similar to an artist’s sketch [sbozzatura] than to a finished work. . . . The

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shape of the body [was] figured by way of a certain dark stain [macchia oscura].”5 Agostino Cusano insisted on an even more elaborate analogy to artifice. He said of the image of Christ’s body seen at the 1578 exhibition that “the entire figure is greatly darkened, similar to a black shadow [ombra nera], or like a painting’s preliminary sketch [primo bozzo] which is seen one moment and not seen another and still generates greater desire and diligence to see it again better. At times it is seen better close up, and at times from afar.”6 What did Bascapè and Cusano mean when they called the Shroud a “shadow” (ombra), “sketch” (sbozzatura and primo bozzo), and “stain” (macchia) that ebbs between figuration and abstraction? These comments might at first seem to signal a lack of visible coherence prefiguring the disrupted visual comprehension experienced by viewers in 1898 before the fateful first photograph revealed what the eye alone could not fully make out. In fact, medieval icons of Christ were intentionally obscured through blackened shadows in accordance with a host of eschatological and theological descriptions of Christ’s “brilliant invisibility,” which blinds the eye from discerning his likeness.7 However, the specific terminology used in Bascapè’s and Cusano’s designations of the Shroud disclose not so much the impotence of vision as its enabling coherence through conceptual schemas of painterly artifice that decode and make sense of the cloth’s inchoate image. The very limits of visibility imposed by the emergent form of the body seen as if partially submerged in a murky matrix invited associations with certain features of artistic facture to account for that body’s uncertain appearance, ultimately valorizing creation theories rooted in the incipient stages of painting to bestow authenticity. Marc Fumaroli recognized how the Shroud, as a self-generated image-relic, could be understood as “the central reference of the highest ambition of painting,” becoming at once an important Counter-Reformation relic and the model paradigm for Christian painting generally.8 However, far less understood is the degree to which the reverse is also true—how early modern theories of art nurtured the Shroud’s status as an image divinely artificed by God out of Christ’s blood. This chapter explores how theories of artifice at the time of the Shroud of Turin’s newfound prestige conditioned the way observers conceived of the cloth’s image to a far greater degree than hitherto recognized. The Shroud’s emergence as an image-relic of unprecedented authority prompted dozens of historical, devotional, and theological texts from the end of the sixteenth through the seventeenth centuries to offer a range of theories explaining how it came into being. Some of the earliest texts, notably Filiberto Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) and Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo (1598), claim that the image appeared at the moment the cloth touched the festering lesions marking Christ’s flesh.9 For this hypothesis they borrow familiar tropes of imprinting that were already associated with the Mandylion of Edessa and the Veronica.10 However, those tropes of contact printing soon gave way to newer metaphors of painterly artifice to explain the delineation of

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Christ’s features. In these theories the Shroud is not regarded as any ordinary work of art, but rather as a metaphorical painting whose pictorial traits supply evidence of divine creation. This is to say that a conditioning familiarity with artistry, and painterly means of manufacture in particular, not only informed descriptions of the appearance of Christ's body on the Shroud, but did so in ways that further substantiate how the very artfulness of religious imagery could be a vehicle for devotional experience.11 From this treatment of the Shroud we learn that artifice carried a reverential authority that influenced the ways sixteenth- and seventeenth-century commentators promoted the cloth’s image as a definitive example of God’s creative powers.

The Sketch as Conceptual Frame

Comments calling the Shroud an ombra (shadow), primo bozzo (preliminary sketch) (Agostino Cusano, 1578), macchia (stain), and sbozzatura (artistic sketch) (Carlo Bascapè, 1582) are not to be taken literally since the relic is not a work of art by any conventional measure. Instead, these are declarations of visual categorization that match the image on the surface of the cloth to the nebulous imprecision rendered through fluid brushwork that contemporary viewers would have recognized in artists’ preliminary sketches.12 Primo bozzo and sbozzatura come from the infinitive verb abbozzare, defined by Baldinucci’s Vocabolario toscano dell’arte del disegno (1681) as “the first effort that painters make on canvases or panels, coloring figures coarsely” before returning to apply other colors.13 The word macchia primarily signifies the effect liquids have when coming into contact with absorbent surfaces—as when a linen sheet soaks up a body’s blood and sweat. However, Baldinucci goes on to explain the word’s artistic connotations as well, for “painters use this term to convey the quality of some drawings, and in some cases also paintings, made with extraordinary ease and with a certain harmony and freshness, without much pencil or color.”14 In other words, macchia can be synonymous with primo bozzo and sbozzatura. Even ombra carries similar artistic significance. While Baldinucci defines it as the shading required to render objects in pictorial relief, the verb ombreggiare (to shade) can also mean dipingere (to paint) or abbozzare (to sketch) more generally.15 (Significantly, one of the origin myths of painting in ancient Greece involved the tracing of shadows cast on walls.) Further, Cennino Cennini defined ombrare (shading) as part of the artistic process for endowing bodies with flesh, or incarnazione.16 For Hans Belting “shadow” is paradoxical; as “both the affirmation and negation of the body, it both denotes and obscures the body.”17 Consequently, in artistic parlance, the terms used by Cusano and Bascapè are broadly synonymous. All signify visual qualities of an impressionistic or nonfinished sort, without clear edges or contours to define the shapes of the

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bodies represented.18 The deployment of these terms by witnesses to the Shroud’s display therefore acknowledges a crucial affinity the Turin image shares with the first, often impulsive, phases of artistic picture making.19 Still, these terms do more than just establish a formal taxonomy for the Shroud’s visual traits. They also demonstrate how a familiarity with conventions of pictorial representation informs how one sees. An analogous case to the understanding of the image on the Shroud through associations with artistry involves Galileo’s discovery of features on the surface of the moon. Some interpreted the moon’s darkened marks as highlights and shadows appearing on a smooth reflective surface. Others saw them as variances in density inside a perfect sphere. But Galileo interpreted that same visual data as topographical relief, an array of jagged peaks and crevices casting shadows over solid, yet irregular, terrain. These discrepancies in visual comprehension arise from different perceptual frames through which the object seen was discerned. Unlike other observers, Galileo was a practicing artist. Being intimately familiar with pictorial systems of perspective and techniques for rendering three dimensions on a flat plane, he possessed specialized schematic tools enabling him to see the lunar surface as one richly textured with varied relief.20 Anyone fluent with artistic media could have shared in this perception of contoured forms where others see only indiscriminate marks. Similarly, the language used to describe the Shroud of Turin articulates the perceptual habits learned from artistic media that Ernst Gombrich termed “the beholder’s share.”21 An apparent expectation that things seen in the outside world conform to pictorial conventions established by Renaissance and Baroque art explains how observers repeatedly described the Shroud in terms of painted imagery. These descriptive modes evince the conditioning strategies offered by notions of “artifice” as pictorializing frames to articulate and make sense of what they see. By looking through the lens of artifice, viewers of the Shroud could make greater sense of a muddled image that, like the seemingly haphazard discolorations seen through Galileo’s telescope, might otherwise resist full visual comprehension (fig. 15). The period conception of a sketch that observers applied, consciously or not, to the Shroud when calling it a macchia, ombra, primo bozzo, or sbozzatura is freighted with an understanding that sketches achieve their own privileged aesthetic ideal unavailable to finished images.22 But it was not just the initial stages of artistic production that informed a taste for sketchiness. The solicitation of visual and mental discernment to extract an intelligible picture out of a nebulous scattering of marks would have been familiar to audiences accustomed to styles of painting that privilege formlessness over precise delineation.23 For example, late paintings by Titian from the third quarter of the 1500s evoke a formal dissolution that encourages the spectator to discriminate between a picture and imprecise streaks of brushed pigment (fig. 16).24 Like Titian’s stain-flecked paintings, the Shroud’s own pittura a macchia elicits a visual experience that approximates the perceptual

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figure 15 | Shroud of Turin (detail). Photo by Giandurante—Copyright Arcidiocesi di Torino. figure 16 | Titian, detail of Tarquin and Lucretia, 1570. Gemäldegalerie der Akademie der bildenden Künste, Vienna. Photo: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, New York.

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process of discovering images hidden in numinous media. In the following century, art critics such as Marco Boschini would champion such a style consisting of autonomous gestural marks as one crafted to achieve the illusion of an improvisational brushwork that departs from the more tightly controlled naturalism hitherto at the forefront of Renaissance pictorial advancements.25 Crucially, it is the contingencies of viewing from afar—and we are reminded of the great distance from which most viewers had visible access to the Shroud when put on public display (fig. 3)—that generated an understanding of the unique value of a sketchlike style when compared to their finished counterparts.26 Vasari famously characterized Titian’s late paintings as being “executed with crudely daubed strokes and blobs in such a way that one sees nothing at close quarters, though they look perfect from a distance.”27 Equally instructive is his ekphrastic description of the distinct styles employed by Luca della Robbia and Donatello in their respective sculpted choir lofts for the Florence Cathedral: [Donatello] left it rough and unfinished, so that from a distance it looked much better than Luca’s; though Luca’s is made with good design and diligence, its polish and refinement cause the eye from a distance to lose it and not make it out as well as that by Donatello, which is hardly more than roughed out. Artists should pay attention to this, for experience shows that all things which are far removed, be they paintings, sculptures, or whatever, have more beauty and greater force when they are a beautiful sketch [una bella bozza] than when they are finished.28 Such representational imprecision and protean instability affect the viewer’s engagement with the image, having the potential in sacred imagery to elicit an ecstatic experience not as easily triggered by sharp demarcations of form.29 According to Boschini, abstracted networks of brushed pigment can simulate “ineffable and wondrous” visual effects akin to an apparition when one steps back to see amorphous marks cohere into recognizable shapes.30 Of particular relevance when considering religious imagery are his remarks about the way the infant Christ in Francesco Bassano’s Adoration of the Shepherds at San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice (ca. 1591) appears as a “fiercely confusing” bundle of light when seen up close but resolves into an image when viewed from afar.31 Vasari’s accounts of the distancing effects of roughed images and Boschini’s description of the visionary potential of painterly imprecision echo Cusano’s remark from 1578, introduced above, that the Shroud’s image is “seen one moment and not seen another . . . at times it is seen better close up, and at times from afar.” The clarity of its forms, which ebbs from moment to moment, redolent of the mere suggestion of form before its eventual crystallization into a concrete and unmistakable shape, sparks a desire to see a more

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clearly delineated image of Christ emerge from inchoate matter. His active role in seeking a vantage from which to comprehend Christ’s body on the Shroud recalls what Gombrich defined as “a psychological theory of painting that takes account of [the] interplay between the artist and the beholder.” This interplay involves the viewer’s ability to discriminate by way of the psychological faculty of projection, as when viewing the suggestive yet indeterminate forms of an inkblot.32 Therefore, designating the Shroud a sketch, stain, and shadow signals the image’s ability to entice the viewer into sustaining focused contemplation in order for a comprehensible form to take shape. The Shroud offers just enough visual information to present a sketchy or roughly painterly portrayal of a body to those inclined—and conditioned—to see it that way. Crucially, by likening the monochromatic and fugitive imprecision of Christ’s battered body mingling among the Shroud’s linen fibers to a sketch, these commentators repudiate chance images and other models of authorless creation common in early modernity that might have explained it as a spontaneous natural accident.33 Sketches only convey the illusion of impulsive disorder. Calling upon artifice imposes order out of chaos and inflects onto the Shroud privileged associations with artistic intention. Unprompted spontaneous images, by contrast, are not material creations but rather vacant phantoms, imagined simulacra that viewers discover in the nebulous matter of clouds, rocks, stains, and other nonmimetic forms.34 The Shroud’s body image must transcend chance or randomness in order to achieve the highest authority as an object whose pictorial qualities were crafted with the express purpose of serving spiritual ends. If it was formed by accident, then it would be difficult to argue that it really exists outside of the imagination of anyone claiming to see an image of Christ’s battered body where others might not. Viewers of religious images around the time of the Shroud’s emergence as an object of devotion probably understood the dangers intrinsic to the mind’s capacity to turn potential images into seemingly concrete ones. In particular, sixteenth-century religious image debates fomented suspicion about the imagination’s role in making things up that are not really there, thus attributing to the mind the dangerous power to conjure idols.35 While sbozzatura is a standard artistic term denoting intentionality, even macchia can deny the vacant randomness associated with chance images. It is true that the historicized semantics of pictorial imprecision described by Baldinucci’s Vocabolario upholds spontaneity and the attendant associations with the miraculous as the primary appeal of pictures made alla macchia. But as an artistic term, macchia is associative rather than absolute; it signifies a drawing or painting that “almost seems not [made] by the hand of the artist, but to have appeared by itself on the sheet or on the canvas” (emphasis mine).36 Further, Philip Sohm argues, in an apparent echo of Gombrich, that macchia is inherently

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slippery and carries binary implications open to subjective interpretation: “what looked like a stain becomes a figure when viewed by a painter or by a viewer who looks with the eyes of a painter.”37 Since macchia can designate the subjective reading of an artistic form, it also signals a process of distinguishing between marks that are truly accidental and others that are intentional strokes left behind by an artist’s brush.38 Describing the Shroud’s image as artful, even when associated with a stain, establishes it as intentional, not accidental—just hidden, veiled, yet still available to visible comprehension through sustained attention. Further, the Shroud’s sketch-like pictorial qualities reinforce its status as an artful relic. Connoisseurs regarded preliminary drawings as direct records of a key aspect of artistic productivity—namely, an artist’s creative fervor. A sketch bears witness to what Julius Held described as “the ‘hot’ stages of inspiration” before getting buried under the accretions of subsequent painterly refinement.39 For Vasari, a sketch is aligned with the visuality of a stain: “A sort of first drawing which artists make to find the kind of poses and the first composition of a work. They are made in the form of a stain and only briefly alluded to by us as just a sketch of the whole. They are rendered very quickly, because of the artist’s furor, with pen or other charcoal drawing instrument, only to test the spirit of that which occurs to him.”40 Because of their connections to these primordial stages of artistic creation, drawings impart something of a sacred, relic-like quality. In a letter from April 1544, Pietro Aretino used the word reliquia in reference to a drawing by Michelangelo.41 Not long afterward Ascanio Condivi, in his 1553 biography of Michelangelo, describes the shreds of Leonardo da Vinci's Battle of Anghiari cartoon as having been “preserved with great care and as something sacred,” like the pieces of a saint’s body.42 An informed audience looking through the lens of artistry could have readily associated the visible features of the Shroud’s image with the privileged status accorded to the initial stages of the pictorial process. Consequently, signs of sketch-like artifice bind the Shroud’s image to the artistry of God’s creative powers, recording and preserving the divine maker’s intentional artistic act. By extension, the cloth becomes a secondary relic akin to icons believed to have been made—and therefore touched—by Saint Luke. By acknowledging the creative image-making process that yielded it, the construct of the Shroud’s bodily stain as an artistic sketch cements its status as a pictorial relic whose material composition and artificed figuration cannot be separated. The prestige of the Shroud of Turin that emerged from the late sixteenth century onward rested in large part on the idea of it having been crafted by God from a process of premeditated or intentional design that gives it the authority of a thing created not randomly but purposefully as an artful relic of Christ’s body.

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As fertile as the concept of the sketch could be for articulating the Shroud of Turin’s pictorial features, commentators more often described it as a fully finished and divinely authored painting. A representative example comes from Massimiliano Deza’s oration on the Shroud of Turin, delivered during its public exhibition in 1668, which repeatedly invokes metaphors of artistic manufacture when praising the cloth’s mysterious image. While referring to Apelles, Parrhasius, Zeuxis, and other celebrated painters of antiquity—painters who achieved legendary fame for their feats of artistic bravura that tricked the eyes into regarding that which was portrayed to be actually present—Deza elevated the Shroud to an even higher form of art that invites associations with the very divinity of its maker through the blood that colored the cloth. He praised its “Eternal Artificer” for showing the image “perfectly delineated” on the sacred sheet through the vermilion of the veins and fire of the heart.43 Moreover, the Shroud stands apart from other miraculous true images yielded by direct physical contact with Christ. Whereas the Veronica and Mandylion of Edessa captured his indescribable beauty while the body was still living, the Shroud recorded the form of that body in death. For Deza, this reveals the supreme achievement of its own maker despite the wreckage made of its pictorial agent: “[The] face destroyed by torments having nothing else to depict, portrayed the heart; the hands tied up in evil bands not having anything to paint with, the wounds were the painters; the eyes extinct to the light not having anything by which to judge the colors, . . . his charity compensated for his pupils.”44 In the end, what one sees preserved on the Shroud is its maker’s artistic talent.45 Deza, making these pronouncements nearly a century after the Shroud’s transfer to Turin in 1578, was by no means novel in his employment of painterly metaphors (body as brush, blood as pigment, etc.) to refer to the process by which Christ’s image came into being. He inherited what was by then a normalized conception that had matured over the previous century of the Shroud as a finely crafted divine painting in ways that enrich the Shroud’s multivalence as a sacred object. What Sheldon Grossman calls “the sovereignty of the painted image” swiftly evolved into a standard trope, with texts frequently deploying terminology associated with the art of painting to describe the materialization of Christ’s body images.46 It is one thing for Giambattista Marino’s Dicerie sacre (1614) to use the bloody cloth to advance a theory of divine painting by describing it as the product of pictorial artifice (as discussed below). Poetic as that text may be, it is, after all, a work of Baroque art theory.47 But it is quite another thing to realize that concepts of artifice spread far beyond the canon of Renaissance and Baroque art and its theoretical literature. They infiltrated the fullest range of historical studies, theological tracts, sermons, and devotional manuals on the Shroud published in the sixteenth and seventeenth

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centuries. Consequently, the implications concerning the use of artistic ideas to describe the Shroud’s impressions of Christ’s body must have been widely understood—not just by Marino’s learned audience of artistic connoisseurs, but by anyone those various texts addressed. Alfonso Paleotti invoked artistic media when describing Christ as a “stone engraved during the passion, in which the wounds were sculpted by the chisels of the nails, cross, and lance.” He then spoke of the image on the Shroud as one on which Christ “left painted for us the form of that sculpture, that is of his redemptive wounds on the holy Shroud . . . painting it with his own blood.”48 The medium of painting more than any other emerges as the most persistent model by which to describe the Shroud’s image. For example, Camillo Balliani’s Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone (1610) identifies specific characteristics of the Shroud using terminology referring to painterly craftsmanship: “There is the stupendous painting of the two images of one and the other part of the Lord’s body. There is his most precious blood, which is the pigment with which these images were painted. There is the sacred sheet itself on which the figures were impressed. There is the linen, which is the material with which this marvelous sheet is fabricated.”49 Much as Deza would do later, Balliani compares the making of the Shroud to an effort on God’s part to fool Satan in the same way that Parrhasius tricked Zeuxis with his illusionistic painted curtain, revealing his greater power to deceive the eye of man instead of mere animals. These efforts to draw parallels between the Shroud and this classical legend serve to demonstrate the valorization of naturalism espoused by critics of art at that time.50 Even more direct indicators of the intersections between the Shroud and the art of painting include the “Oration to the Holy Shroud” in Vittorio Amedeo Barralis’s Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (1685), which identifies the Shroud’s artistic qualities as the focus of the worshipper’s adoration: “O venerable painting, to whom love gave the design, vermilion colors distributed the blood, the image delineated the figured, the shadows which make it stand out communicated a tomb, I kneel deeply in front of you, and with the most reverent actions I adore a stupendous work.”51 Giambattista Marino stressed even more forcefully the artistry of the Shroud of Turin and the praise due to its creator. When admiring God’s painterly handiwork, he invoked the topos of the heroic artist achieving greatness despite the crude limitations of his tools: For that reason glory upon glory accrues to this great artist for having painted such a beautiful image with faulty instruments. And with which instruments did he fashion the most beautiful image of his church? Vile instruments, scourges and gallows; whereby drawing glory from baseness, honor from shame, life from death, the marvels of his art increase. Do you want the brushes? Here are the nails. The panel? Here is the cross. The mahlstick? Here is the lance. The lights?

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Here are the lanterns. The shadows? Here are the tenebre. The canvas? Here is the shroud. The vermilion? Here is the blood. The watercolor? Here are the tears.52 54

These commentaries attribute the appearance of Christ’s body on the Shroud of Turin to divine craftsmanship, with God assuming the guise of a painter to create the image on the cloth. As the Shroud acquires the authority of an object created by God via an intentional artistic process, the formation of Christ’s image can no longer be regarded as a merely random occurrence. Consequently, its artistic status serves as evidence for the power and intellect of God’s divine creativity. Of course, statements like these could be seen as superficial rhetorical embellishments to bolster the Shroud’s devotional prestige as a holy relic. Yet these descriptions are more significant than mere tropes aimed at elaborating the status of the Shroud with simple verbal flourishes borrowed from then-contemporary theories of art. The persistent, nearly ubiquitous reliance on artistic metaphors to describe the Shroud’s coming into being reinforces its authenticity as a relic, and in so doing reveals period attitudes regarding artifice and authenticity that differ greatly from our own. For instance, Grażyna Jurkowlaniec has shown that the designation of Michelangelo’s Vatican Pietà as a literally miraculous image despite its unquestioned attribution to a known earthly artist proves that artistry in the early modern period could bestow qualities of authenticity not normally associated by modern viewers with painted or sculpted objects.53 At the same time, the treatment of one of the most tantalizing of Christ’s relics in the early modern period as a painting indicates a shift over the Shroud’s own history in the perceived relationship between artifice and authenticity. As seen in this book’s introduction, earlier charges in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries that the Shroud’s image of a man’s body was crafted through artistic means signaled doubt about its very legitimacy as a true image and holy relic. Its presumed artifice remains constant, but what changes later is the artist attributed to the Shroud’s manufacture. While traces of human artifice signal fraudulence, from the sixteenth century onward the attribution of those same features to divine artifice underscored its authenticity as an artful relic. In order to strengthen the Shroud’s inherent divinity as an image, commentators repeatedly specified that it was the extraordinary work of God himself. For Marino, “This venerable image with respect to the painter, the painting, and the thing painted is wonderful: wonderful on the part of the painter, who is God; wonderful on the part of the painting, which is a divine form; wonderful on the part of the thing painted, which is total divinity.”54 Marino and other writers tapped into the well-established Deus pictor topos to explain the force that gave shape to the universe out of chaos.55 Not coincidentally, this model of God as the archetypal artist provided a serviceable justification for the use and manufacture of religious images at a volatile time of the Counter-Reformation when

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Catholics responded to Protestant distrust over works of human art being able to refer to divine truth. Gian Paolo Lomazzo’s Idea del Tempio della Pittura (1590) offered: “Painting is that with which the great God embellished and ornamented not just the universe, but also the little world that he created in his likeness, coloring the skies, the stars, the sun, the circumference of the earth, waters, and all the particulars of things with alluring and graceful primary colors. And consequently painting was a most elevated means that God selected from among all others to demonstrate to man his glory and omnipotence and have him share in all the best and most beautiful things that he had ever created.”56 If God employed a form of painting when creating the universe, that same process was especially suitable for authoring holy images like the Shroud as well. Indeed, other true images benefited from associations with God’s legendary status as a painter. Lomazzo states that God wanted to show off his artistic activities and so created the Veronica, one of the Shroud’s sibling artifacts.57 As Gregorio Comanini argued in Il Figino (1591), the Veronica is just one of a number of images that effectively prove God’s status as a painter, which was ratified by doctrines issued at the Second Council of Nicaea and elsewhere.58 Agostino Calcagnino’s Dell’imagine edessena (1639) expresses a similar reverence for divine craftsmanship when describing the Mandylion of Edessa.59 The idea that the Shroud of Turin was a painting by God composed of Christ’s bodily matter encouraged complex associations with the doctrine of incarnation. The words of the Nicene Creed lay out a generative process that would seem to have been a readily available and theologically sanctioned model for conceiving the nature of the Shroud’s material generation from Christ’s body: “I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten son of God, born of the father before all ages. God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.” Like Christ’s incarnation in flesh, the image on the surface of the linen sheet was formed out of his own bodily matter through the transfer of blood and sweat to the surface of the cloth. The Shroud’s image would then appear to have been “begotten” out of the very substance of the body it enveloped.60 Yet even when writers do associate the Shroud with the incarnation, the cloth very often maintains its status as an image made, not begotten, thereby proclaiming the craft of art to carry its own generative authority. In some cases this resulted in cumbersome analogies that labored to accommodate seemingly incompatible aspects of artistic creativity and the generative theology of incarnation. Consider Solaro’s Sindone evangelica, historica e theologica (1627), which relates the image to the incarnation, yet when relying on artistic terminology to describe that process that yielded it manages to contradict its status as a painted image: “This [image], to put it in a word, having been made miraculously, shaped by God and painted with the blood of his own son. . . . And since his prototype, without human work, was already formed over all mankind by virtue of the holy spirit in the uterus of the Virgin Mary, so this image of him

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was formed without painter and without painting by the same divine spirit with the most precious blood of the Word Incarnate on the pure Shroud” (emphasis mine).61 Others had less trouble negotiating these competing models to argue that the Shroud is representative of both the incarnation and artistic creation. Giacinto Maria Crocetti’s La sfinga evangelica (1686) metaphorically related the use of blood on the Shroud to delineate the image of a dead man to the blood used by the Virgin Mary to shape the body of Christ in her womb.62 For Marino, the primordial process that manifested the Word incarnate was in fact the very art of painting itself. As an image that embodies one of the most profound mysteries of Christian theology, the Shroud was by this logic created before anything else in the world received material form.63 For Eugenio Quarantotto’s La Sacra Sindone componimento (1624), the true image on the Shroud represents the culmination of a process of painting with Christ’s own blood, the very substance that brought the Word into being.64 This allowed the treatment of blood to merge creation and incarnational models by calling it an artistic medium responsible for God’s most precious artistic creation.

God’s Handiwork

Treatments of the Shroud of Turin as a divine painting indicate a persistent valorization of artifice to underscore the representational and mediative status of religious imagery. Parallels between the incarnation of the Word into flesh and acts of creative artistry that bring religious images into being reinforce the Shroud’s prestige as a divine painting.65 This heightened conception of artistry helped frame and even propel the Shroud’s rise as a preeminent religious artifact from the end of the sixteenth century. Further, the Shroud’s treatment as a divine painting by God emerged at a time when both sketches and finished works were regarded as betraying visible signs of manufacture. Defining the Shroud as a product of even a divine form of painting that reveals the artistry of its maker is symptomatic of changing attitudes concerning the authority of an artist’s hand. Whereas earlier attempts to validate the status of painters as liberal artists deemphasized direct physical contact with the materials with which they work, later critics could heroize artists by treating their bodies as instruments of their intellect. If the artist is a creator, then the result of that creative act is necessarily the material and manual by-product of a process whose intellectual machinations render art noble.66 This conception that a work of art reveals the nature of its maker enabled viewers to see how the Shroud records its divine origins through indexical signs. Not merely a material relic of Christ’s divine body, the cloth’s image could be brandished as a work of art evincing God’s creative virtuosity. Consequently, by treating the Shroud as a work of

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artifice, even one of a mystical and divine sort, viewers would expect not only to be able to enter into a devotional engagement with the figure represented in it, but also to detect traces of God’s involvement in its manufacture. No longer carrying the stigma of illegitimacy as it had for earlier Shroud skeptics, visible signs of artifice now could enshrine and ensure the Shroud’s divine authenticity. Indeed, other divine images such as the Mandylion of Edessa and the Veronica, as well as icons painted by Saint Luke and the Volto Santo at Lucca, were already privileged in this way for preserving evidence of their divine creators’ hands. They were accordingly subjected to especially prestigious attention. For example, as Calcagnino remarks in reference to these images and the Turin cloth, “If we honor the images of the Savior formed by the hand of his friend Nicodemus, as well as those of the most pure Mother formed by Saint Luke, with a special reverential privilege, how much more will we have to value and revere that image that the eternal and universal artificer, not by way of angelic ministry, but with his own very hands, deigned to imprint on this well-born cloth for the sight of the people?”67 This idea of the Shroud being divinely crafted gave others the opportunity to explore in more detail the manners and processes employed in God’s manufacture of the images appearing on it. For Solaro, the visible form assumed by the blood is itself an artistic index worthy of admiration: “The wounds, which of course should have rather erased the image if it were there beforehand, served as an artificial paintbrush.” Notably, this paintbrush managed to overcome the force of an uncontrollable flow that might have overwhelmed the orderly delineation of an image. As Solaro continues, “the blood, which should pour out of those very wounds, almost like gaping fountains, in a disorderly and excessive fashion, has been pulled out in the guise of a great pigment and spread over the sacred sheet without anything but divine art.”68 Christ’s artistic intentionality harnessed the discharge of blood into a controlled release in order to distribute it into the shape of his own body. A precedent for this idea exists in the homily of the archdeacon Gregorios from around 944 CE on the Mandylion of Edessa, which credited God’s finger for guiding the drops of blood to fashion the image of Christ’s face.69 For Giuseppe Buonafede’s Regalo di Dio alla Real Corona di Savoia (1654), it was precisely this act of blood coalescing, by design, into the recognizable form of Christ’s body that was the source of the Shroud’s appeal: “Who knows how to explain to me how that blood, which, staining or dying the cloth without order or measure, should have erased the image (if it were there), serves to shape it, to perfect it and embellish it in the form of a great color and heavenly azure? And how has that blood distinguished the limbs? How has it described the face? How has it laid out the hair? How has it separated the bones and the joints? How has it enumerated, one by one, each of the wounds and beatings?”70 Since God intentionally formed the image himself, it is through contemplation of the Shroud’s pictorial features that one comprehends the secrets of his craft. But just as the conceptual frame of a sketch determines the visible

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coherence of an image that lacks pictorial resolution, a familiarity with the rudiments of painterly artistry is necessary to detect the Shroud’s divine craftsmanship. As Crocetti says, “This is an image that to whomever does not understand the art of the Painter will appear deformed and not at all similar to the original; but he who knows that this is a manner of coloring [un colorito] not ever practiced anymore . . . will confess it to be a beauty of highest intelligence.”71 Consequently, Crocetti continues, “from [the Shroud’s] manner of coloring [colorire] one recognizes that the master is the same eternal painter who with a nimble brush . . . spread out so many luminous figures over the extensive canvas of the heavens.”72 In other words, signs of the Shroud’s artifice appeal to connoisseurship. Anyone who fully understands God’s style of creating could recognize the beauty of the Shroud of Turin as a divine painting crafted out of the pigment of Christ’s blood. Crocetti’s terminology is key to understanding the resilience of the Deus pictor model and the degree to which a nuanced understanding of early modern art theory shaped conceptions of the Shroud’s identity as a painting by God. The configuration of the image equates the very act of blood leaking from Christ’s wounds and soaking into the linen sheet with a painterly colorito (colored) or colorire (to color). These terms signal one of the key components of the process of painting described in Renaissance treatises on art. Importantly, theorists employed the infinitive colorire and its past participle colorito just as frequently as the noun form colore. This use of the verb and its variants signifies kinetic actions involved in the touch and manipulation of paint, and suggests that a work that has been “colored” preserves signs of the process that rendered it.73 Colorito is brushwork, the meeting of the physical properties of the painting materials and the movement that the artist committed to the act of depositing pigment across a pictorial surface. Crocetti was not the only commentator to characterize the manner by which the blood appears on the surface of the Shroud as colorire or colorito. For instance, Buonafede invoked the voice of Christ when inviting the viewer to understand blood as pigment by using his or her eyes to “look at my blood colored [colorito] on the Shroud.”74 But most significant are the instances in which the implication of an artistic process behind the application of blood is beyond doubt—that is, when colore or colorito in reference to the Shroud unquestionably imply an artistic manipulation of paint. For instance, Solaro likens Christ’s pallid body to a “wonderful paintbrush” (mirabile pennello) that “portrays and colors” (effigiare, & colorire) the image on the holy sheet.75 Balliani reinforces the alignment of color and the handling of paint when saying, “this . . . is a most artificial canvas adorned, colored [colorita], and painted with the blood issued from the most loving entrails of the most innocent lamb, Christ your son.”76 As expected, Marino’s Dicerie sacre counted color alongside disegno (to be discussed below) as key features of the Shroud’s divine artifice. As an art theorist he most especially would have understood the significance of the term.77

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This emphasis on the activated painterly process by which Christ’s blood marked the surface of the Shroud, coupled with the tendency to conceive of the cloth as a painted image laden with colorito, leads to a tantalizing potential to understand the process of its divine formation by treating the appearance of the body as a network of indexical signs or traces of the author’s signature creative presence.78 The formal properties of the Shroud’s image reveal a detectable style. It thus bears marks of individual identity that Baroque critics especially saw as intrinsic to the visual and material apparatus of a work of art.79 Just as attentive connoisseurs can diagnose and distinguish the manner and movements of an artist’s hand by examining his brushwork, close examination of the shapes and patterns of the bloody stains on the Shroud can reveal the divine mechanics of God’s own artistry. Both leave behind involuntary marks, allowing for an examination of style that aligns with the early modern conceptions of the rhetorical and physiognomic properties of an artist’s manner of painting.80 Marino was especially sensitive to how the Shroud’s marks bear witness to these automatic features of artistic style. In a letter from 1608 he deployed what was then a standard metonymic trope of connoisseurial attribution, that “from a single stroke or line, you know the excellence of the artist.”81 Seen in this way, the blood stands as God’s signature artistic trait, which reveals both his authorial identity and his artistic mastery. In particular, the Dicerie sacre claims that the qualities belonging to colorito—especially “the vivacity of naturalism, the fineness of colors and the firmness of their tempering”—exist on the Shroud of Turin.82 It is these activated painterly qualities, moreover, that make the Shroud a microcosm of all of Christ’s creative activities: When the painter is in the beginning of a figure, he uses broad brushstrokes [and] adopts coarse colors. But when he is then about to finish it, he uses finer colors [and] engages his hand in more delicate strokes. While Christ in the course of over thirty years labored, sweated, worked for the welfare of man, he was a rough sketch, and, although his works were all extraordinary and full of delicacy, you can nonetheless say that they were ordinary colors and not very exquisite strokes. But when he gets near his goal to give his last touches, the final brushstrokes, he takes the most subtle and soft ones, giving us signs of an overwhelming, unrestrained, and infinite love.83 Embedded within Marino’s description are the dualities of force/delicacy and speed/ slowness intrinsic to brushwork, which can be used to understand the totality of God’s creative powers as Deus pictor. The use of terms denoting concepts borrowed from art theory when describing the creative origins of the Shroud of Turin finds an earlier literary precedent in Vittoria

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Colonna’s mid-sixteenth-century poems on Christ’s death. In particular, Colonna’s references to colore and disegno speak to the wide applicability of philosophies of painting to define Christ’s sacrificial actions: With divine words he makes the beautiful drawing [dissegno] of the true life, and then he gives color [colore] with his blood, and so that love might be the cause of this work, he gives himself to it in forfeit. Here Colonna equates colore with Christ’s blood and treats it as the physical manifestation or fulfillment of disegno (drawing or design), the intellectual idea expressed in words, in a way that carries incarnational undertones.84 This sequential application of color following design is central to conceptions of the Shroud of Turin’s formation as well. If the image on the cloth demands recognition as something manually “colored” with Christ’s blood, then it is also the end product of an intellectual process of disegno that first conjured the image to be brought into being. In this regard, perhaps Marino’s most significant contribution to the vast literature that describes the Shroud of Turin as a divine work of art is his explanation that Christ’s twin impressions on the cloth bear evidence of two forms of design: Disegno can be considered in two ways: one is internal and intellectual, the other practical and external. Both the one and the other have no regard for anything but the form or shape of corporeal things through either the external outline or internally, and through their proper congruence—that is, each part of the whole being located in its proper place. The internal intellectual [disegno interno] observes forms in the idea of the painter according to his knowledge; the external practical [disegno esterno] lays them out materially on paper, canvas, or wherever in order to judge them with the corporeal eye, and, in accordance with the workings of the craft, to refine and correct them until brought to final perfection.85 Disegno interno is the intellectual formation of the “idea,” and disegno esterno is its pictorial manifestation through artistic procedures. Marino culled these ideas from Federico Zuccaro’s L’idea de’ scultori, pittori e architetti (1607). For Zuccaro, disegno interno, even that employed by mundane artists, has divine origins, and carries Aristotelian ideas regarding the senses, memory, and knowledge.86 Since this dual form of design is the index of creative intention, the images it yields echo that first amorphous idea or concetto (concept) conjured in the creator’s mind.87 “Now, because the world,” Zuccaro says, “was not made by chance, but made by God through his acting intellect, it is necessary that in

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the mind of God was the form in whose semblance he made the world; looking [at this form] as a painter, sculptor and architect he created, outlined, and shaped this world.”88 When Marino applies these art-theoretical ideas to the Shroud, the implication is that the cloth’s image bears the marks of God’s own intellectual blueprint, thus aligning painterly and divine creation. Importantly, disegno also grants the formation of the image the same intentionality that distinguishes it from images made by chance. Instead of appearing by way of fortuitous contact between body and cloth, the images on the Shroud of Turin, shaped by the artistry of colorito and disegno, stand as the unmistakable products of God’s willful and intellectual creative powers. While these artistic procedures parallel those used in mundane forms of artmaking, it is essential that the Shroud evince a distinctly divine form of painting that human hands cannot replicate. The intention in treating the Shroud thusly was to distance it from the domain of ordinary sacred images while at the same time elevating the divine artistic facture that brought the Shroud into being.89 For Buonafede, these inimitable qualities of the Shroud invite associations with eucharistic theology. Since one cannot see the hypostatic union of body and matter in either the Shroud or the sacrament, painters could not possibly portray either one accurately.90 Solaro alleged that “whoever has seen [the Shroud] up close with sincere eyes, purged of the bitter bile of Calvin,” would conclude that “this bloody painting cannot be the work of human intelligence and artifice, as eminent and experienced painters in the art have testified.”91 The artifice used by even the most judicious and ingenious painters is not sufficient to overcome the “holy envy” (santa gelosia) that fills the soul from a work by God. Many accomplished artists who have tried to copy the Shroud’s sacred markings have failed, allegedly finding themselves bewildered and paralyzed by the divinity of both the image and its maker.92 Commentators frequently invoke the names of famous artists when defending the Shroud’s superiority as an image. For instance, Solaro calls upon the authority of Titian as a basis from which to praise the divine mastery of the Shroud and differentiate it from ordinary painting. No other image could surpass the prestige of the materials that the divine artist used when manufacturing the Shroud. By analogy, “The image of a whole man is thus more perfect than one of his head or hand; that of Titian [is more perfect] than that by a second-rate painter.”93 Carlo Bascapè, in the same letter in which he likened the Shroud to a preliminary sketch, goes even further in asserting that the image surpasses everything done by the greatest masters: “O dear servants of God, this [image] is too different than what the masterful hand of an artificer knows how and could ever feign with brushes or chisels. . . . The excellent hand of [Michelangelo] Buonarroti, or of Titian, does not apply here. These holy forms [on the Shroud]—although more similar to a preliminary sketch than to a completed work—move as far ahead of any of those masters’ works to be the most perfect and rare as the dead and faked are surpassed by

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the true and living.”94 In this case, Bascapè argues that the image of the Shroud of Turin will always appear alive and true, whereas any figure painted by Titian or Michelangelo out of inert matter will appear dead and faked. Marino similarly remarked that even the achievements of the most celebrated painters pale in comparison to God’s artistic abilities.95 Balliani, striking a similar analogy between a painted image and the thing it represents, argues that if one were to compare a work of human artifice to the Shroud, then the Turin relic would always prove superior. After all, while a painter’s colors may be expensive, “the blood of Christ has infinite value. That image of human creation is much beloved by God. . . . [This Shroud] by Christ is loved by God more than all of humankind together, indeed more that the entire multitude of other creatures together.”96 The Shroud of Turin’s mythology as a work of incomparably divine artifice unachievable by even the most celebrated of modern painters derives from a host of similar ideas surrounding its image-relic peers. By the time the Shroud of Turin was first exhibited in 1578, the highly revered icon of Christ at the Sancta Sanctorum in Rome had already been attributed to angelic rather than human manufacture.97 It was also around this same time that the Veronica achieved its own reputation for artistic inimitability.98 Others invoked the charge that no human art could possibly capture the likeness of Christ when explaining the miraculous origins of the Mandylion of Edessa.99 Like Solaro, who cited testimony from eminent painters regarding the Shroud’s divine artistry, Agostino Calcagnino claims that many famous painters who had analyzed the Mandylion in Genoa judged it too to be inimitable by human hands. In one case, he says, the master Luca Cambiaso, who resided in the convent of San Bartolomeo, where he could study the image up close, “confessed that it was shaped without colors or human mastery, but whoever prayed to it in repeated instances refused to put himself to the undertaking of copying it, and did not dare wish to emulate with false colors the imprint formed by the divine finger.”100 These accounts carry the persistent echo of a legend dating from 1252 concerning the Santissima Annunziata icon in Florence. Reportedly, an artist named Bartolomeo was unable to complete the face of the Virgin because God did not want the hand of an earthly artist to paint it, resulting in divine artistic intervention.101 Francesco Bocchi’s late sixteenth-century treatise on this miraculous image marshals Michelangelo’s experienced knowledge when asked to assess an image’s artistry: “If someone were to say to me,” he reports Michelangelo as saying, “because this is my expertise, that this Image was painted by human means, I would say that it is a lie: because in truth the skill of a man and his talent could not arrive at the heights of which this is worthy. Therefore, I conclude that this divine likeness was miraculously done by God and the Angels, without others.”102 Bocchi goes on to tell of a commission from Carlo Borromeo to Alessandro Allori for a copy of this famous image. The result failed to convey the qualities of the original—for “it is not for

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want of industry or accuracy that the painter failed . . . be sure [that it is not possible] to arrive at such a divine thing as this with human study.”103 The primacy of the original prevailed over the attempts to render it accurately with the industry of human artifice. The outcome of such rhetorical embellishments is that the Shroud of Turin is left to stand alone as a paragon for the superiority of artistic craft over all forms of creation. For Marino, the Shroud is even inimitable by nature herself. Not even the chance images found in clouds and stones could manifest the same creative achievement as God’s intentional artifice. He further compares the works of nature to the Shroud in order to argue for the latter’s primacy as a created thing: “Ordinary painting does not have anything in itself other than appearance and illusion, since it is the art of representing with colors visible things on a superficial plane. But this extraordinary painting retains in itself real truth, or rather is all being and all substance, since it contains he who is everything, in everything and for everything.”104 Giacomo Antonio Vercellini’s panegyric Iride sacra (1622) contains especially florid praises for the Shroud’s supremacy as something so divine as to be inimitable. He likens the Shroud favorably to a rainbow; the beauty of both is owed to the same God from which they materialized.105 Consequently, he continues, human artifice is incapable of matching such beauty: However forced the human hand of an eminent painter might be, it has not ever managed to be able to express [itself] naturalistically. And where the art of Zeuxis succeeded in simulating fruit and apples and in tricking birds, and that of Parrhasius in mocking the most shrewd eye of his rival with the faked veil . . . one cannot find either brushstrokes that can be compared to the rays of the sun, nor a panel so diaphanous and smooth that can be compared to transparent clouds, nor colors that can be compared with light. Only the heavenly painter excels in that.106 Because of the inherent superiority of God’s creation over human art, Vercellini criticizes those who might wish to compare the two: “Who, therefore, will be able to appraise the excellence of a work issued directly from God? Who makes an artificial conceit as adequate and as perfect as an image brushed by God himself? And if the name of an excellent sculptor or painter—like that of Polygnotus or Polycletus, or the more modern ones of Raphael of Urbino and Michelangelo Buonarroti—usually gives value to any image that has been shaped by him, what will be the glory of this one that the architect of the universe made as a painter?”107 Vercellini goes on to goad painters into admitting that their own craft would be unable to equal God’s:

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Say it, you painters of the highest rank—those of you who are made to adorn to the royal magnificence of these most serene princes with their exquisite valor; you who have portrayed on your panels and canvases ancient heroes to the worthy offspring of such fathers; you who made yourselves saintly by staring at the countenances of those demigods, with whose effigies have made your own name immortal—say if your art has ever succeeded in perfectly shading, let alone delineating, such a mysterious image [as the Shroud]. How many times did your hand tremble in the first sketch, how many times did the colored brush drop in the wind, how many times would you shut your eyes, shot at by those divine rays that love had hidden in those stains of blood? Surrender please. Surrender to the eternal painter, give up the comparison of such an artificial task. All of God’s works are perfect . . . but this [Shroud] seems to exceed any other in excellence, material, and mastery.108 As a result, even the signatures by ordinary artists express their own inadequacy: “Other painters, therefore, place their names at the feet of the works they made, and conscious of not having yet arrived at the perfection of the arts, write faciebat or delineabat, while to our painting of the divine bow [the Shroud] would be written, not aperiebant, but rather ‘traced by an almighty hand.’”109 God’s painting of the Shroud is the only one that can be fully attributed to the hand of an accomplished master, and so as a truly completed work of art surpasses all the accomplishments of mortal painters.

“A Painting Without Painter”

The authority that the Shroud of Turin garners from its divine artifice rests on the notion that a process surpassing the excellence of human art will necessarily beget an image of utmost truth and authenticity. But the discussions of divine creation throughout the early modern literature on the Shroud set up an unexpected paradox of achieving an artifice so great as to transcend its own painterly conditions. Guido Casoni’s “Ode in honor della Sacratissima Sindone” (also published at the end of Solaro’s Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica) celebrates this very contradictory status: So this marvelous figure is seen colored without color, a painting without painter and shaded without shadow; It has no light and yet it gazes

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it has no spirit and yet it languishes and sighs. The heavenly artifice admires the art conquered by the artificer. Nature believes it not to be painted but born, and it has no part of it; Only such a glorious love that created it through art, wonderful author.110 For Solaro, the method of the Shroud’s manufacture eliminated the need for tools normally used to create a work of art. Though still attributed to a form of artifice, it is an image of Christ “painted miraculously with his own blood without any other brush than the same members of his own divine body.”111 This latent allusion to ars est celare artem (art that conceals artifice) received renewed emphasis in the theory and practice of Renaissance painting, most especially with regard to some visible features that the Shroud’s vaporous images share with other notable works of art. We see this most especially in Leonardo da Vinci’s sfumato, his characteristic use of “smoky” shadows to define three-dimensional forms. As Alexander Nagel has pointed out, Leonardo’s method of modeling with gradient shadows manifests the artist’s efforts to create figures that look not to have been artificially crafted but rather naturally present according to his understanding of the physiological functions of the eye. It was, in Nagel’s words, “a technique designed to leave no traces”; when painted so finely as to erase any marks of the artist’s hand, a picture could assume the air of the divine made manifest.112 By designating the Shroud of Turin a nonpainted painting, these writers embellish God’s genius and technical virtuosity in rendering an image so marvelously as to remove all signs of labor and thus achieve the look of something that even surpasses its very artificial condition. Tesauro demonstrates the extent to which artistic metaphors both bolster and complicate the Shroud’s status as an image, making it at once a paragon of art and a paradox of that very artifice that makes all other religious images imperfect. As he says, the making of the Shroud of Turin avoided the deceit of “lying brushes,” circumventing all the interventions of the artist’s tools that would further separate the image of Christ from the greater authority of the represented body itself. After all, “the blood painted the blood, the wounds painted the wounds, the veins painted the veins, the bones painted the bones, the heart painted the heart, and the whole body painted itself; all the vital spirits exited the wounds to make this painting inspirited.” If this is a painting made without the normal tools used in the artistic manufacture of an image, then how exactly can this image compare to those that are created through more expected artificial means? Tesauro claims that the image on the Shroud is an enigma, a dead body that appears with such vividness

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“that if in other paintings one praises resemblance, in [the Shroud] one praises the truth, for the type and the prototype, the copy and the original, the ‘ideated’ and the idea, the colored and the color, the painter and the painting all being the same thing.” What this means is that the Shroud of Turin, whose divine painting combined the image with the materiality of its subject, achieves a status as a perfect sacred image that ordinary images cannot attain. For, as Tesauro concludes, while all divine works are perfect in their own way, “this one is a masterpiece, a miracle of art, a force of the talent of divine love, which one can only truly pray to eternity for having been painted, since the fleeting linen has made it immortal.”113 In the end, the contours of knowledge surrounding the Shroud of Turin from the end of the 1500s through the following century reflect the widespread understanding of issues central to early modern art theory—the multivalent artistic connotations entrenched in the understanding of sketches, theories of the formation of images, processes of creation, and the status of the image with respect to its intermediary role between viewer and prototype. These inform the Shroud’s treatment as an image that resists the doctrine of incarnation on account of it being made, not begotten, out of Christ’s body. Today the Shroud finds itself at the center not only of the period’s conceptions of the divinity of art, but also of more recent attempts to redefine scholarly approaches to art history as a discipline. The incarnational theory that, as seen over the course of this chapter, writers on the Shroud reject in favor of painterly artfulness, is for Didi-Huberman the alternate history of art that the author-based one has too often eclipsed.114 He submits that it was the divine process of the conversion of Word into flesh that rendered Christ visible, just as the miraculous appearance of his body on the surface of the Shroud evinces the sanctity of the image itself. Didi-Huberman claims that the incarnational metaphors in images like the Veronica and Shroud orient our attention to tropes of image-creation that more accurately reflect the way contemporaneous viewers conceived of images. As he says, “this denial of the pictorial in favor of an incarnational demand had but one end, which was to offer itself as the absolute paradigm of all iconicity, and thus of all painting activity.”115 Yet we have seen in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century literature devoted to the Shroud of Turin that the pictorial was not at all denied in this endeavor. By making use of tropes of creation that render the Shroud a created image, early modern commentators proclaim an understanding of the term acheiropoieton (image not made by human hands) in a new artistic-theological light—made by the very hands of God and guided by his intelligence to paint an image out of Christ’s blood.

Chapter 3

The Art of Resurrection

A pen-and-wash drawing of the Adoration of the Holy Shroud at the Musée du Louvre in Paris, presently attributed to Francesco Vanni and dated to the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, reinforces the ecstatic reverence the Savoy directed toward their dynastic relic (fig. 17).1 In the lower half of this scene, various family members of the duke kneel in adoration while gazing upward at angels in resplendent glory who unfold the Shroud of Turin to reveal its sacred images of Christ’s body. At the summit of this drawing, Christ, radiantly lit and encircled by music-playing angels, surges skyward in triumph. When viewed in its totality, this image implicates the provenance of the Shroud’s miraculous imprinting within the narrative of Christ’s death differently than Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s Deposition (fig. 5). Della Rovere put into visual terms the hypothesis advanced by Filiberto Pingone, Alfonso Paleotti, and Jean-Jacques Chifflet that the Shroud was used during the preparation of Christ’s body immediately after being taken down from the cross and that it received its bodily imprint prior to the entombment. Vanni, however, features the Shroud at a point further along in the narrative of Christ’s death. In the background he shows Christ’s body suspended on a long sheet while being carried into his sepulcher, as well as that same body resting lifeless inside. The Shroud thus appears both compositionally and narratively at a liminal point between Christ’s mournful death and his triumphant return to life. This arrangement allows for a sequential unfolding of events progressing upward along a vertical axis. The cloth is first used in Christ’s entombment, after which the resurrected body ascends upward in glory. Consequently, the image-bearing Shroud, displayed centrally in Vanni’s composition, and therefore at the midpoint of the narrative axis, is understood to have been imprinted by the

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body at an intermediary moment, however unspecified, between Christ’s death and his miraculous revival. By this formulation, Christianity’s most precious relic was not definitively completed until Christ’s revived body had awoken and left it behind. We saw in chapter 1 that the Shroud of Turin’s uncertain identification with the burial linens in John’s account of the empty tomb spurred differing interpretations of its role within the narrative of Christ’s passion. Yet the prevailing view in published sources from the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was that the prized possession of the Savoy was at least as much a relic of Christ’s resurrection as it was a record of the physical torment he endured leading up to his death. It is indeed the unexpected discovery of the discarded cloth, integral to John’s description of what was found in the sepulcher, that signals the resurrection having taken place: “And the napkin that had been about his head, not lying with the linen cloths, but apart, wrapped up into one place” ( John 20:7, DRA). In other words, it is the Shroud’s functional obsolescence—unwrapped from the body and simply lying there, empty and abandoned—that allows it to signal both the physical agony of Christ’s death and the eventual miracle of his life restored. The fact that John failed to mention an image appearing on any of Christ’s burial cloths apparently did not discredit the Shroud’s claims to authenticity as a resurrection relic. Rather, the act of displaying the empty cloth, as in Vanni’s sketch, is an etiological one that reveals the evidence of the resurrected body. The previous chapter showed how early modern commentators relied on processes of painterly artifice to explain how the image on the Shroud of Turin was divinely crafted out of Christ’s blood. The present chapter goes further in revealing the mutual dependence of theology and art theory of the late Renaissance and Baroque periods that constitutes a core focus of this book. Tropes of artistic creation helped define not just how but also at what precise moment the Shroud received its image of Christ’s body, ultimately reinforcing belief in this artful relic as proof of Christ’s resurrection. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century observers and authors of key Shroud texts treated Christ’s discharged blood and his subsequent bodily revival as consecutive stages within a generative process of painterly image formation. In particular, the Shroud of Turin, a cloth that traps within its threads the extant traces of Christ’s physical matter as tangible proof of his living body after the resurrection, invited association with the longstanding belief in artists’ abilities to manufacture living bodies through the naturalistic proclivities of their art. By thus treating the Shroud as an artful relic, early modern advocates argue that what we see is a physical by-product of painterly processes that conjured Christ’s living body—that is, the resurrection operating through artistic means. Finally, this reliance on painterly artifice to describe Christ’s most significant miracle allows for a new understanding of how the Turin relic was integrated into the canon of early modern art history in ways that have thus far eluded critical attention. To demonstrate this point, this chapter will conclude by

figure 17 | Francesco Vanni (attributed), Adoration of the Holy Shroud, late 1500s or early 1600s. Paris, Musée du Louvre (INV2037-recto). Photo: Gérard Blot / Jean Schormans. © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, New York.

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showing how Caravaggio’s famed Entombment for the Vittrice Chapel at the Chiesa Nuova in Rome accedes to Baroque conceptions of pictorial artifice as a life-creating force in ways that embrace the understanding of the Shroud as an artful resurrection relic.

An Artful Resurrection Relic

By the time the Savoy moved their prized relic to Turin in 1578, belief that the cloth bore both pictorial documentation of Christ’s passion and material proof of his resurrection was already woven into its identity as a holy artifact. The Shroud’s Office and Mass, which developed over the course of the post-Tridentine period, integrated resurrection themes in the antiphons. While the theme of Christ’s passion remains central to its liturgy overall, those references remind worshippers of the Shroud’s value in signaling his miraculous bodily restoration.2 Throughout the period spanning the Shroud’s most heightened devotional enthusiasm, from the late 1500s through the 1600s, published texts repeatedly treat the graphic imprints of Christ’s battered body as pictorial evidence for the resurrection. These texts show how the Shroud’s corporeal figuration doubled for the very body that imprinted itself on the cloth, thereby granting the Shroud its primary identity as a relic of Christ’s bodily revival. Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (1598) encourages readers to contemplate the countless bloody indexes of Christ’s death scattered around the cloth not only as stimuli to pious meditations on the brutality of the passion but also as triggers for a meditative excursus on the resurrection. While his description of the body’s features marked on the Shroud is couched within an account of Mary’s lamentation over her son’s death, Paleotti also repeatedly invokes Saint Thomas probing the wounds of Christ’s resurrected body. In this way the viewer contemplating the Shroud could situate himself in the aftermath of Christ’s return to life and could therefore contemplate the Shroud as an encounter with his unexpected corporeal revival.3 Further, Daniele Mallonio’s extensive commentary on Paleotti’s treatise features on its frontispiece a rendering of Christ’s upright body positioned in front of the Shroud unfurled horizontally behind, as if he had just awoken and emerged from it (fig. 4). In this juxtaposition the faint impressions of his rent corpse on the surface of the cloth stimulate the viewer into projecting forward, narratively speaking, toward the resurrected corporeal body. As a result, the Shroud, as an image of death, foregrounds the resurrection in ways similar to the images of decaying flesh that adorn transi tombs. The point was not that the putrefying corpse represents the final stages of the body’s earthly existence; rather, this physical corruption serves as a prelude to the ultimate resurrection of that body. It becomes an emblem of the earthly death overcome by achieving life everlasting.4 For in the words of

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Torquato Tasso, in a sonnet commemorating the 1578 ostension of the Shroud in Turin, “[it is] in this marvelous blood where death has died.”5 The Shroud’s material traces of bodily matter reverse the inevitability and permanence of his physical demise. By virtue of this position bridging dead and restored flesh, the Shroud became increasingly invoked from the sixteenth century onward as a sign of death vanquished. Its image could exist as an outcome of Christ’s fatal passion and still, on its own terms, serve as evidentiary proof that the body sparked back to life. In this regard the Shroud’s very materiality, a linen sheet trapping traces of blood, was treated as the very manifestation of that resurrected body instead of its mere representation. It is presumably for this same reason that the Mandylion of Edessa at San Bartolomeo degli Armeni in Genoa was customarily shown every Easter in reenactments of the resurrection that cast the relic as a materially analogous and synecdochical surrogate for the body.6 In other words, relics that contain Christ’s likeness formed out of his bodily matter at the time of his death, the Shroud of Turin included, serve as proxies for the body missing from the empty tomb. To most sixteenth- and seventeenth-century commentators, the Shroud of Turin provided the clearest and most authoritative proof of any that Christ had overcome his own body’s physical mortality. Even the cross, according to Solaro, fails to signify Christ’s subsequent revival as directly as the Shroud does because of the divergent transformations of the body that occurred when each came in contact with it: “The cross, receiving [Christ] living and mortal, bore him dead and pallid. But the Shroud, which received him dead and pallid, returned him alive, or better still, glorious and triumphant.”7 Bonafamiglia similarly argued that the Shroud is an especially prestigious object because it was the only garment that touched Christ’s body both while it was dead and after it “revived with the spirit, resuscitated to a new life, one immortal, incorrupt, and more resplendent in the dawn of the resurrection, which was not darkened in the eclipse of his passion.”8 Emanuele Tesauro stated that the blood marks scattered on the Shroud in visual correspondence with the wounds inflicted during the passion exist as celestial signs for the restored body that ascended into heaven: “Those five scars that [Christ] still preserves in heaven are supreme vestiges, that whole body being returned to life. . . . But it is even true that since those five wounds of the glorious body, shining in the guise of five most precious gems, indeed forming a heavenly constellation of five suns, are really glorious trophies rather than tearful objects, cheerful marks of resurrection and of life [rather] than painful images of burial and death.”9 In this way, the Shroud inspires uplifting thoughts of salvation rather than just sorrowful meditations on the agony of death so vividly recorded. Ormea stated that “the Shroud does not just figure [the resurrection], but vividly explains and demonstrates it to us; in truth those wounds cannot be called crimson mouths of mortal pain, but sonorous voices of life.”10 Buonafede argued that the Shroud, as a celestial image, is evidence of a second, heavenly birth, likening it

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to a second womb: “The Holy Faith recognizes two births of Christ: the first into mortal life from the womb of Mary, the second into immortal and glorious life from the womb of this Shroud.”11 For Crocetti, the Shroud stands alone from all the other extant relics resulting from Christ’s death. It is the only one that “is a living testament of the resurrection.” Consequently, the Shroud emerges as a relic of the triumph of life restored, while all the others remain reminders of misery and mortality.12 For early modern viewers, explaining the manner by which this blood-soaked imprint of Christ’s body came into being requires an understanding of when and where its formation took place. Balliani concluded that the image’s appearance was instantaneous with the moment of the resurrection itself. Crucially, Christ’s revival and the formation of his likeness on the cloth are treated as one and the same act: “At the same instant of the resurrection, [Christ] emerged from this holy Shroud, keeping it totally intact, and left it in the tomb with the image.”13 The Shroud functions in the manner of a pure index, like a footprint that bears witness to a body’s former presence. But Balliani also contributed another key aspect to the growing perception of the Shroud’s formation as a relic: the intentionality by which Christ crafted the image to serve as proof of the miracle of the resurrection. “With this invention of leaving impressed on the Shroud the sorrowful stamp of what happened during the passion,” Balliani argued, “Christ wanted the Shroud to be the rule by which to measure the greatness of the light, glory, and majesty of the resurrection.”14 Authorial intentionality also presumes a process by which the Shroud’s image was formed. Indeed, it was this issue of formation and the precise nature of its pictorial articulation of Christ’s body that provided further testimony to its significance as a resurrection relic. Giacomo Antonio Vercellini’s Iride sacra (1622) identifies the resurrection as the moment in which Christ’s image appeared and likens the process that rendered it to the emergence of a rainbow after a storm: “In that moment then, this beautiful rainbow formed when death followed the shedding of blood; when, after the cloud dumped with an impetuous tempest nearly all of the blood in the passion, the remaining blood dripped like a dew onto this Holy Sheet; when, rising again to immortal life, the Son of God penetrated this dew of divine blood joined to the dark cloud of death with infinite light. He then unfolded this beautiful rainbow on the day of his resurrection, illuminated it by immortal light, and painted it with celestial colors.”15 Vercellini’s treatment of discharging blood as a meteorological event, coupled with the loaded use of the word “painted” at the end of the passage, only hints at how persistently commentators attributed the image’s formation to artistic control, harnessing the precipitation of liquefied material and bringing it to completion at the resurrection. We have seen in chapter 2 that in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries language alluding to artistic processes, painting in particular, prevailed over descriptions of more automatic or natural means of imprinting. Consequently, what happened while Christ lay dead in the tomb for forty hours, wrapped in

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the linen sheet that would receive his image, is nothing short of a miraculous act operating through artistic means, uniting the formation of the image with the resuscitation of the body through terminology denoting the artistic manipulation of fluid pigment. According to Innocenzo Loffredo’s Il tabernacolo del riposo di Dio (1652), the resurrection of the body occurred after the third day, when the Shroud’s divine artist gave the image “the final retouches and outlines, and the last hand and perfection of painting” (gl’ultimi ritocchi, e giri, l’ultimo perfettione, e mano alla pittura).16 Solaro’s Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica (1627), the most theologically driven of the texts devoted to the Shroud, was even more blunt in his attribution of the image to a process of painterly formation that culminated in the resurrection: “Because the Shroud thusly painted needed to serve as a testimony for the passion, death, and resurrection of the Savior . . . and so that, again, the portrayed Shroud was more glorious and admirable, it was fitting that the miracle, or at least the final perfection of painting, be deferred until the time of the resurrection.”17 The familiar use of artistic terminology denoting Christ as painter and the Shroud as the painted by-product of the resurrection is highly significant for showing how the contemporary reverence for artistry bolstered the Shroud’s authenticity. Balliani underscored the importance of understanding the Shroud as a painting, saying, in reference to the double body images, that “if the two wings of Christ are the passion and the resurrection, who does not see these wings shaded, painted, and clearly expressed on the most Holy Shroud? Is the Shroud not a most manifest sign of the passion of Christ? Is the Shroud not a very strong argument of his resurrection?”18 It is important to emphasize that the proof of Christ’s resurrection is visibly confirmed as something artfully created—namely, shaded and painted. Balliani’s statements capture the inherent paradox found in many writings on the Shroud. Its existence serves as an index of Christ’s body because it contains traces of his actual blood, yet the formation of the image is due to artistic intervention. Indeed, the materiality of the Shroud’s image cannot be separated from the process that resulted in its mysterious delineation. As we shall see, this identification of a resurrection relic artfully crafted out of Christ’s corporeal matter allows further insights into the intersections of theology and art theory that inform early modern discussions of the Shroud. Insistence that the Shroud of Turin traps blood discharged from the body had to negotiate early Christian theologies that argued against the possibility for Christ’s blood to exist on Earth.19 According to Saint Thomas Aquinas, since the body that Christ assumed at the resurrection was a true and complete one, all of the blood previously shed would have been reassumed into his restored physical self, leaving no traces behind. Blood, flesh, and bones, Aquinas stated, “belong to Christ’s risen body and they belong to it in a fully integral manner without any diminution whatsoever.” Consequently, “all of the blood which poured forth from Christ’s body also rose with it.”20 But Aquinas also had to

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account for the blood relics revered throughout Europe at that time. He argued that those traces are miraculous blood that flowed forth from the striking and resulting wounding of Christ’s icons, not the blood that originated in his body.21 Again, Solaro offers the most prolonged excursus on the contentious issue regarding the existence of traces of blood on the Shroud left behind after Christ’s resurrection. He admitted that much of the blood venerated elsewhere as true blood is indeed the kind of secondary, noncorporeal discharge described by Aquinas, as ratified by church theologians who report on the great quantity of blood originating in abrasions on holy images.22 This would appear to negate the existence of any actual corporeal blood, thus compromising the Shroud’s integrity as an authentic resurrection relic. But Pope Sixtus IV’s treatise De Sanguine Christi (1471), written a century and half prior to the publication of Solaro’s text, casually disregarded this problem by stating it simply was not necessary that all of the blood shed at the passion be reassumed into the resurrected body.23 Chifflet’s De linteis sepulchralibus (1624) relied on the medicinal theories of Galen when suggesting that the Turin cloth supports nutritional blood coming from the liver instead of the vital blood absorbed back into Christ’s body.24 Solaro fittingly provides a theological solution to this quandary. While the blood on the Shroud had indeed come from Christ’s body, it was shed during the Paschal Triduum (the three days encompassing the death and resurrection). Therefore, it was not hypostatically united to the divine Word, and as a result never reabsorbed.25 Beyond the mere existence of authentic blood from Christ’s body, supporters of the Shroud’s authenticity still had to deal with the question of how the irregular excretion of fluid matter could have coalesced into the body’s likeness and what role the resurrection played in that formation. Solaro contended that the blood did not exit the body all at once, but rather dribbled onto the cloth drop by drop over the course of Christ’s time in the tomb. Further, echoing the theological explanation of the reabsorption of bodily matter, he submitted that all of the body’s blood remained on the surface of the Shroud until the moment of the resurrection: “Rather than the other blood spilled in various places at the time of the passion, it did not get taken back into the body, except when it resurrected, and in the three days of [his] death remained where it was sprinkled.”26 Buonafede similarly argued that the image was first formed as soon as the body came in contact with the sheet, “but it had its finishing touches carried out in the act of the glorious resurrection . . . since at that moment, and not before, it was determined by divine right which part of that sacred blood had to be taken back up into the veins to enjoy the life of glory, and which portion to be left on the cloth to bring the image to completion for the consolation of the church.”27 In other words, the image assumed its final shape only after the resurrection reabsorbed a portion of the blood back into Christ’s body. The rest is what remains visible on the Shroud.

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Proclaiming the existence of Christ’s blood on the Shroud as authentic bodily discharge was a matter of theological reasoning. But the issue of its forming into an image of Christ’s body still invited associations with artistry by ascribing the forces acting on the blood to an authorial agent. What is most significant in this regard is Solaro’s deployment of terminology denoting the use of paint and artistic techniques to describe this process: There remained on the Shroud only the amount of blood presently visible; consequently, the image got completed and perfected in that moment when Christ, reviving, reassumed the rest of the blood in such a way that we could say . . . that the miraculous image of the Shroud was as if sketched in death, while the body was wrapped up there by that divine painter (who employed not just the hands, but the feet, the head, and the entire body) but then finished and perfected at that moment when he placed there the beautiful gold frieze, and the light of the glorious resurrection, in which, I estimate, that he gave there the final touch and completion with his body’s paintbrush—no longer bloody and lifeless, but gilded, and rich with light, and full of those superfine and ultramarine, or rather divine colors of the beatific talents of glorious bodies.28 The body’s leakage of blood onto the linen shroud and Christ’s eventual resurrection are ultimately miracles explained as a theology of painterly facture. Christ, over the course of his passion and resurrection, deposited and then selectively reabsorbed a portion of his blood in the manner of a subtractive painting. Solaro likens the resulting work to a “sketch,” produced through the “touch” and “finish” of the body’s “paintbrush,” which distributed blood as if it were “ultramarine, or rather divine colors.” That is, the image results not from the accumulation of pigment on the pictorial surface, but through its judicious removal. As a result, the act of discharging blood only to be subsumed into the newly resurrected body becomes a conscious and intentional image-making process.

Art and Life

The persistence with which the Shroud of Turin, a relic that would appear to transcend mere artistry, is described as an artful resurrection relic evinces a heightened conceptualization of artifice that can bolster its theological authority and devotional prestige. Solaro and others could ascribe Christ’s resurrection to an artistic process thanks to a long-standing belief in the powers of art to conjure the animate qualities of living bodies. This is to say, the deployment of terms denoting painterly facture is freighted with

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entrenched tropes of artistic creation that credit the artistic act itself with imparting living presence to dead materials.29 In fact, the conflation of artistry with resurrection theologies originated in early medieval sources. Saint Augustine’s fifth-century Enchiridion related this process of the body’s revival—which, he emphasizes, remains substantially intact and incorrupt—to the refashioning of melted or broken statues.30 This process becomes an act of doubling or remaking the body, even if in a reconstituted form. “Take the example of a statue made of fusible metal,” Augustine suggests; “if it were melted by heat or pounded into dust, or reduced to a shapeless mass, and an artist wished to restore it again from the mass of the same material, it would make no difference to the wholeness of the restored statue which part of it was remade of what part of the metal, so long as the statue, as restored, had been given all the material of which it was originally composed.” Crucial to this analogy is God’s judgment and discretion as an artist: “Just so, God—an artist who works in marvelous and mysterious ways—will restore our bodies, with marvelous and mysterious celerity, out of the whole of the matter of which it was originally composed. And it will make no difference, in the restoration, whether hair returns to hair and nails to nails, or whether the part of this original matter that had perished is turned back into flesh and restored to other parts of the body. The main thing is that the providence of the divine Artist takes care that nothing unbecoming will result.”31 The act of resurrection is accordingly treated as the intentional product of God’s divine artistry, which both preserves the material continuity from one body to the next and reveals the supremacy of his artistic mind. A life-infusing power credited to acts of creative artistry undergirds casual acknowledgments of the “lifelikeness” of Renaissance painting to such a degree that it often blurs the distinction between what has the mere semblance of life and what is actually alive.32 For example, Angelo Poliziano’s epitaph for Fra Filippo Lippi marvels at the artist’s power to render vitality out of inert materials, saying, “with my fingers I could give life to lifeless paints, and long deceive the mind to expect them to speak.”33 Later, Francesco Lancilotti claimed that painters possessed the power “to make a dead thing appear alive.”34 Ludovico Dolce declared that paintings by Albrecht Dürer transcended successive stages of artifice into achieving life itself, asserting that “the things seem not drawn, but painted; and not painted, but alive.”35 The same writer credited Pordenone with remarking that for a painting of Saint Sebastian Titian used real flesh rather than paint. The colors used to render the body surpass the appearance of the artist’s vacant pigments and appear instead as living matter.36 Sculptors also embraced the belief that certain materials—wood foremost among them—possess vital characteristics that animate the products made from them, as often seen in images of Christ’s suffering.37 Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists (1550, expanded in 1568) established a framework for understanding the close ties between artifice and living presence at the dawn of the

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Shroud’s emergence as one of Christianity’s preeminent artifacts. The entire structure and teleology of the Lives are based on the assertion that the most advanced and praiseworthy artists are those who infuse their works with vital agency. Vasari remarked on artists’ abilities to endow their figures with “breath,” “life,” “liveliness,” “motion,” and other terms signaling a vitality more entrenched and empowering than mere lifelike illusion.38 In the preface to the third part of the Lives, Vasari singled out Leonardo and Michelangelo for granting figures precisely these qualities.39 With Leonardo this is most praiseworthy in the Mona Lisa’s “beating pulse.”40 Michelangelo’s Pietà achieved the appearance of life through the articulation of distended veins, the portrayal of which was later regarded as an incarnational act rendered in living stone.41 Vasari even admitted the shortcomings of his own work in conveying the essence of living spirit by remaining dead: “But that which becomes apparent and displeases even the lesser intellects is the incredible haste with which I have painted my work, more sketched than finished. My paintings seem to await that magic touch of the brush which transforms dead images into living and speaking figures.”42 It was indeed this miraculous final touch of painting that, as we saw, Buonafede and Solaro attributed to God in the creation of the image on the Shroud at the moment of the resurrection. Vasari’s treatment of Michelangelo in particular evinces an understanding of the sorts of intersections of art theory and theology explored in this chapter by invoking artistic facture as a means to revive the dead.43 He pointedly referred to this life-giving artistic process when describing the Moses for the Julius II tomb becoming prepared “for his resurrection at the hands of Michelangelo.”44 Similarly, Vasari characterized Michelangelo’s Christlike heroics in sculpting the David from a discarded block of marble as a feat of “resuscitating one who was dead” (far risuscitare uno che era morto).45 The mutual intelligibility of art theory and resurrection theology is most acute in Vasari’s treatments of Michelangelo’s inspirited nudes in The Last Judgment. “Nor in the resurrection of the dead,” Vasari says, “did Michelangelo fail to demonstrate to the world how these bodies take back their bones and flesh from the same earth.”46 Marcia Hall has shown that this fresco endorses a key shift in resurrection theology away from the revival of the soul and toward the restoration of material flesh. Michelangelo’s acceptance of this doctrine is evident in the way he renders bodies in paint (fig. 18).47 His emphatic, almost tangible evocation of bodily form through his emphasis on disegno (resulting in what Hall characterizes as “the most corporeal figures he had ever created”)48 ratifies an intersection of artistic and divine creation of bodily matter that underscores later assessments of the Shroud’s image as a material and artistic testament to Christ’s resurrected body. Such powers to enact, through artistic means, the vivification of human form were evidently so commonplace as to elicit scorn when artists failed to convince viewers that their crafted figures possessed real vitality. Vincenzo Giustiniani criticized Michelangelo’s second version of the Risen Christ (1519–21)

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figure 18 | Michelangelo, Last Judgment (detail), completed 1541. Sistine Chapel, Vatican. Photo: Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. © Mondadori Portfolio / Bridgeman Images.

for remaining a “mere sculpture” because of the lack of “vivacità” and “spirito” that one sees in ancient works.49 Michelangelo’s task, it would seem, was to perform an actual resurrection of the body instead of merely portraying the effects of one in stone. Benvenuto Cellini credited his own artistic talents with the reanimation of dead figures in his dramatic autobiographical account of casting his bronze Perseus, saying, “owing to my thorough knowledge of the art, I was here again able to bring a dead thing to life.”50 Associations between artistry and the resurrection were especially fertile in the Baroque period, after the Savoy moved their Shroud to Turin and initiated its public cult.51 Filippo Baldinucci described the characteristic of vivacità (lifelikeness) as a workshop

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procedure for artists to create illusory counterfeits of living forms replete with the appearance of an “abundance of spirits.”52 But the vitality of artistic figures is frequently and more pointedly credited both to convincing artistic style and to mysterious animating forces originating in the artists themselves. For instance, the sculptures of Gianlorenzo Bernini most especially elicited comments that credit him with the power to enliven stone. Many accounts go beyond mere rhetorical praise for vividness by suggesting that the artist works marble in a way that transcends imitative illusion and manifests an actual living being. These animating powers were referred to as Bernini’s “spirits,” which were believed to invade and breathe life into his stone figures.53 Baldinucci’s Life of Bernini (1682) describes the sculptor’s practice as the frenzied operation of one possessed by a magical creative power: “He remained, then, so steadfastly at his work that he seemed to be in ecstasy, and it appeared from his eyes that he wanted his spirit to issue forth and give life to the stone.”54 Baldinucci recounts how a sculpted portrait of the Spanish lawyer Pedro de Foix Montoya became a surrogate for the actual figure, confusing the animate body of the man himself and his lapidary portrait.55 That these abilities to direct animating forces into works of art could even be used to resurrect real bodies is evident in a story recounted by Bernini’s son Domenico: “Urban VIII, having been ill, appeared at the window of the Vatican to assure people of his recovery. Wags in the crowd said it was the pope’s corpse, given life and movement by means of Bernini’s artifice.”56 The acceptance of the artistic body as enlivened by way of a faithful likeness of it draws parallels with what Emanuele Tesauro’s Cannocchiale aristotelico (first published 1654 but commenced in the 1620s) describes as argutezza. While this term is most often associated with the kind of ingenious wit gracing literary works, the concept is readily applied to the resurrecting powers of the visual arts as well. “But thanks to her miracle,” Tesauro explains, “mute things speak; the senseless ones live; the dead rise; the tombs, the marbles, the statues, from this bewitcher of souls they receive voice, spirit, and movement; with ingenious men, they speak ingeniously. In sum, that only is dead, what has not been enlivened by argutezza.”57 It is thus with this power that artists both earthly and divine create real living beings out of lifeless matter. These accounts spanning the Renaissance and Baroque periods contribute to a growing hagiographic treatment of artist biographies by describing them as prodigiously gifted with quasi-divine creative powers.58 It also shows that crediting the Shroud’s formation to an artful resurrection originates not in religious theology, but in art theory. Of course, the idea of the artist as a magical, inspirited creator flirted with the occult in a way that advocates for the Shroud of Turin as an artistically resurrected body/image surely had no desire to engage. As Michael Cole has established, an artist’s alignment with God could have demonic outcomes, for it was dark agents like sorcerers and demons who possessed the powers to operate as manipulators of dead materials.59 Further, Stephen Campbell has shown that the common sixteenth-century topos of crediting humans with godlike

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creative powers by making dead matter appear alive invites charges of the artist’s craft being distinctly nondivine, sinister, and dangerously subversive.60 Nevertheless, no matter what transgressions of artists’ piety and deference to the authority of God’s creativity such accounts might breach, they still testify to widespread agreement that artists are capable of infusing dead matter with spirit. This lies at the heart of the Shroud’s consideration as a divine work of art whose formation signaled the very resurrection of Christ’s body through a process that contemporary viewers could describe as the artistic control and manipulation of discharged blood.

Painting, Incarnation, and Caravaggio’s Entombment

One of the painters whose artistic virtuosity inspired early modern belief in the power to render life was also one of the most notorious of the Baroque age: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.61 Significantly, Giambattista Marino—the author of the Shroud-based treatise on art theory in the Dicerie sacre (see chapter 2)—composed a sonnet for Caravaggio’s funeral that rhapsodized the artist’s ability to conquer death through painting: Death and Nature made a cruel plot against you, Michele; Nature was afraid; Your hand would surpass it in every image You created not painted. Death burned with indignation, Because however many more His scythe would cut down in life, Your brush recreated even more.62 Caravaggio’s Entombment in Rome remains one of the canonical examples of Baroque art in Italy and was widely recognized at that time as his best painting. It marks a point where the tropes of the life-endowing powers of the artist’s brush intersect with contemporary treatment of the Shroud of Turin as an artful resurrection relic. Caravaggio painted this work, commissioned by Girolamo Vittrice and completed by 1604, for the eponymous chapel in the recently reconstructed Oratorian church at Santa Maria in Vallicella (also known as the Chiesa Nuova) (fig. 19).63 It remained in situ until its removal to Paris in 1797. In 1817 it entered the collection of the Pinacoteca Vaticana, and a faithful copy was put in its place in the Chiesa Nuova. This chapter concludes by examining how the Entombment harmonizes contemporary understanding of Caravaggio’s craft of painting with the Shroud’s own prestige as a relic divinely crafted at the resurrection.

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figure 19 | Vittrice Chapel. Santa Maria in Vallicella (Chiesa Nuova), Rome. Photo: author.

The Shroud of Turin found its way into the scene at the Chiesa Nuova from the moment Caravaggio was first involved in the project. The stucco decoration in the vault of the chapel includes an often-overlooked portrayal of the Shroud being stretched lengthwise by angels to reveal its recognizable double image of Christ’s body (fig. 20). Archival documents record both a commitment in May of 1611 to finish the decoration of the chapel and final payments in December that same year—a full seven years after Caravaggio’s completion of his Entombment.64 However, Sheldon Grossman argues that the program for the chapel as a whole was likely planned years before Caravaggio’s participation and laid out since the late 1590s or very early 1600s.65 The Vittrice Chapel, founded in 1596 as one of twelve altars constituting a program based on the Rosary, was dedicated to the Pietà.66 It lies between chapels dedicated to the crucifixion and the ascension, and so the Shroud’s identification as a passion and resurrection relic fits into the narrative and iconographic domain to which Caravaggio’s altarpiece would later contribute.

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Moreover, Grossman finds it more than coincidental that the image of Christ’s body on the Shroud as portrayed in the vault above Caravaggio’s altarpiece closely resemble the foldout diagram in Alfonso Paleotti’s devotional manual (fig. 7), since the founding of the chapel and the first publication of Paleotti’s book occurred within two years of each other.67 Indeed, the development of the decoration of the Chiesa Nuova coincided with the Shroud’s emergence into the devotional orbit of Caravaggio’s Rome. The founding of the Confraternity of the Santissimo Sudario in 1597 and the construction of their own church from 1603 to 1605 occurred only a short distance away from the Chiesa Nuova and at the same time as Caravaggio’s involvement at the Vittrice Chapel (further explored in chapter 5). Moreover, close ties between the Oratorians and the Savoy made the Chiesa Nuova one of the most favored churches for the local Piedmontese population in Rome, who recognized the Shroud as a prime civic relic.68 But the Shroud’s presence is more integral to the Vittrice Chapel than so far recognized, which suggests Caravaggio’s painting was designed with the contemporary reverence for the Savoy relic in mind. Since audiences increasingly understood the Shroud as an artful relic, the proximity of Caravaggio’s Entombment to the portrayal of the Turin relic above facilitates a fertile dialogue between earthly painting and divine artifice. Understanding more precisely how Caravaggio’s altarpiece in this context accommodates the Shroud’s identity with the resurrection requires a closer look at the painting’s subject and composition (fig. 21). Ever since its completion, the painting has been renowned for the extent to which it reveals Caravaggio’s art-historical self-awareness, responding as it does to Michelangelo’s Vatican Pietà and Raphael’s Borghese Entombment in a kind of artistic paragone with Caravaggio’s Renaissance predecessors.69 By incorporating elements of the deposition, lamentation, and entombment, his picture conforms to something that is at once narrative and iconic. The altarpiece portrays a body that is both in motion, about to be moved into the tomb off to the left (now nearly invisible due to the darkening of the picture), and in stasis, with the figures pausing to suspend Christ’s lifeless corpse and offer meditations on Christ’s passion. Mary Ann Graeve argued that Caravaggio’s subject is the funerary preparation of that body on the stone of unction, which appears as a large slab whose corner juts outward into the viewer’s space.70 Even though the precise subject remains ambiguous, Caravaggio’s altarpiece readily allows viewers to call to mind the narrative of Christ’s death, and with it the miraculous image-bearing cloth in Turin, then emerging as one of Christianity’s most precious relics. Compositionally, Caravaggio makes Christ’s burial linens a central component of the painting’s cast of characters. He arranges the figures in a sort of human cascade. The eye moves diagonally from Mary of Cleophas in the upper right, through the more contemplative postures of the Virgin and Mary Magdalene, and terminates at the solemn figures of Joseph of Arimathea, on the left, and Nicodemus, on the right, who bend down

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figure 20 | Detail showing Shroud of Turin in vault of Vittrice Chapel. Photo: Istituto Centrale per il Catalogo e la Documentazione.

to support the weight of Christ’s dead body. Ultimately, then, the worshipper’s visual and devotional focus is on that corpse and the white sheet drooping conspicuously in a dramatic arc underneath and in contact with it. This is the very sheet whose discovery in the tomb would serve as proof of the resurrection of the body and which would, of course, receive the sanguineous imprints for which it became so famous around Caravaggio’s time. Caravaggio’s focus in his Entombment on the dead body and the sheet poised to envelop it allows viewers to mourn Christ’s death in accordance with the chapel’s dedication to the Pietà.71 Yet by drawing attention on the junction of corpse and cloth, the painting also facilitates focused attention to the painterly manifestation of bodily form in synchronicity with the vestiges of Christ’s body that soaked into the Shroud of Turin. In this way, the Entombment reinforces the Shroud’s own status as a eucharistic object (see chapter 1). Indeed, the position of Christ’s body with respect to its placement above the altar would have established a visual conflation with the consecrated host raised by the priest to be adored by worshippers during the performance of eucharistic rites.72 Further, the extreme verisimilitude of Christ’s painted body reflects, in this context, a pictorial transubstantiation.73 Caravaggio’s painted Christ and his contact with the Shroud draped underneath thus reinforce the fusion of body and matter occurring both in the transubstantiation of the host and in the eventual miracle of the resurrection. The diffusion of the chapel’s iconography beyond the frame of the altarpiece recalls Francesco Vanni’s axial narrative alignment in the Adoration of the Holy Shroud, examined at the start of this chapter (fig. 17). Christ’s dead body is vividly portrayed by Caravaggio’s brush at the altar, while in the vault decoration above the Shroud of Turin marks the aftermath of Christ’s death through its presentation of the resurrected body. This ensemble

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figure 21 | Caravaggio, Entombment, 1602–4. Pinacoteca Vaticana, Vatican. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

thus follows the example of Baroque chapels, which viewers at this time could read as unified programs that include the altar image as just one part of a mixed-media bel composto.74 Its design also takes into consideration the specific point from which viewers can take in both the altarpiece and the dome decoration above, as in Raphael’s designs for the Chigi Chapel, also in Rome.75 While the representation of the Shroud above the Entombment was not yet in place by the time Caravaggio completed this work, the upward gaze and outstretched arms of Mary of Cleophas establish a vertical pathway leading our eyes upward beyond the frame of the painting. This suggests the painter’s awareness of the relic’s planned inclusion by tailoring the composition to be in dialogue with it.76 The iconography in the semidome above the altar proves that the vault decoration inclusive of the Shroud at the summit of this iconographic axis was intended to evoke the resurrection. At the center is a painting of the Pietà, which marks the theme of the chapel’s original dedication. To the left is an image of David, who in Acts 2:29–36 offers a prophecy of Christ’s resurrection. Further, David’s right hand gestures the number three, referencing

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the third day on which Christ rose from the dead.77 All the while, the angels holding the vacated Shroud display the image left on it after the departure of Christ’s body. Consequently, the alignment of Caravaggio’s Entombment with the image of the Shroud above should be read as a sequential one, narratively and thematically linking Christ’s dead and resurrected body. Caravaggio’s painting also coordinates with the Shroud of Turin to signal the resurrected body through associations with the sorts of divine artistry described in this and the previous chapter. If the Shroud had been viewed as the product of a form of artificial image-making, however divine, then Caravaggio’s painted representation might have invited associations between the state of Christ’s body and the style used to portray it. Like all of Caravaggio’s works until later in his short career, the Entombment was renowned for the extreme naturalism to which he committed his brush.78 As modern scholars have pointed out, Caravaggio’s astonishingly mimetic artistic powers stem from his self-conscious paragone with sculpture, endeavoring to surpass Michelangelo’s Pietà through his achievements in manipulating the medium of paint.79 In particular, as Sebastian Schütze has noted, Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro adds a naturalizing element here most emphatically employed in the modeling of Christ’s body.80 By thus making two-dimensional figures appear unequivocally as if in the round, the artist has lent visual testimony to his powers to create something that closely approximates bodily matter. But in light of the present discussion of the artistic processes attributed to the Shroud as a relic of the resurrection and the persistent early modern analogy of artistry as the creation of living presence, we might infer that Caravaggio’s painted body could have been viewed as its very materialization as well. What is most intriguing, given the present discussion of Caravaggio’s Entombment, is how the artist’s coloristic naturalism readily elicited conflations of art and theology reminiscent of those that would routinely feature in treatments of the Shroud. A passage of Gian Pietro Bellori’s biography draws incarnational allusions to the color and style by which Caravaggio manifested his painted bodies: “Thus by avoiding all pettiness and falsity in his color, he strengthened his hues, giving them blood and flesh again” (Laonde costui togliendo ogni belletto e vanità al colore, rinvigorì le tinte, e restituì ad esse il sangue, e l’incarnazione).81 Here Bellori credits Caravaggio’s painting style, which he otherwise abhorred for seeming to rely excessively on copying nature just as it is seen, with the power to restore blood and flesh. Moreover, he used the term incarnazione, which in another passage denotes the artist’s ability to replicate the physical and material qualities of flesh, skin, blood, and natural surfaces.82 This term carries an unmistakably sacred connotation, echoing the doctrine of the incarnation of Christ’s body through the actualization of his material form. The overlap of the theology of incarnation and the artistic procedures employed for representing saintly bodies goes back to John of Damascus. His eighth-century defense of holy images rests in part on aligning the making of icons with the process

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by which the invisible becomes visible in flesh. As Bissera Pentcheva has noted, Damascene image theory, aligned with the incarnation, essentially renders the artist’s materials equivalent to bodily matter. Consequently, the crafting of an image amounts to a process Pentcheva defines as “the enfleshment of the Logos.”83 By Bellori’s time this “enfleshment,” or what he calls incarnazione, and whatever theological connotations it absorbed over the course of its gestation, had become a rather conventional workshop term to describe the emphatic naturalism to which many painters committed their brushes. Indeed, it was color that carried the greatest potential to render animate signs of life. This is a legacy inherited from Renaissance art theory, in which the contrasting appearances of living and dead bodies were an often repeated theme.84 In particular, Cennino Cennini’s fourteenth- or fifteenth-century Libro dell’arte designated incarnazione as the rosy color that, crucially for the present analysis on Caravaggio, differentiates a living body from a deceased corpse.85 Filippo Baldinucci’s Vocabolario toscano dell’arte del disegno (1681) defines the adjective incarnato in a similar fashion: “Having the color of flesh, that is mixed with red and white. From ‘flesh,’ because such a color is similar to flesh.”86 As a noun, “incarnation” is defined as “the color of flesh, which is a mixed color of red and white and, as is vulgarly said, of milk and blood, appearing like a white shaded with red, or a red shaded in white, similar to the type of roses that are accordingly called incarnate.”87 While incarnation is an artistic procedure necessary for rendering a body as if it were alive, its suggestive double entendre as the creation of living flesh could be taken to literal extremes. While Cennini and Baldinucci allude to the visual properties of flesh tones, in other contexts “incarnation” signifies the actual making of that flesh. Vasari’s biography of Leonardo da Vinci includes a passage on the Mona Lisa where he uses the word incarnazione when describing the artist’s naturalism as a conversion from pigment into bodily material: “The mouth, with its opening, with its ends united by the red of the mouth, with the incarnazione of the face, which really appears not as colors but as flesh.”88 Titian’s Annunciation at San Salvador in Venice (1559–64), and in particular the brushy, sketchy quality of the paint, typifying his late style, has been called a painterly equivalent of the incarnation, showing that “not only the word, but also his colors, become flesh.”89 The Spanish theorist Francisco Pacheco used the cognate term encarnación to describe the technique of painting skin tones, which, as the color giving life to painted figures, render literal bodies.90 To properly “incarnate” is thus to make living flesh out of inert materials. In the case of polychrome sculptures, this equivalence between making a statue replete with pigmented flesh and creating an animate body must have been a common theme of contemplation when artists achieved such nuanced indications of the living body as the pale blue veins bulging underneath the skin. In Italy, Gaudenzio Ferrari’s mixed-media installations at the Sacro Monte at Varallo provided an experience

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in which the distinction between art and reality was suspended in the service of devotional affect (fig. 11). This was predicated on Ferrari’s successful articulation, according to Gian Paolo Lomazzo, of the figures’ moti—“the spirit and life of art,” or gestures and expressions that similarly differentiate the alive from the dead in ways that go beyond mere counterfeit appearances.91 By virtue of his own deployment of painterly incarnation, Caravaggio grafted vital flesh onto his figures, thereby distinguishing their vitality from mere deadness through the power long credited to artists of infusing life into painted simulations of human bodies. However, while Christ’s body in the Entombment may have summoned the closest painted equivalent to real corporeality, the flesh he rendered there is emphatically not alive. His judicious quoting of Michelangelo’s Vatican Pietà elaborates upon a sculpted body that for Vasari was the quintessence of deadness and, in the words of Lomazzo, “bereft of any vigor.”92 Furthermore, Caravaggio’s seventeenth-century observers are unanimous in praising his portrayal as an unmistakably dead body, not living, and therefore devoid of artistic incarnation. While Bellori praised Caravaggio’s conjuring of living flesh elsewhere, he also remarked that in the Entombment specifically Christ’s “chest [is] deathly pale [petto pallido à morte] . . . the nude parts are portrayed with the force of the most exacting naturalism.”93 That is to say that Caravaggio’s dead Christ lacks the rose-tinted incarnazione normally committed to the portrayal of living figures to give them the semblance of life. To further underscore this characterization, Todd Olson, directing his eyes to a close examination of the bodies in this painting, notices just this distinction between the living and the dead that defines artistic incarnazione and its absence: “Thick broken strokes—peach, white, gray, on a gray-blue ground—congeal into the living flesh of the attendant survivors with blood coursing through their veins in the substratum. . . . This dead Christ is a thin and dry application of flesh over the green-gray ground, scuttling, distressing, breaking, and pockmarking the surface.”94 This body of Christ in the Vittrice Chapel altar carries all signs of being dead, especially when measured against the resurrected and thus living Christ in Doubting Thomas (fig. 22). By contrast to Christ’s body in the Entombment, this painting received praise for its vivacity, with Joachim von Sandrart’s Teutsche Academie (1675) extolling its “good painting and modeling of face and flesh,” which make “most other pictures look like colored paper.”95 The perception of Christ’s dead state in Caravaggio’s Entombment must consider as well the broader context of the Vittrice Chapel. The deceased corpse portrayed in the altarpiece and the body left imprinted on the Shroud of Turin appearing in the vault above are mutually reinforcing contrasts intended to be read together. The dependence on theology and art theory demonstrated by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century conceptualizations of the Shroud as an artful resurrection relic make it difficult to fully understand its early modern significance without bearing in mind the artistic culture it shared with

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figure 22 | Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, 1601–2. Sanssouci Palace, Potsdam. Photo: bpk Bildagentur / Bildergalerie, Potsdam / Gerhard Murza / Art Resource, New York.

Caravaggio. Just as crucially, we would miss the larger significance of Caravaggio’s painting were historians of art to continue to ignore how the Shroud of Turin forges revealing connections to contemporary artistic conceptions. To regard the image of Christ’s body on the Shroud of Turin as artfully created at the time he miraculously overcame his own death is to say that it is, in the artistic parlance of the Baroque age, incarnated, given life through God’s artistry and the vigor of his brush and color. In the mixed-media program at the Vittrice Chapel, which incorporates a range of images pertaining to the death and burial of Christ’s body, only the Shroud can stand as the embodiment of Christ’s artful resurrection. Caravaggio’s Entombment accommodates this conception of the very Shroud of Turin displayed above it in the chapel vault by keeping his own powers of artistic incarnation in check. When gazing at the depiction of Christ’s body rendered through Caravaggio’s brush and, upward, at the Shroud displayed in the chapel vault, worshippers throughout the seventeenth century would have conceived both as products of artifice. Caravaggio synchronized the altarpiece with the chapel’s iconographic program by positioning his painting in deference to the Shroud’s own artful resurrection of Christ’s body.

Chapter 4

Reproducing the Shroud

When the Savoy family transferred the Shroud to Turin in 1578, they first kept their dynastic relic in the tiny chapel of San Lorenzo adjacent to the ducal residence and later moved it to a new chapel within the palace itself. But both spaces proved too restrictive for accommodating such a prestigious artifact and the masses wishing to venerate it. After Carlo Borromeo’s first pilgrimages to Turin, the cardinal urged Duke Carlo Emanuele I to provide a more suitable and publicly accessible place for the Shroud. A proposal by Pellegrino Tibaldi for a chapel extending from the back of the cathedral choir called for mounting the Shroud permanently above the altar near the base of the dome. Nothing came of this plan. Instead, in 1587 the duke had a four-columned wooden ciborium constructed over the high altar of the cathedral, keeping the Shroud concealed from view. Later rebuilt between 1607 and 1609 by Carlo di Castellamonte, this ciborium functioned as the Shroud’s primary home until it was dismantled in 1685 to make way for the proscenium opening of Guarino Guarino’s chapel behind the choir, where the Shroud was installed in 1694.1 An early seventeenth-century manuscript describing the Shroud’s custodial ciborium mentions a simulacrum of the sacred sheet and its twin images of Christ’s body “positioned on the pediment made for the honor and glory of this same Shroud, from which place many times by order of Their Highness this sacred image was publicly spread out to the people, always with the attendance of at least three bishops and other prelates.”2 It is uncertain if this passage refers to the first ciborium or the one rebuilt in the first decade of the following century. An engraving by Jean-Louis Daudet from 1737 depicting the

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reliquary shrine designed by Antonio Bertola and constructed between 1685 and 1694 in Guarini’s chapel similarly shows a pictorial representation of the Shroud held aloft by tumbling putti on the cover to the compartment in which the relic is enshrined (fig. 23). The apparent existence of a representation of the Shroud on the exterior of the various structures in which the relic was kept from the late 1500s onward speaks to a defining feature of its public cult from 1578 to 1694. The Shroud remained unseen for far greater intervals of time than those fleeting interludes in which it was made available for visible consumption through public display. These exterior representations of the Shroud functioned as surrogates without which the relic would remain largely invisible. The reproduction of sacred images in the early modern era compensated for precisely these conditions of sporadic visibility by extending the devotional experience to audiences who had no way of seeing the original. Accordingly, large numbers of images of the Shroud in the form of painted canvases, church altarpieces, exterior wall frescoes, street tabernacles, and others broadly dispersed throughout Savoy territories and beyond testify to its widespread public cult.3 So crucial were such figural representations in sustaining the Shroud’s cult that a papal envoy in 1650 decreed that “in all shops and houses there ought to be held a copy [ritratto] of the Holy Shroud, as well as on all corners of the streets with a lamp to light there.”4 This chapter focuses on a particular set of images in two media in which the ability to foster devotional engagement was especially strong due to the close mediative relationship between artificed representation and original Shroud. These include printed sheets commemorating official exhibitions of the relic, which functioned primarily as souvenirs for private devotion. Others adorning published texts from the end of the 1500s through the 1600s served as visual aids for the meditations those texts inspired. At this same time, painters were contracted to make full-size replicas of the Shroud that reproduced to an even closer degree its physical and visible characteristics. Despite the various differences in style and scale imposed by their respective media, these printed and painted representations of the Shroud of Turin together constitute a coherent group distinct from other representations of the relic. For instance, many church altarpieces and exterior wall frescoes on public buildings feature the Shroud as a protagonist within a historical or narrative episode, usually the act of display, heavenly or terrestrial. But the images explored in this chapter focus more exclusively, and often entirely, on the Shroud itself. Furthermore, even though the printed images are small enough to allow for easy handling and the painted images are close to full size, examples in both media encouraged intimate personal encounters with the Shroud they represent. Finally, though the technical and stylistic traits associated with these two media result in differing manners of representation and signification, the examples examined here share certain features in their reproduction of this miraculous image that ensure that the sacred relic is the unquestionably singular focus for meditative engagement. These images therefore offer new insights into

figure 23 | Jean-Louis Daudet, Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud, engraving on silk, 1737. Castello di Racconigi, inv. R. 851. Photo courtesy of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali e per il Turismo, Direzione Regionale Musei Piemonte.

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the role and function of copies generally in early modern artistic culture. In particular, they challenge modern notions of the “simulacrum” as a false, deceptive, or diminished form of the original.5 These copies of the Shroud of Turin are not forgeries aiming to deceive viewers into mistaking them for the original relic. In that regard they stand in opposition to the common understanding that artistic copies require close connoisseurial inspection in order to unmask them for what they are—replicas entirely interchangeable with their prototype image.6 They also resist a strict hierarchy that might rank the reproduced image an order below the authentic original. Such attitudes stem from the common misinterpretation of Walter Benjamin’s famous statement “That which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art” as an indictment of the copy for exerting a diminishing force on the original. But instead of arguing against copying per se, Benjamin goes on to argue that “by making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced.”7 In the words of Jane Garnett and Gervasse Rosser regarding copies of miraculous images, “the process of reproduction need not be one of infinite dilution of significance, but may give potentially endless life to the prototype.”8 This mutual dependency governs the relationship between the Shroud of Turin and its printed and painted representations in early modern Italy as well. In these examples, the copy achieves a certain equivalence with the Shroud itself. The Shroud’s copies reactivate (to use Benjamin’s term) the prototype through calculated strategies of referral. But at the same time we shall see that they assert their own authority and authenticity as objects of devotion by staking claim to the Shroud’s own prestige.

The Culture of the Copy

The impulse to replicate the Shroud of Turin is part of a wider practice of copying miraculous cult images through reproductive prints and paintings.9 So extensive is the industry of reproducing ancient originals from the late medieval to early modern periods that one scholar termed this phenomenon the “culture of the copy.”10 The Shroud of Turin’s most prominent siblings were hardly immune from this desire for replication either. The Mandylion of Edessa in Genoa was subjected to painterly reproduction for presumably the same reasons as the Shroud. Copies of it could extend the experience of seeing the original beyond the restricted visibility of the icon itself. For instance, in 1589 the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, Christina of Lorraine, traveled to Genoa to venerate the holy image. However, as Agostino Calcagnino reports, “because [her desire to] contemplate it could

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figure 24 | Giovanni Testa, Il Verissimo Ritratto del Santissimo Sudario, engraving, 1578. Photo courtesy of Andrea Nicolotti.

not be satiated, she requested with much begging a copy [ritratto] of it, which, having been made by an excellent painter, was given to that great woman, so she might keep it among her most precious treasures.”11 Predating the production of painted copies of the Shroud and Mandylion were the pictores Veronicarum, licensed painters who, starting in the medieval period, disseminated Rome’s miraculous image of the Veronica.12 Given the efficacy of these precedents, it is not surprising that the Savoy saw fit to broaden public attention to their dynastic relic and utilized artistic replication as an effective and efficient means to do so.13 However, what does stand out, even in this culture of the copy, is the sheer number and variety of printed and painted reproductions of the Shroud of Turin produced during this period. The low cost and capability for mass reproduction made prints especially useful for spreading popular devotion to important religious images that were for various reasons rarely seen.14 The most prominent printed images of the Shroud were made as pilgrimage souvenirs that preserve and perpetuate the visible experience furnished through public ostensions. The first ostension print was designed by Giovanni Testa on the occasion of the 1578 exhibition of the Shroud (fig. 24).15 It is probably the most important of the mass-produced images from this period—despite a declaration by one scholar that it is of little value.16 A tiny line of print running underneath the bottom edge of the image records the event portrayed: “On the 12th and 14th of October in the year of the Lord 1578, in thanks for Carlo Borromeo, who with his family came from Milan to Turin dressed as a pilgrim, there was a public showing of the most holy Shroud.”17 This print depicts the Shroud held aloft by Cardinal Borromeo and a certain Cardinal Ferrero, who are flanked by nine other bishops and archbishops, each of whom is labeled with his name inscribed above his head. However, while this print commemorates a specific historical event, this

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souvenir sheet operated primarily as a devotional image. The Shroud and its miraculous imprint of Christ’s body are unquestionably its primary focus, as indicated by its boldly printed title, “il verissimo ritratto del santiss.o sudario del nostro salvatore giesu christo” (The Most True Portrait of the Most Holy Shroud of Our Savior Jesus Christ). The majority of the printed sheet is taken up by the cloth and its bloody imprints of Christ’s body, in contrast, for instance, to Antonio Tempesta’s ostension print, which subordinates the Shroud itself to the spectacle of its public display (fig. 3). Testa’s print also includes lateral panels showing other scenes useful for facilitating devotional meditation on the events of the passion. On the left a representation of Christ carrying the cross appears between pictures of the tunic and the flagellation column, and on the right an Ecce Homo accompanies Pilate’s washbasin and the whips responsible for administering the myriad wounds scattered around Christ’s body. Other ostension prints follow Testa’s compositional formula. Charles Maillon’s engraving produced just one year later in Rome in 1579 commemorates an unspecified early exhibition of the Shroud in Chambéry. It was included, with slight variation, in the opening pages of Filiberto Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) (fig. 25).18 The ostension prints that most closely follow the format of the 1578 edition are an engraving commemorating the 1582 ostension by Joannes Guettus (fig. 26)19 and an anonymous 1608 print apparently existing in a sole example at the British Museum (fig. 27).20 Featuring labels similar to the ones adorning Testa’s original print, both of these also focus on a row of ecclesiastical figures holding the Shroud lengthwise, with the 1608 edition also including labels above their heads. However, unlike the 1582 engraving, which commemorates an ostension held that year, the 1608 example contains an explanatory panel commemorating the 1578 exhibition thirty years earlier. Other prints from the later 1600s repeat many of the same basic features.21 Worshippers also encountered images of the Shroud inserted within the pages of devotional texts. Among the earliest and most prominent of these is found in Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo (1598), titled “Torculus Calcavi Solus, Isai. LXIII” (fig. 7). It labels each of the bloodstains on the surface of the cloth with letters that correspond to descriptions in the text.22 Variations on this image appear in later editions of the book from 1602 and 1606. Two other devotional engravings feature among the pages of Vittorio Amedeo Barralis’s Anatomia sacra per la novena della s. Sindone (1685).23 In these cases the images work in tandem with the text to facilitate devotions to Christ’s passion. The representations of the Shroud and its markings on Christ’s body, as well as prayers and images in surrounding borders, act as visual aids in place of the relic itself (figs. 28 and 29). Other prominent devotional images of the Shroud of Turin include the “Ritratto della Sacra Sindone,” complete with angels holding the Shroud and scaled measurements (to be discussed later), in the opening pages of Camillo Balliani’s

figure 25 | Charles Maillon, Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, in Filiberto Pingone, Sindon Evangelica (Turin: Nicola Bevilaqua, 1581). Photo: Realy Easy Star / Toni Spagone / Alamy Stock Photo. figure 26 | Joannes Guettus, Il vero ritratto del santissimo sudario, woodcut, 1582. Photo courtesy of Biblioteca Civica di Torino.

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figure 27 | Anonymous, Il verissimo ritratto, woodcut, 1608. British Museum, London. Photo © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.

Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone (1610) (fig. 39). This same image is also used as the frontispiece to Giovanni Francesco Blancardi’s Tesoro celeste in Discorsi morali sopra la S. Sindone (1625).24 These too could be used for private devotions in coordination with their respective texts. Painted copies from around this same period ensured in their own distinct ways the wide dissemination of the Shroud’s cult following through replication.25 As images formed out of brushed pigment on rectangular textiles of a similar scale to the original, these painted copies operate with a different relationship to the Shroud than their printed counterparts because they repeat as closely as possible the characteristics of their prototype. In almost all cases printed images feature the Shroud fully within a pictorial frame that shows the circumstances of its display, with the cloth’s edges curling inward as it is held lengthwise. The painted copies, by contrast, present themselves as equivalent objects to the very Shroud they replicate. Both the material and visible features of the relic are repeated in ways that substitute as seamlessly as possible for that original. In other words, being in the presence of one of these painted copies effectively approximates an encounter with the actual Shroud itself.

R eproducing the Shroud

figure 28 | “Anatomia Sacra della imagine di Christo Signore nostro impressa nella Santa Sindone,” in Vittorio Amedeo Barralis, Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (Turin: gl’heredi Giannelli, 1685). Property of the Umberto II and Marie José di Savoia Foundation—All rights reserved. figure 29 | “Corona Sacra da Presentarsi a Christo appassionata nella Santa Sindone,” in Vittorio Amedeo Barralis, Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (Turin: gl’heredi Giannelli, 1685). Property of the Umberto II and Marie José di Savoia Foundation—All rights reserved.

The earliest surviving painted Shroud copy is found at the Church of Saint Gommaire in Lier, Belgium, and is inscribed at the top with the year 1516 (fig. 30). It was likely commissioned by either Emperor Maximilian I or his daughter, Marguerite of Austria, who married Duke Filiberto II of Savoy in 1501. Another inscription at the bottom discloses the fact that this one is smaller than life size, measuring to approximately one-third the size of the original. Because of its early date it does not bear the marks of the 1532 fire.26 The production of painted copies of the Shroud increased in the post-Tridentine period. While they are found primarily throughout Italy, another significant concentration of them is in Spain; others even made it as far as Mexico.27 Since the original Shroud was regarded as a sign of the divine providence of the dukes of Savoy as dynastic rulers, copies of it were frequently given as gifts to reinforce their diplomatic power throughout the European continent.28 In this way, the promotion and dissemination of copies parallel the Medici’s use of the SS. Annunziata icon in Florence starting at the end of the sixteenth century.29 Both the surviving examples and documentary records for others whose current whereabouts are unknown indicate how widely such copies were distributed and how

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figure 30 | Anonymous, painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1516. Church of Saint Gommaire, Lier, Belgium. Photo courtesy of Jan Verheyen.

highly they were regarded by some of the Shroud’s most ardent supporters. A copy in Bologna, now lost, was believed in the middle of the seventeenth century to have been made for Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti at the time of his 1582 pilgrimage to Turin.30 The opening pages of Alfonso Paleotti’s Esplicatione recount his acquisition of a copy from Cardinal Federico Borromeo. Having made the same pilgrimage to Turin with his cousin Gabriele and both Carlo and Federico Borromeo, Alfonso speaks of the Shroud making such an impression that he was “left with an intense desire to have a copy of it in the same dimensions, to be able, by fixing my eyes on it, to impress into my mind those most holy wounds for the well-being of my soul.” Soon his wish was granted “by the goodness of Signor Cardinal Federico Borromeo, in whose hands arrived a copy taken faithfully and diligently from the original.”31 Among the earliest surviving examples in Italy that date after the 1578 transfer of the relic to Turin is one from the late 1570s or early 1580s at Santa Maria Assunta in Inzago, near Milan, that was thought to have been given to Carlo Borromeo after one of his initial pilgrimages.32 Another copy from the mid-1580s, now lost, was incorporated into the Sacro Monte at Varallo shortly after Borromeo’s death.33 Most copies from the 1600s conform to a basic formal template. First, they are usually much closer to full size than the 1516 copy in Lier. They also often feature iconographic elements not found on the actual Shroud, such as the crown of thorns on the head and a loincloth over Christ’s genitalia.34 To take but one example representative of the majority, a full-size cloth copy inscribed with the date 1653 at the Oratorio dei Santi Pietro e Caterina in Savona graphically represents all the major features of the Turin cloth.35 This includes not only the body and blood, but also the burn holes from the 1532 fire (fig. 31). Further examples from the 1600s feature these same characteristics, even if it is evident that different artistic hands were responsible for their manufacture. Suffice it to say that many painters strove to replicate the phantom quality of the original Shroud’s corporeal stain, though with varying degrees of success. Though they are almost always unsigned, many copies do carry inscriptions that reveal their date of creation, such as the line of text

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figure 31 | Anonymous, painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1653. Oratorio dei Santi Pietro e Caterina, Savona. Photo courtesy of the Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici, Diocesi Savona-Noli, n. 05/20.

reading “extractum ex originale taurini anno 1653” gracing the copy in Savona. These texts, as we shall see later, are important for understanding the authority conferred upon these painted copies as objects of devotion in their own right.

Remaking the Sacred

Copies of the Shroud of Turin claim faithful proximity to the original no matter the medium in which they are made. Printing and painting both invite associations with divine creativity generally, and with the presumed manufacture of the Shroud more specifically. First, the process of printing imparts associations with seals stamped in wax retaining the formal properties of the original image-making agent—a metaphor used since early Christianity to conceptualize a theology of religious icons. This model in turn shapes legends of secondary images being generated out of contact with original image-relics of Christ’s face, such as the Keramion, a terra-cotta tile imprinted with the image of the Mandylion of Edessa when the two came into contact.36 Moreover, printing itself came to be described as a divine art starting in the late 1400s.37 As Elina Gertsman has elucidated, some prints of Christ amount to self-referential commentaries that equate ink with blood and paper with the body. This in turn aligns theories of imprinting with the incarnation.38 Printing carried related eucharistic connotations as well, as stamped wafers were created through the process of impressing a relief into a pliable matrix.39 In further recognition of the understanding of printing as a divine form of artistry, Albrecht Dürer’s Angel and the Veronica features an unusual composition in which an angel raises upward the cloth, which is billowing at such an acute angle as to frustrate discernment of Christ’s face (fig. 32). According to Joseph Leo Koerner, the angel’s posture mimics the act of peeling

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figure 32 | Albrecht Dürer, Angel and the Veronica, etching, 1516. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Pletcher Fund, 1919.

a newly printed sheet away from an inked plate, thus conflating the divine figuration of Christ’s face on the Veronica with Dürer’s own printed sheet in a way that “fashions the Christian non manufactum to mythicize the process and the product of printing.”40 Printing’s associations with divine image making could be readily applied to the Shroud on account of its own direct mechanical image transfer from a relief matrix.41 Agostino Cusano, who saw the Shroud at the 1578 ostension in Turin, declared it to have been “stamped” (impressa), and thus what one finds on the cloth is “the image and effigy of the true and natural body of the Lord with all its outlines and with the signs and vestiges of the scars and wounds which he sustained for our sins; stamped, I say, not with the human art of painters nor with the variety of colors, but miraculously printed [stampata] and portrayed [ritratta] by his own body.”42 Balliani in a similar fashion likens the Shroud to “a stupendous book, since it contains the image of Jesus Christ our Savior, not painted with material colors, but left by him stamped and printed with his own most precious blood.”43 Further invoking the process of printmaking are instances in which the Shroud’s image is described as “sculpted” (scolpito) on the holy sheet.44 As the participle of the verb scolpire, the term can refer to carving sculpture but also to the process of

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engraving on a metal plate, thus forging a self-reflexive analogy between printmaking and the generation of the image on the Shroud.45 The great number of painted copies of the Shroud of Turin provides alternative analogies to the authority of mechanical imprinting. Even in their essential singularity as manufactured objects, the widely distributed painted reproductions exposes an essential paradox about the tendency to treat the original as a divine painting. While the Shroud was regarded as being inimitable by human hands—thus underscoring assertions that it was divinely crafted—early modern artists managed to produce scores of faithful copies of it. Further, the divinity implicitly associated with painting apparently informed the manners by which artists set out to reproduce the Savoy relic. The most persistent account of the manufacture of a Shroud copy concerns an anonymous artist who labored to create a direct reproduction of the original for King Philip II of Spain. As recounted first by Bonafamiglia in 1606: A well-known case involves the great King Philip II of Spain, who wrote to his cousin Duke Emanuele Filiberto that since he could not personally come to venerate the Lord’s Shroud, as he greatly yearned to do, he requested, out of love for the Lord himself, that [the duke] allow excellent painters to make a portrait of it, and send it to Spain, where he would have it conserved with great reverence in place of the prototype. The duke obeyed the king. To obtain the portrait’s grace from he who was the first prototype painter (I mean Christ), and so that which happened other times does not occur, where talented painters who approached the Shroud to copy it were bewildered and lost—a manifest sign that the Lord did not accept their task—he had the Shroud put on display in a private chapel surrounded by many lamps and candles, and ordered, while the royal painter copied it kneeling with head uncovered, that very pious priests solemnly perform the Forty Hours Devotion. And he received mercy by special favor of God with highest happiness not only of the duke but of the King of Spain, who having obtained the portrait, met it, adored it, and put it among his greatest and most valuable relics.46 This story is repeated, sometimes verbatim, in a number of seventeenth-century Shroud texts.47 All follow the same basic structure: in order to extract the maximum amount of grace befitting the original—and thus to ensure the divine favor necessary to bring the copy to completion—the unnamed artist was graced with a working environment that christened his painterly activities as pious supplications to God. So successful were these efforts to produce a copy suitable to be regarded as a proper surrogate for the original

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and its sacred power that in a letter dated January 2, 1586, Philip informed his recently married daughter that praying before the copy nursed him to health.48 Another account detailing the conditions by which copies of the Shroud of Turin are manufactured is found in letters from 1624 and 1626 in which the former Grand Duchess of Tuscany, Maria Maddalena d’Austria, requests two copies from Margherita of Savoy.49 Her letter specifies that the Shroud “be copied by the most excellent hand that can be found . . . on a cloth of the same quality, or at least as close as possible [as the Shroud].” Further, she requests that this copy be “exactly the same length and measure as this thread that I send to Your Highness, leaving to the painter regarding the said ritratto as much a surplus of cloth [as appropriate]; and so that this [copy] might have therefore greater reverence, and to more greatly oblige myself to Your Highness, it will gratify me to have it then touch all the parts of the original sacred image.”50 A later document from April 4, 1626, reports that two copies from “the hand of an illustrious artist” were made and subsequently “touched to all the parts of the original most holy and venerable Shroud.”51 It is possible that one of these is the one now found at the Monastery of the Rosary in Summit, New Jersey, which carries the inscription “cavato dal originale in turino l’anno 1624.”52 A number of issues regarding the production of painted copies emerge from these two accounts. First, it is noted that the artist involved must be worthy of furnishing a suitable reproduction of such an exalted divine image. In the description of the copy made for Philip II, the king requested that the duke “allow excellent painters to make a ritratto,” while Maria Maddalena d’Austria similarly asked that hers “be copied by the most excellent hand to be found.” The request for a suitably virtuosic artist is not in itself surprising given the religious and devotional stature both of the Shroud and of the copies produced from it. For instance, according to Francisco de Hollanda, Michelangelo pronounced that when rulers arrange for copies of sacred images “no one should paint the loving kindness and mercy of Our Redeemer nor the purity of Our Lady and of the saints except the most eminent painters they can find in their kingdoms and domains.”53 Such is the expectation that the best artists available be involved in the production of copies of sacred relics that in some cases scholars have attributed certain examples to famous artistic hands without a firm basis for doing so. Most notable are the attributions (now rejected) of the Shroud copy in Lier, dated 1516, to Albrecht Dürer and Bernard van Orley.54 Attribution of authorship is an especially problematic aspect of the study of these copies since many of them are by anonymous painters. Never do those requesting copies identify a specific artist to carry out the job; apparently the Savoy family was entrusted with finding appropriately talented painters in their employ. Artists who are documented to have worked as Shroud copyists tend to come from the margins of the early modern art-historical canon. Some copies have been attributed

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even to members of the Savoy family otherwise unknown for possessing artistic talents. For example, the princess Maria Francesca Apollonia, daughter of Carlo Emanuele I, is said to have painted a number of copies in the first half of the 1600s.55 At least two of those attributed to her are in Bologna—one at the Monastery of Corpus Domini and another, dated 1646, at the cathedral (fig. 33).56 Among the more prominent names that are recorded through inscriptions on certain copies is that of the obscure painter Giovanni Battista Fantino, which graces numerous examples from the late 1600s and early 1700s.57 Certainly the most prolific artists to have copied the Shroud were Gerolamo, Giovanni Battista, and Pietro Francesco della Rovere, who were conferred as official Shroud copyists by the Savoy court in the early to mid-1600s.58 In a document dated May 27, 1616, Duke Carlo Emanuele I granted Gerolamo and his sons privileged rights “to paint in miniature, to print, and portray the . . . Holy Shroud, and to sell paintings, effigies, and whatever representation of it.”59 Archival sources indicate a production even more prolific than what the number of surviving Shroud copies could substantiate. Between 1612 and 1650 the artists were repeatedly contracted to provide as many as a few dozen copies of various sizes at a time.60 While the Della Rovere clan was evidently quite prolific in executing scores of copies of the Shroud, others are said to have encountered unexpected difficulty trying to bring even a single one to completion. In one case, the son of the Duke of Alba commissioned an artist to copy the original, but after the painter set his tools down next to it, he returned the following day to find it miraculously painted all on its own.61 The account of the copy made for Philip II mentions somewhat cryptically “that which happened other times . . . where talented painters approached the Shroud to copy it were bewildered and lost—a manifest sign that the Lord did not accept their task.”62 Shroud copyists were not evidently alone in their struggles to duplicate a highly revered divine image. Legion are reports of artists’ efforts to copy holy icons being thwarted, often by some mystical force. For example, one of the legends surrounding the Mandylion of Edessa involves King Abgar’s artist Ananias, who was tasked with painting a portrait of Christ but was blinded by the beauty of Christ’s face and body.63 Perhaps something of this struggle can be attributed to what Daniele Mallonio called a “celestial splendor which flashes from the most holy effigy of Christ imprinted on the Shroud.” John Beldon Scott finds in these words allusions to optical theories where the propagation of species rendered the visual experience of the Shroud’s bloody imprints as a spiritually transforming one.64 Yet Mallonio also ascribes the difficulty to copy the Shroud to its sacred charisma as an image: Some kind of hidden energy [that] shines out of the sheet and fills those who look upon it with a heartfelt stupefication. . . . This force pierces through and through to the point that mind and spirit divide, as do the joints and marrow

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and wounding the heart of the beholder with the dagger of remorse, dissolves him in tears. Other images were drawn from this Original. However, the painter could not conceive in his mind nor express with his brush that splendor which by divine agency breathes forth from the linen, but was compelled to acknowledge and confess that a certain radiance in the Shroud is a divine thing.65 In order to overcome this disabling radiance, we have seen in earlier examples that painters could treat the act of painting itself as a pious activity. Giuseppe Buonafede even comments on how the holy sacrament could catalyze a painter’s ability to portray the Shroud: “Tell me, O holy crowns, how many times did you call upon painters to create portraits of this Most Holy Shroud, and you saw them dazzled, lost, and confused, without ever any remedy, until they were inspired by God. Did you not have the most holy sacrament taken out, combined it together, and with their vigor and vision suddenly resumed, the painters completed the undertaking? And what was this if not heaven pointing out that the way to strengthen and comfort the weakness of human eyes, in so many mysteries, was this union of the sacrament and the Shroud?”66 Embarking upon the creation of a copy without proper favor invited a range of potential hazards. According to a seventeenth-century source, one painter even died trying to make a copy of the Shroud when God did not grant him his favor to do so.67 Even if Shroud copyists were successful in their efforts to bring a copy to completion, they may have found the finished product’s appearance to fall short of satisfactory fidelity. Francesco Adorno recalled seeing a fullsize painted replica sent by the Duke of Savoy to the governor of Milan Marchese d’Aiamonte Antonio de Guzmán y Zuñiga that hardly captured the splendor of the original. “But,” he says, “there is as much of a difference between a portrait of a man and the living figure who breathes. In this way [the Shroud] seemed to me so different from what I imagined based on the copy I had just seen that I remained, as I said, astonished.”68 The prospect of copying the Shroud and its mysterious image must have proved especially challenging because of the original’s faint stains, which reverse the natural distribution of lights and shadows. The result is a fugitive appearance of Christ’s crucified corpse that differs markedly from the conventional manner by which artists at that time usually portrayed the physicality of a human body. There was, simply put, no artistic precedent or workshop training that would dictate how to achieve the same pictorial effects as the Shroud. Consequently, the designers of printed images employed a range of techniques to render Christ’s bodily impressions. The 1582 and 1608 ostension engravings incorporate woodcut inserts for the Shroud image that treat Christ’s body as a simple, flattened impression in brown ink (figs. 26 and 27). Bereft of anatomical detail or three-dimensional relief, these portrayals stand apart from the more exact delineations of ecclesiastical

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figures, angels, passion relics, and textual inscriptions also featured on the same sheets. Moreover, by selectively employing woodcut, their designers render the body through the direct transfer of ink from one surface to another, as opposed to intaglio techniques, such as engraving, where the ink pools into recessed grooves carved onto the printing plate. In other words, the woodcut body images mimic the process by which Christ’s blood-soaked body stamped itself on the Shroud as much as they strive to capture its signature pictorial traits.69 Other designers who relied on intaglio techniques for the Shroud’s imprint of Christ’s body employed various representational strategies to augment the cloth’s unusual corporeal index with greater degrees of visibility. Giovanni Testa’s and certain states of Antonio Tempesta’s ostension prints articulate a stark and uniform flatness of a boldly outlined body, striated by parallel hatching lines over the entire surface in a style quite different from the faded elusiveness and reversed pictorial relief of the image on the actual Shroud (figs. 3 and 24). Other printmakers experimented with pictorial three-dimensionality to reverse the Shroud’s negative image by turning Christ’s recumbent body into a portrayal in positive relief. The illustrations in Barralis’s Anatomia sacra per la novena della sS. Sindone (1685) render anatomical contours to suggest the presence of the entire body (figs. 28 and 29). Charles Maillon’s engraving from 1579 adapted for Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) brings Christ’s body on the surface of the Shroud into a complete three-dimensional presence, seen as if floating in front of or resting on top of the linen sheet (fig. 25). Requests for painted reproductions stipulate that they replicate the divinely painted original as closely as possible, presumably to ensure uninterrupted access to the data recorded on the Shroud. A letter dated December 30, 1657, discusses a Shroud copy from which to make further copies for the Duke of Bavaria: This is of the same size, quality, and quantity of the original, so discolored and the cloth rather more darkened and faded by age. From this you will know how the nails were placed in the wrists, and not in the palms. Similarly, the opening of the Holy Side is known to have been made on the right, though in the cloth rests on the left. The bruises, as well as the crown of thorns, equally stand out. And your most reverent Father believes that there is no superfluous line. It is exactly like the original and was likewise stretched out over the original.70 The artistry of these painted copies functions to validate the authenticity of the original.71 Painters generally repeat the major visible and distinguishing features of the Shroud with sufficient fidelity to sustain easy recognition. Still, these painted versions exhibit nearly as much stylistic variability in the portrayal of Christ’s body imprints as do the printed depictions discussed above. Whereas printmakers were somewhat restricted by

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their medium’s reliance on linear deposits of ink, painters could deploy a deft and modulated touch, varying the layers of pigment to portray the softness that distinguishes the Shroud’s bodily forms. In many ways the 1516 copy in Lier is the most faithful to these characteristics. A light pigment wash delicately fades in and out in rough correspondence to the original Shroud, whose distribution of gradient shades corresponds to the degrees of contact the body had with the cloth (fig. 30). It is this ghostly character that most painted copies strive to emulate through a kind of sfumato application of pigment on cloth. In so doing, some make the body difficult to discern against its textile support. Though the full roster of examples cannot be touched upon here, two representative copies, one at the Cathedral of Bologna and the other at the Museo Diocesano in Bitonto (near Bari), both dated 1646, use such a diluted wash of pigment that they appear to have been rendered through watercolor (figs. 33 and 34).72 Only on close examination can one make out the body image’s edges, which are slightly darkened in the manner of a water stain. Even the painted traces of blood, though more abbreviated than in the original, are highly translucent and devoid of the opacity that one would expect of dried, coagulated deposits. A copy of the Shroud at the Monastery of San Giuseppe della Madre di Dio in Moncalieri, near Turin, dated 1634, exhibits a similar use of diluted pigment, but the areas of color are more outlined into distinct blocks (fig. 35). Other painted copies display remarkable aberrations from these attempts to render the fugitive image of Christ’s body on the original Shroud. One of the most unusual of all copies is at the Church of Santa Maria della Pieve in Cuneo, where both the contours of the body and the burn marks running alongside it are rendered with nervous imprecision, in the manner of a crudely executed sketch (fig. 36). Other times the copyist simplified the rendering of Christ’s body with such bold lines and marks as to resemble a cartoon. An example at San Giuda Taddeo in Rome, thought to date from 1692, offers an interpretation of the bodily stain as a three-dimensional picture consisting of a clearly defined face with eyelids unmistakably closed as well as a copious discharge of blood exiting the wounds (fig. 37).73 Its resemblance to the printed images in Barralis’s Anatomia sacra (figs. 28 and 29) may not be coincidental. These technical and stylistic experimentations, which result in images whose manners of figuration differ from what one sees on the original Shroud, amount to a form of projection or discernment. Both these examples and the visionary apparitions derived from the bloodstained impressions on the surface of the original sheet (seen in chapter 1) exhibit a tendency to understand the Shroud through anthropomorphism. By so embellishing the image’s markings, these copyists offer hypothetical interpretations of what the Shroud itself only tentatively suggests in its faint stains, ultimately routing their efforts to replicate the cloth’s miraculous imprints through conventions of artistic figuration more reliably intelligible to themselves

figure 33 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1646. Cathedral, Bologna. Photo: author.

figure 34 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1646. Museo Diocesano, Bitonto. Photo: author.

figure 35 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1634. Monastery of San Giuseppe della Madre di Dio, Moncalieri. Photo: Realy Easy Star / Toni Spagone / Alamy Stock Photo. figure 36 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, 1653. Church of Santa Maria della Pieve, Cuneo. Photo: author.

figure 37 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin, ca. 1692. Church of San Giuda Taddeo, Rome. Photo: author.

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and their viewers. All that mattered was that their copies exhibit enough negative differentiation—that is, resemblance to no other image for which it could be confused—to sustain referentiality to a single recognizable prototype.74 Curiously, painters who made copies of the Shroud of Turin developed strategies that differ from the ways other Baroque artists painted the Veronica, the Shroud’s closest sibling as a divinely imprinted image. Contemporary paintings of the Veronica by the Spanish master Francisco de Zurbarán represent the cloth and its miraculous image of Christ’s face hanging by strings tied to its corners in the manner of a still life (fig. 38).75 Zurbarán rendered the indexical impression of Christ’s face as an amorphous protean sketch similar, at least on first glance, to that of Christ’s body on the surface of the Shroud. For Victor Stoichita, such a representation was a vehicle for visual engagement, encouraging the viewer’s contemplative effort to summon an image from the brink of dissolution.76 In this way, this portrayal of the Veronica might seem to recall some of the Shroud’s painted copies—for example, those in Bologna and Bitonto (figs. 33 and 34). Indeed, Felipe Pereda argues that copies of the Shroud that existed in Spain at that time actually influenced Zurbarán’s depiction of the Veronica, ultimately shaping the way his paintings converge “image” (his treatment of the cloth) and “vestige” (his attempts to duplicate the indexical stain).77 Still, Zurbarán’s portrayal of the Veronica differs from the image of the entire body on the Shroud in one key respect. Christ’s face, slightly turned in space and modeled by highlights and shadows, is three-dimensional. Moreover, by straddling the unique difficulty of portraying Veronica’s monochromatic imprecision and his own inclinations as a naturalist artist, this subject provided Zurbarán a means by which he could shape his identity as a painter. While the cloth image he portrays is a divinely crafted image-relic, he stakes assertive claims to authorship through novel pictorial interpretations and, in certain examples, the insertion of painted cartellini that announce the involvement of his own hand instead of the divine artistry to which the original Veronica is ascribed.78 Painted copies of the Shroud and Zurbarán’s artfully generated Veronicas bring to the fore the fact that artists who took on the task of painting copies of sacred images were self-consciously aware of the role of their own style in negotiating a precise relationship between copy and original. But they responded to that awareness in different ways. Francisco de Hollanda recounts the task of copying the miraculous Salvatore icon in Rome for the Queen of Portugal. When asked, “Did you copy it with the austere simplicity of the original, that severity in the eyes as would naturally become the Savior?,” De Hollanda replied, “Even so I copied it . . . and employed my whole skill not to add or subtract anything as regards that grave austerity.”79 The idea is that the suppression of artistic ambition to match the style of the original ensures the proper mediation of a sacred icon—a directive that certain painters of Shroud copies certainly followed closely, but Zurbarán

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figure 38 | Francisco de Zurbarán. The Veil of St. Veronica, 1635–40. National Museum, Stockholm. Photo: Anna Danielsson / Nationalmuseum.

less so. What also emerges in discussions surrounding the replication of old icons is the idea of stylistic “archaism,” where the modern style will be tempered or restricted in order to maintain the authoritative look of the old image.80 Still, artists often aim for replications that ensure referentiality to the prototype while maintaining the distancing autonomy of the copy. This is to safeguard against an idolatrous equivalence between artful representation and sacred matter.81 Those who reproduced the Shroud, regardless of medium, similarly arrived at a range of pictorial solutions to show the relic’s protean figuration. These artists evidently wished to make the copy authoritative in its accurate replication of the visible features of the original image, but at the same time allowed for

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easy recognition of the copy as a copy only, without claiming to be the original through exact replication. 113 Mediation and Proximity

The printed and painted images replicating the Shroud of Turin considered in this chapter reveal both variances in visual appearances and radical differences in scale from one to another, especially across media. Consequently, the issue we need to consider when analyzing these images is how they conform to the period’s concept of copies, not our own. Filippo Baldinucci’s Vocabolario toscano dellarte del disegno (1681) offers a historicized definition of “copy” that allows for the variance in appearance from the original that we see in printed and painted copies of the Shroud: “Copy: Defined among our artists as a work that is not made of one’s own invention, but is drawn precisely from another’s and may be better, poorer, or equal to the original” (emphasis mine).82 Given this latitude in pictorial fidelity that Baldinucci’s definition allows, copies are not evidently defined by a determined threshold of visible resemblance alone. Instead, like any work of art, they are susceptible to subjective interpretations of style as well as gradations in quality. Indeed, the various styles employed when replicating the image on the Shroud of Turin affirm what scholars today have already noted about early modern copies generally. Instead of a complete and perfect imitation of the original, only certain duplicate features are necessary to sustain referentiality. Alessandro Allori’s copies of the SS. Annunziata in Florence provide an illustrative case where the relationship to the original was not one in which strict and mimetic likeness was necessary to ensure mutual referentiality. Instead, as Megan Holmes states, a copy could be linked to its prototype through any one of a variety of ways.83 Another example from first half of the 1600s, unfortunately known only through documentary descriptions, proves that this conceptual linkage between copy and original can be determined by the process of coming into being, not just through points of visual correspondence. In a painting in stone by Niccolò Tornioli, apparently created for Cardinal Maurizio di Savoia, the artist sought to conflate the appearance of the Veronica with the format of the Shroud. It utilized a singular technique of marble staining, evidently aiming to reproduce the Shroud’s own miraculous and emergent figuration of Christ’s body. While Tornioli’s painting featured only Christ’s face, the marble was sliced and bookmatched to provide mirrored portrayals in a manner mimicking the Shroud’s twinned images of Christ’s body.84 The result is a copy in a conceptual sense, but apparently not one that bears an especially strong figural resemblance to the prototype. Similarly, as we shall see, printed and painted copies of the Shroud of Turin shared common traits to ensure mediative proximity through extrapictorial features: in particular,

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scaled references and statements testifying to the copy having been extracted from, and hence put in physical contact with, the original Shroud of Turin. The relationship between printed copies of the Shroud and the original they represent parallels that which exists between the Shroud and Christ’s body. Consequently, Agaffino Solaro allowed for printed sheets to facilitate the same direct access to Christ as does the cloth itself.85 In that regard they impose a mediative transparency in their roles as referents to the sacred prototype. A number of printed images forge an equivalency as substitutes for that object, despite the otherwise stark material disruption between the original (blood and sweat soaked into cloth) and its printed duplicate (ink impressed on paper).86 Indeed, early modern viewers could still understand a copy’s relationship to the prototype to be closer than modern observers might think. Giovanni Testa’s 1578 ostension print proves foundational for establishing conventions by which later printed images could mediate between viewer and prototype (fig. 24). The title printed in parallel bands running above and below the image of the Shroud’s exhibition announces, “il verissimo ritratto del santiss.o sudario del nostro salvatore giesu christo” (The Most True Portrait of the Most Holy Shroud of Our Savior Jesus Christ). Some variant on this title appears on a great number of printed images. For example, the 1582 ostension print is labeled “il vero ritratto del santissimo sudario del nostro salvatore giesu christo” (fig. 26). The 1608 print carries the label “il verissimo ritratto della sacrosanta sindone, overo tela nella quale fu imposto il pretiosissimo corpo del nostro salvatore giesu christo” (The Most True Portrait of the Sacrosanct Shroud, or Cloth on which was Imposed the Most Precious Body of Our Savior Jesus Christ) (fig. 27). Similar texts adorn a host of other Shroud images and typically use the word ritratto (portrait) to designate the nature of the printed copy as a truthful and reliable representation of the original. This term can indicate direct contact printing more specifically.87 The verb ritrare, even in other contexts, maintains this connotation with copies as mechanical or automatic in nature, and therefore denies subjective or interpretive manners of portrayal.88 While the words vero or verissimo in the labels adorning Shroud prints vouch for the quality of the ritratto, these inscriptions still carry a certain linguistic ambiguity of address. Does verissimo ritratto refer to the Shroud’s fidelity as a true image of Christ, or to the print’s own authority as a faithful replication of the Shroud? On first consideration it would seem that the label functions within the intermediary print and describes the absent Shroud’s unmediated likeness of Christ and the means by which it was produced. To this point we return to Cusano’s remark, introduced above, that the impression of Christ’s body results “not from the human art of painters, nor with a variety of colors, but [was] stamped and ritratta by his own body.”89 This is to say that the truth of resemblance would seem to reside in the Shroud’s own automatic self-generation from Christ’s

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body rather than the human manufacture of the print that reproduces it. However, the tradition of printed imagery after sacred icons compels the labels on Shroud prints to signal that the printed image itself is a “very true portrait” of Christ’s burial cloth. Verissimo ritratto is essentially synonymous with what Peter Parshall defines as imago contrafacta, which ensures veridical authority to effectively counterfeit the original it portrays.90 In this relationship a printed copy is deemed a replica that conveys the full authenticity of its prototype. Though printed images of the Shroud of Turin do not make the same claims in these precise terms, as ritratti they make use of textual features that declare authenticity by providing the viewer with the necessary data to call the Shroud fully to mind through the copy, no matter how visibly derivative from the original it may be. To that end, Testa’s print makes its most credible claim to be a most faithful representation of the actual Shroud through a rather unique extrapictorial feature. The upper border features a tiny line of print conveying data that, in the context of private devotion, permit the worshipper to conjure a complete mental reconstruction or imaginary copy of the original: “It is to be known that from this A to B is the distance from head to head; from A to C is the width of the shoulders; from A to C (three times) is the width of the Holy Sheet; B from A to C (four times) is the length of the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ; from A to C (nine times) is approximately the length of the Holy Shroud C.”91 The boldfaced A, B, and C inserted into the continuous line of text demarcate the points of measurement from which the beholder could reconstruct the true dimensions of the cloth, its image, and, by extension, Christ’s actual body as well: the distance from A to C is one-third the Shroud’s width, one-ninth its length, and one-fourth the length of his body (etc.) (fig. 24). Other Shroud prints that carry similar scaled measurements include the 1582 ostension print, which somewhat discreetly features the letters a (cut off from the left margin), b, and c, with the text below indicating how the distance between these letters measures against the Shroud and its imprinted body image (fig. 26).92 A more prominent measurement appears on the 1608 ostension print, which includes a lengthy inscription including, among other items, a scale reference distributing the letters A, B, and C across the entire length of the depicted Shroud’s bottom edge (fig. 27). The text featured below begins with an explanation of these markings: “It is to be known that from A to B is the distance from head to head, that is from the brow to the nape of the Most Holy Image of Our Savior Jesus Christ, and from A to C the width of the shoulders of this sacrosanct image; similarly, from A to C three times is the height, or width of the holy sheet, and from A to C four more times is the length of the image of our Lord, and from A to C nine times is close to the length of the entire shroud.”93 Other scales feature in Shroud images to serve as visual aids for printed texts. For instance, the full-page “Ritratto della Sacra Sindone” inserted into the opening pages of

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Camillo Balliani’s Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone (1610) features three angels holding the Shroud lengthwise (fig. 39). Flanking this inset image, near the bottom edge, are the letters A and B with the following text below: Measure of the holy Shroud and of the image of our Lord left on it: From A to B, that is from one point to the other thirty-six times, is the length of the Shroud. From A to B twelve times is the height or width of it. From A to B sixteen times is the length of the image of the Lord. From A to B four times is the width of the shoulders.94 Sacred measurements of this sort have their own history in Christian devotion. Charlemagne claimed to possess an exact measure of Christ’s body given to him by an angel.95 David Areford reveals some printed images of the Holy Lance and Titulus Crucis that are scaled to the actual size of the objects they represent, strengthening the substitutional properties of the copies and allowing for “perpetual access” to those relics. Other devotional prints feature a single one of Christ’s wounds removed from the larger context of the body itself, thereby acting as a synecdoche by providing the modular measurement from which to extrapolate the size of the entire corpse.96 There also exist measuring ribbons derived from the Shroud whose length supplies the same data while eschewing any need for pictorial representation.97 These measurements would have been useful for private devotions. Knowing the correct dimensions of the linen, based on information provided in print, the worshipper could derive an accurate mental image of the Shroud. The devotional function and value of such prints that utilize these scale references are predicated on the implicit extrapictorial encoding of the signified within the sign. They thus function simultaneously both as copies and as extensions of the original that compensate for their otherwise distancing size, materiality, and pictorial rendering. That is to say, they ensure in their own way the validity of the image’s claim to be a verissimo ritratto. Painted copies are usually close to life size and so require no such calculations of proportional scale. Yet they too feature textual inscriptions designed to establish a close signifying relationship with the original Shroud. Unlike signatures that adorn many works of art, these texts avoid terminology that would indicate the interventionist artificial means by which they were crafted. That is, they do not announce themselves to be mere paintings. Instead, the most common type of inscription from the 1600s declares the copy to have been “extractvm ab originali” or “extractum ex originali tavrini” (extracted from the Turin original). Though too numerous to list in full, prominent examples include the copies in Savona (fig. 31), Bologna (fig. 33), Bitonto (fig. 34), Moncalieri (fig. 35), and Cuneo (fig. 36), among many others.98 A variant inscription reading,

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figure 39 | “Ritratto della Sacra Sindone,” in Camillo Balliani, Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone di N.S. Giesu (Turin: Luigi Pizzamiglio, 1610). Photo © 1999 Barrie M. Schwortz Collection, STERA, Inc.

“cavato dal originale in tvrino,” which uses the roughly synonymous verb cavare to express this same direct relationship between the copy and original, adorns an example dated 1624 now at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Rosary in Summit, New Jersey.99 An example in Rome carries an inscription, to my knowledge unique among these painted copies, reading, “expressum ex originali tavrini anno 1626.”100 Some copies in Spain are inscribed with the equivalent “sacado del original,” including an example at Torres de la Alameda, near Madrid, that carries an usually long inscription: “este es el verdadero retrato del santissimo sudario sacado del original en turin y tocado a el en 3 de mayo de 1620 años” (This is the true portrait of the most holy Shroud taken from the original in Turin and touched to it on the third of May, 1620).101 A later example from 1623 in Logroño has a much shorter inscription reading, “sacado del original en turin en 4 de mayo de 1623.”102 The terms extractum, cavato, expressum, and sacado all deny artifice as an intervening or interpretive agent by suggesting instead a material generation from the original to the

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paintings it begets. In other words, these terms define a process in which the painted copy has been physically extracted or drawn forth directly from the original, thereby ensuring a material continuity from one to the next. This relationship is ultimately grounded on the assumption of physical contact. Indeed, the final act of consecration for many of these copies was to be pressed against the original Shroud in order to absorb something of its sacred aura, but also, implicitly, to receive the final authentication of the image of Christ’s body. We remember that Maddalena d’Austria’s letter to Margherita of Savoy from 1624 asked that her requested copies touch the original: “So that this [copy] might have therefore greater reverence . . . it will gratify me to have it then touch all the parts of the original sacred image.” Physical contact is directly recorded on inscriptions adorning a number of copies. For example, one from 1652 in Naples is inscribed, “Contactu Prototypi consecratium Archiepiscopi manu.”103 Some copies are reported to have been “distesa di sopra” (spread out over) the original—implying that contact was both the intent and outcome of such a gesture. Inscriptions testifying to these acts of touch even appear on copies that predate the Shroud’s arrival in Turin in 1578. For example, a copy in Guadalupe, in the archdiocese of Toledo, Spain, is inscribed, “a la reqvesta del signor francesco de ybara qvesta pictura estata facta al più presso del precioso reliqviario qve riposa nella sancta cappella del castello di chiamberi et stata distesa di sopra di ivnio 1568” (At the request of Lord Francisco de Ibarra, this picture was made at the greatest vicinity to the precious relic that rests in the Sainte-Chapelle of the Castle of Chambéry and was spread out over it in June 1568).104 The circumstances of how and in what manner these copies were put in contact with the original Shroud of Turin are not always known. However, one account reports copies being pressed against the original during an ostension on October 24, 1649. At this time Padre Innocenzo da Caltagirone received a copy from Cardinal Maurizio di Savoia and during a private showing was allowed to spread it out over the original—a concession apparently not often granted even to high-ranking members of the church.105 Moreover, testimonies of touch and contact with the original Shroud feature prominently in documents that authenticate these copies. For instance, an example at San Francesco in Arquato del Tronto, inscribed, “extractvm ex originali tavrini anno 1653,” is accompanied by a document of certification dated May 1, 1655, that reads, To all those who read or see the present document, we attest that we (Fra Paolo Brisio, by the grace of God and the Holy See Bishop and Count of Alba), on May 4, 1653, while in the city of Turin, on Piazza Castello, . . . before the people who came here through devotion from all of Piedmont and from the territories of other Princes, the Holy Shroud of Our Lord Jesus Christ, in which the body of the Lord was wrapped when taken down from the Cross, was publicly exposed;

R eproducing the Shroud

with our own hands we spread upon and touched to the original Holy Shroud a copy conforming to it, painted on cloth of linen five palms wide and twenty long; which copy had been consigned to us a short while earlier by M.R.P. Massimo Bucciarelli, lector general in sacred theology of the Order of the Minor Observants of St. Francis, and then we gave it back to him.106 Similar certifications of touch conferring authenticity survive for the copy from 1653 at SS. Pietro e Caterina in Savona, which states, “exemplum subannexum tangere fecimus exemplar originale” (fig. 31).107 Similar documents survive for copies in Spain, including one from 1623 at Logroño, a 1654 copy at La Cuesta, a 1657 example at Escalona del Prado, and another from 1674 at Badolatosa that emphasizes three times that the copy had touched the original.108 The frequent emphasis on physical contact to transfer authenticity and sacred authority from original to copy draws from what was a traditional practice when making copies of holy icons.109 Such gestures of touch grant these painted copies the status equal to that of a secondary relic.110 (Or, in one case involving a copy of the Shroud for Philip II of Spain, even a primary relic. Documents for the delivery of this copy describe it as “a cloth on which the imprint of the front and back of Christ appears which the Duke of Alba ordered to be made from the original one which is located at the Duchy of Savoy and, since it has been touched by the original one, it is considered a primary relic and is greatly worshipped, with its certificate of authenticity.”111) The precedent for this practice were ancient brandea—ordinary objects, often cloth fragments, touched to the bodies of holy figures or even their tombs and believed to absorb that saint’s presence.112 This transference of power could even occur with prints, as in the woodcut after the Madonna delle Carceri being rubbed against the original and thereafter becoming a relic.113 These instances carry forward a long tradition in the economy of the Christian image, in which imprinting through contact served as the means by which highly revered images can come into being.114 Such was the relic-like sacrality of copies of the Shroud of Turin that some merited their own ostensions, such as that overseen in Vigevano by Maria Francesca Apollonia documented in seventeenth-century texts.115 Crucially, the devotional appeal of the copies does not appear to have been diminished with respect to the original. While the forgoing examples present unique cases for the function of copies of the Shroud of Turin, and cannot therefore prove widespread treatments of copies generally, they are still broadly consistent with the way such copies operated in early modernity. The printed and painted representations of the Shroud of Turin examined over the course of this chapter tell us much about how copies sustained and disseminated devotions to this singular religious artifact whose calculated control by the Savoy resulted in

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limited opportunities for firsthand viewing. Moreover, by virtue of their stylistic diversity, they demonstrate how the period conception of a copy involves more than a determined standard of visible resemblance alone. By no means are the representations of the Shroud that were produced for the purposes of private devotion intended to be facsimiles that deceived the viewer into mistaking the copy for the original. In other words, they are not fake relics of the sort that were occasionally produced in this period to manufacture a cult.116 They also defy what Norman Bryson termed the “essential copy”—a faithful and mimetic trompe-l’oeil where one cannot be aware of both the painted surface and the illusion.117 Instead, printmakers and painters engaged in the task of replicating the Shroud from the end of the 1500s through the 1600s devised a range of strategies to ensure its intermediary proximity to the original. Some, as we have seen, incorporated the scaled measurements of the original Shroud, while others were touched to it in order to extract its sacred aura. But in so doing, these “true portraits” acted as doubled signifiers that offered direct access to the prototype while garnering for themselves an essential autonomy and authenticity as objects of devotion.

Chapter 5

The Roman Shroud of Turin Relic, Icon, Copy

The confraternity of the Santissimo Sudario (Most Holy Shroud) in Rome, founded in 1597 and elevated to archconfraternity by Pope Clement VIII later that same year, served the sizable expatriate community of Savoyard subjects from the states of Nice, Piedmont, and Savoy. The institution’s founding occurred less than two decades after the Shroud of Turin had emerged as an object of special prestige when exhibited publicly for the first time, in 1578, in the duchy’s new north Italian capital. Initially convening at the small Church of San Ludovico, in 1605 the confraternity constructed its own church, Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi, in the shadows of Sant’Andrea della Valle. This new church followed designs by Carlo di Castellamonte, court architect to the Savoy, but was later remodeled by the Roman architect Carlo Rainaldi in the second half of the 1600s.1 The focal point of this church is the decorative program at the high altar (fig. 40). The altarpiece, painted by Antonio Gherardi in the early 1680s, features the dead Christ supported by angels on an elevated platform and being adored from below by the Savoy patron saints Maurice and Maximus, as well as various members of the ducal family.2 Situated above this altarpiece is a life-size replica of the Shroud of Turin (the very “Santissimo Sudario” to which the institution was dedicated) embedded in an elaborate and exuberantly Baroque ensemble featuring stucco angels unfurling the billowing cloth below the ecstatic gaze of God the Father in Glory (fig. 41). Scholars have not arrived at a consensus for the identification of the artist responsible for this ensemble. However, it was most

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likely designed by Gherardi himself and executed by the sculptor Pietro Mentinovese in the very last years of the 1680s.3 This copy replicates the primary visual features of the original. The twin impressions of the front and back of Christ’s battered and bloodied body are displayed in the customary horizontal fashion, which mimics its earthly ostensions in Turin.4 Existing scholarship on Santissimo Sudario reveals its political charge to broadcast Savoyard power in papal Rome.5 In this context the prominent display of the Shroud copy operates in a way analogous to the dynastic motivation behind the ostension of the original in the city it called home. Twinned in a relationship of mutual reinforcement, the Savoy dukes brandished their Shroud to consolidate power in Turin, while the growth and prestige of their capital augmented the fame of their dynastic relic and its miraculous imprints of Christ’s body.6 The Church of Santissimo Sudario and its prominent display of the Shroud of Turin copy in Rome effectively displaced this Savoy propaganda into a new political arena. However, the copy’s function as a religious image within Rome’s highly charged post-Tridentine sacred topography remains unaddressed. For much of Santissimo Sudario’s early existence there were only limited examples of Shroud iconography within the city’s private and public spheres.7 As seen previously, the few prominent appearances include an image of an ostension accompanying a map of Piedmont at the Vatican’s Galleria delle Carte Geografiche, completed in 1583 (fig. 1), as well as in the vault of the Vittrice Chapel above Caravaggio’s Entombment at the Chiesa Nuova, put in place in the early 1600s (fig. 20). Equally surprising is that in the earliest years after the founding of Santissimo Sudario and the construction of their national church, pictorial representation of the eponymous relic at its Roman outpost was at first restricted to scattered small-scale portrayals.8 But whatever iconographic void existed then eventually gave way to the display of the full-scale copy of the Shroud—the most monumental depiction of the relic anywhere in Rome—as the central devotional focus of the worshippers who convened there. Consequently, this Shroud copy was nearly without peer in helping publicize to Roman audiences what was quickly becoming recognized as one of the most important and potent Christian artifacts in existence. The copy of the Shroud of Turin at Santissimo Sudario in Rome partakes of the same categorical versatility as other copies explored in chapter 4 and so operates as both a referential icon and an autonomous object of devotion. But it also stands apart in one key way. It is distinguished for being the only example anywhere at that time displayed permanently at the altar of a church.9 What allows this particular copy to occupy a place of unparalleled prominence? What does this treatment say about the relationship between the Santissimo Sudario copy and the original Shroud in Turin, and about the copy’s mediative function within Rome specifically? In attending to these questions, this chapter will examine how the contours of Rome’s sacred topography, already host to an array of holy

figure 40 | High altar of Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi, Rome. Photo: author.

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icons and original passion relics, amplified the power of the copy at Santissimo Sudario for signaling the Duke of Savoy’s highly revered dynastic relic. At the same time, the installation of this cloth replica into a Baroque altar ensemble, its materiality as an artificially crafted copy, and its unusual treatment when compared to the fortunes of other image-relics in Rome that inspired reproductions, all informed its function as a focus for devotion in its own right. The following material reveals the unique ways, unprecedented in the religious culture of early modernity, in which the Roman Shroud of Turin at Santissimo Sudario, without pretending to be anything but a derivative of the original cloth in Turin, could function simultaneously and interchangeably as a relic, an icon, and a copy.

Relic: Rome’s Sacred Topography

Concurrent with the Shroud of Turin’s sudden emergence as an object of special devotional attention at the end of the 1500s were Cardinal Cesare Baronio’s campaigns to excavate and restore the Christian antiquities of Rome.10 This movement spearheaded an interest in sacred archaeology that provided the fertile ground in which to cultivate a local cult to the Savoy palladium. Indeed, the first volume of Baronio’s sweeping Annales Ecclesiastici, first published in Rome in 1588, a mere decade after Carlo Borromeo’s pilgrimage to pay respects to Christ’s bloodstained image in Turin, reveals the Shroud’s relevance within this renewed esteem for early Christianity and the origins of the church. His text garnered an even wider audience by way of an authorized and abridged Italian translation by Francesco Panigarola, Il compendio de gli Annali Ecclesiastici del Padre Cesare Baronio (1590), soon after reissued as Gli Annali Ecclesiastici del R. P. Cesare Baronio, ridotti in compendio (1593).11 These editions include a lengthy section that catalogues key events and material remnants from the final year of Christ’s life. Of the artifacts that pertain to Christ’s passion, Baronio (and Panigarola) single out the thorns, column, reed, sponge, and tunic for being conserved with “greatest veneration.” But items that receive particularly precise identification are the various textile remnants associated with Christ’s physical torment and death: “the sudario, which was placed over the head of the Lord . . . [and] which has remained a sacred relic; and the same with the other cloth of Veronica . . . on which remained impressed the image of the face, which is deemed authentic by, besides tradition, a most ancient book in the Vatican Library that shows how it was transferred to Rome.” Joining these two relics, of course, is “the Shroud marvelously impressed with the entire image of the Lord’s body, retained still today with reverence and splendor suitable to its esteem and its own piety by the lord duke of Savoy.”12 Not included in Panigarola’s compendium, for whatever reason, was Baronio’s original offhand theory for the

The Roma n Shroud of Tur in

image’s formation, which identifies a “divine power” for preserving on the cloth an image of Christ’s body anointed with oil and lying supine in the tomb.13 It is important to note that Baronio’s adopted city of Rome hosted an unmatched variety of key Christian artifacts, the aforementioned Veronica most prominent among them. Indeed, the attraction of relics was one of the main reasons for Rome’s status as a site of widespread pilgrimage after the Counter-Reformation. According to Jerónimo Gracián’s Trattato del giubileo dell’Anno Santo (1599), “Adoring Christ and his saints in their temples, and where they have their relics and their images, is the principal activity of the pilgrimages.”14 Guidebooks to the city from around this time facilitated sacred itineraries throughout Rome’s dense network of Christian sites to bring pilgrims to those places where the holy icons and sacred relics could be venerated.15 Of course, one major piece of documentary proof of the passion that could not be seen, at least in its original form, was the very cloth celebrated in the Annales Ecclesiastici for bearing the imprints of the front and back of Christ’s entire bloodied and battered corpse. Nevertheless, devotions to the Shroud evidently still took hold in the city. Ottavio Panciroli’s first edition of the Tesori nascosti nell’alma città di Roma (1600) makes a point of mentioning that “even though [the Shroud] is in the city of Turin, nevertheless Rome enjoys it to some extent, in Santa Maria Maggiore, and [Santa Maria] in Trastevere, San Clemente, Santi Vicenzo e Anastasio outside the walls, and Santa Prassede near Santa Maria Maggiore.”16 Panciroli is unclear as to what those churches have to do with Shroud devotion in Rome. It is unlikely that they possessed original fragments or full-size copies on the scale of that at Santissimo Sudario, either of which would likely have attracted far more attention than this single vague referral merits. Nevertheless, by the following decades, the Shroud copy at Santissimo Sudario entered into the city’s sacred topography as the best possible surrogate for the original cloth. References to a Shroud copy at Santissimo Sudario and its role in emerging local devotions to the relic date back to the early 1600s. Archival documents record payments on October 9, 1600, for a cloth representation of the Shroud of Turin, though it is not clear what form this copy might have taken.17 Prospero Bonafamiglia’s La sacra historia della santissima Sindone di Christo (1606) provides a history of the Shroud published on the occasion of the recent foundation of the confraternity and church in Rome. In the opening dedication to Duke Carlo Emanuele I of Savoy, Bonafamiglia, a Roman nobleman and member of the Order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, the knightly brotherhood of the House of Savoy, enthusiastically proclaims, “I cannot express in words how much spirit and vigor have been brought to me from having seen here in Rome the affectionate devotion of the nations subject to Your Most Serene Highness towards the holy Shroud of the savior of the world.”18 So devout is the local community that “Rome began to emulate [the duke] in adoring the Shroud of the Lord” (Roma gl’è divenuta

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emola nell’adorare la Sindone del Signore).19 It appears that a copy operating as a devotional focal point helped spur the local enthusiasm for the Shroud of Turin. “And even though you do not have present the same cloth in which the dead Christ was wrapped,” Bonafamiglia claims, “you do have an excellent reproduction [ritratto].”20 Though Bonafamiglia does not elaborate on its scale, medium, or manner of representation, it may be this same copy that was reportedly used in early processions and other sacred liturgical spectacles, often but not exclusively on the feast of the Shroud every May 4, which were especially crucial for broadcasting Savoyard identity in Rome.21 A letter from Anastasio Germonio, the Savoy ambassador to Rome, provides a first-hand account of one of these events, which took place on Good Friday in 1601 as the confraternity processed from San Ludovico to Saint Peter’s Basilica. This procession included an elaborate catafalque with a mockup of the tomb, the three Marys, angelic choirs, and a copy of the Shroud in a reenactment of the discovery of the discarded sheet as a testimony to Christ’s resurrection: “And before this catafalque there went a great chorus of musicians singing in music ‘Dic nobis Maria quid vidisti in via,’ and the Magdalene responding ‘Angelicos testes Sudarium et vestem.’ And in that instant, in front, two angels pulled out from that tomb with most beautiful grace another shroud, and they showed it to the people, who obtained from this new, pious, and holy representation infinite satisfaction and edification.”22 We cannot confirm, of course, that this stage prop is in fact the very same copy presently installed above the altar of Santissimo Sudario, nor that it even replicated the Shroud’s imprints of Christ’s bloody body. Nevertheless, copies in some form were sure to have featured in the establishment of a devotional cult toward an object of rapidly rising esteem that could not have been viewed firsthand. The copy seen today above the altar enjoyed a first-class provenance to match the apparent importance and prestige it garnered over the next century. Tradition maintains that Pope Clement VIII gifted to the confraternity a copy that he had received from Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti—the famed archbishop of Bologna from 1582 until his death in 1597, a fervent devotee of the Shroud, a participant at the 1582 ostension alongside Carlo Borromeo, and of course the celebrated author of one of the most important post-Tridentine treatises on religious imagery. A nineteenth-century manuscript memoria at the confraternity’s archives claims that this copy was mounted at the high altar of their first church at San Ludovico already in the Jubilee year of 1600. It goes on to detail how this copy was one of many that the Savoy had made to be put in contact with the original and given as gifts to dignitaries. This particular copy in Rome was, according to this story, obtained by Carlo Borromeo from Carlo Emanuele of Savoy during the Milanese archbishop’s fateful pilgrimage to venerate the relic in 1578.23 Unfortunately, scholars have struggled to verify this origin story for the Santissimo Sudario Shroud copy. For one thing, the date of 1600 is not corroborated by any other

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source. The definitive nineteenth-century history of the church by Giuseppe CrosetMouchet specifies instead the year of Clement VIII’s death (1605) as the date when he donated this copy to the newly established church finished that same year.24 Yet CrosetMouchet contradicts that claim in another slightly later publication when reporting that the copy was not given to the confraternity until 1656. According to that account, Maria Francesca Apollonia of Savoy carried various copies with her on the way to the 1625 Jubilee in Rome. When passing through Bologna she reportedly gave one of them to “Cardinal Alfonso Palleota [sic: Paleotti],” who in turn passed it on to Clement VIII, from whose hands it arrived in the possession of the nascent Church of Santissimo Sudario in Rome.25 Modern scholars have accepted this story as fact and thereby established 1656 as the date of origin for that Shroud copy.26 However, numerous chronological inconsistencies discredit this account. For one thing, Alfonso Paleotti died in 1610 and anyway never was a cardinal (though his cousin Gabriele was). Further, Clement VIII himself had also been dead since 1605. Another source contemporary with Croset-Mouchet claims that Alfonso Paleotti gave the copy not to Clement VIII but to Urban VIII—despite the fact that Gabriele’s successor as archbishop of Bologna had been dead for thirteen years when Maffeo Barberini ascended to the papacy in 1623.27 Perhaps it was the Jubilee of 1600, not 1625, to which the Savoy princess was traveling when she passed off her copy to Alfonso Paleotti before its eventual arrival in Santissimo Sudario. However, Maria Francesca Apollonia, born in 1594, would have been far too young then to have played the role ascribed to her.28 Consequently, while the story about the confraternity’s 1656 acquisition of the Shroud copy can be doubted, if not outright rejected, no single source can verify any earlier date as the definitive point of origin, the circumstances of its manufacture, or the history of the copy having come into the possession of the confraternity. Instead, we can only arrive at some general conclusions about this Shroud copy from the few scant references dating from the early 1600s. Far more reliable sources corroborate Croset-Mouchet’s initial assertion of an early seventeenth-century date of origin for this copy. For instance, a 1639 inventory of the confraternity lists a Shroud copy already appearing above the main altar.29 But Ottavio Panciroli’s revised edition of Tesori nascosti dell’alma città di Roma (1625), free of discrediting chronological discrepancies plaguing unreliable nineteenth-century sources, provides the clearest account of the circumstances by which this copy came into the possession of Santissimo Sudario and of its subsequent place of reverence within Rome’s devotional cityscape. After making no mention of Santissimo Sudario in his original 1600 publication, Panciroli’s updated text proves that a full-size copy existed at the main altar of the church before 1625 and was by then notable enough to be mentioned in his guide to the wonders of Rome: “The painting of the Shroud that is over the main altar is made to the same measurements as the one in Turin, was spread out over it, and was donated first to

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Clement VIII by the archbishop of Bologna Alfonso Paleotti, with a book that put this material in light. And then Pope Clement donated it to the Confraternity.”30 This passage appears to clarify some things. First, at some point in the early 1600s, Clement VIII donated a copy of the Shroud to the Confraternity of the Santissimo Sudario. This copy was placed above the altar of their new church, which was completed by 1605, the same year as Clement’s death. Second, his account that this copy was “spread out over” the original in Turin is consistent with the frequent instances of copies being pressed up against the original as a form of sacred consecration. The book Alfonso Paleotti reportedly donated to Clement VIII along with the Shroud copy would have been his own Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (1598), the first devotional handbook dedicated the Shroud. As we saw in chapter 4, its opening pages recount Paleotti’s acquisition of a copy from Cardinal Federico Borromeo, who joined the Paleotti cousins on a pilgrimage to Turin for the 1582 ostension. It is of course impossible to know if this copy mentioned by Paleotti and the one displayed at Santissimo Sudario in Rome are one and the same. Regardless, this copy at least had a reputation for having originated from prestigious circumstances that most other copies could not reasonably claim. The fact that this life-size Roman copy of the Shroud of Turin had come into direct contact with the original and then passed through the hands of prominent figures of the post-Tridentine church bestowed something of relic-like status even while being openly recognized as a copy. To that end, Panciroli’s inclusion of it in his text indicates the elevated position it enjoyed within the sacred topography of a city already hosting some of the most important Christian artifacts at that time known to exist. In the opening description of the Church of Santissimo Sudario, the 1625 edition of Tesori nascosti identifies the original Shroud in Turin alongside two other true-image relics generated from direct contact with Christ’s body found in Rome that were eagerly sought out by visiting pilgrims: There is no doubt that of the memories left to us on earth by Our Lord, those appraised most by us, and are mainly dear to us, [are] those on which, having touched him, are impressed his likeness. Rome has two of them of the face. That which he gave to Saint Veronica is in Saint Peter’s at the Vatican, and the one he sent to Abgar is in San Silvestro di Campo Marzo. But that of his whole sacred and divine body, more miraculous and revered than each of the others, is in the city of Turin, and impressed there on that sheet on which they placed [the body] before the entombment, likewise stretching it out from the head they flipped it over down to the feet in a way that he is seen there revived with the likeness of his body, and the signs of the five wounds, and of the beatings over his entire flesh and all the way to the soles of the feet [as] some affirm to have seen.31

The Roma n Shroud of Tur in

By opening his passages on Santissimo Sudario with a notice to the reader about the original cloth relic in Turin, Panciroli signals the copy above the altar (which he describes just one page later) as the primary means through which pilgrims could access this most prestigious of Christ’s true images. He also provides a taxonomic classification for the Roman copy by positioning it alongside two original miraculous true images of Christ found elsewhere in city.32 The first of these is of course the famous Veronica, at the time of the publication of Panciroli’s revised text in 1625 installed in one of the four crossing piers of Saint Peter’s Basilica (though more on this later). The other was believed to be the Mandylion of Edessa, a small cloth bearing a miraculous imprint of Christ’s face that King Abgar of Edessa had acquired directly from Jesus himself. While some regarded an image at San Bartolomeo degli Armeni in Genoa to be the original Mandylion, audiences in Rome at that time believed the original instead to be housed at San Silvestro in Capite.33 Together with the Shroud of Turin, the presumed age and miraculous origins of the Veronica and Mandylion provided authoritative examples dating from the beginnings of the church by which apologists of Catholic Christianity, Cesare Baronio among them, could argue for the validity of religious imagery in the Counter-Reformation.34 Of course, the Shroud copy joined other relics in Rome that collectively made pilgrimage to the city a surrogate for a journey to Jerusalem.35 Panciroli’s guidebook includes a section listing all the holy relics found in Roman churches. Among the most prestigious were Christ’s bodily remains in the form of his umbilical cord and foreskin at the summit of the Scala Santa in the Sancta Sanctorum.36 Many of the passion relics constitute some of the most prestigious to be found anywhere, including, in the order in which he lists them, a stone stained with Christ’s blood at San Basilio; pieces of the flagellation column at Santa Maria Maggiore, Santa Maria in Aracoeli, and other churches; twigs with which Christ was whipped at Santa Prassede and Santa Anna dei Funari; thorns from the crown at the Gesù, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Santa Maria in Aracoeli, and elsewhere; the staff used to apply the crown of thorns at Santa Maria in Monticelli and others; the Scala Sancta from Pilate’s praetorium; pieces of the True Cross in Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, San Giovanni Laterano, San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura, Santa Maria Maggiore, the Chiesa delGesù, and other places; traces of blood shed on the cross at San Salvatore delle Coppelle, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Santa Maria della Consolazione, Sant’Eustachio, and San Nicola in Carcere; the titulus from the cross at Santa Croce in Gerusalemme; some stones from nails from the crucifixion at Santa Croce, Santa Maria in Campitelli, and Sant’Adriano; and the list goes on.37 This gathering of numerous physical remains testifying to Christ’s passion, unmatched in number and variety by any other Christian city, would provide a formative context within which devotees could understand the Shroud at Santissimo Sudario as a surrogate for the Turin cloth and a fitting contribution to Rome’s seemingly exhaustive collection of original relics.

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One thing that informs contemporary treatment of the Shroud of Turin alongside these many relics of Christ in seventeenth-century Rome is the precision used to pinpoint its original role in the sacred events of the passion. We remember that Panciroli identified the Turin cloth as “that sheet on which they placed [the body] before the entombment” (emphasis mine). This statement reveals his acceptance of hypotheses advanced by Pingone, Paleotti, and Chifflet, who all affirm that the Shroud was used to wrap Christ’s body at the foot of the cross, as examined in chapter 1. Panciroli therefore provides another justification for Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s portrayal of the scene in his Deposition (ca. 1620) (fig. 5). Other miraculous imprints regarded as authentic relics of Christ in Rome are to be differentiated thusly from the Shroud on account of their own specific roles in his passion and death. The Veronica, which Panciroli describes only in brief, derived from a moment before Christ’s death and preparation for burial, which easily distinguishes it from the cloth in Turin.38 Panciroli acknowledged that other cloth burial relics, in particular the face cloth (sudarium) at the Lateran, became confused with the Turin Shroud. In order to parse their differences, the revised 1625 text relies on what was by then a familiar etymological analysis of the terms used in the Scriptures to identity Christ’s burial linens.39 Still confusing, however, is that this text identifies other items termed “sacra Sindone” at Santa Maria Maggiore, San Clemente, and Santa Prassede that, as seen above, had been mentioned in the 1600 edition for having played an unspecified role in supporting local devotions to the Shroud.40 Nonetheless, by inheriting this historicized understanding and thereby establishing, for Roman audiences, an identification of the Shroud with a particular linen relic mentioned in the Scriptures, Panciroli provides the basis for defining how the Shroud copy at Santissimo Sudario became a surrogate for the original relic in Turin.

Icon: Displaying a True Image

Panciroli’s categorization of the Shroud of Turin alongside the Veronica and Mandylion of Edessa underscores their shared authority as acheiropoieta (images not made by human hands) that preserve authentic likenesses of Christ’s physical features produced through contact with his body. The status of the Roman copy of the Shroud as a physical duplication of a relic of one of Christ’s burial linens—indeed, one that even touched the original in Turin—certainly plays an important role in its prominence at Santissimo Sudario. But it would not have been installed with such celebratory reverence above the high altar of the church were its pictorial visibility not regarded as something from which viewers could derive spiritual and devotional benefit.

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figure 41 | Painted copy of the Shroud of Turin. High altar of Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi, Rome. Photo: author.

Fittingly, all of the major visible and distinguishing features of the original are repeated to sustain referentiality to the cloth relic and its miraculous imprints of Christ’s body (fig. 41). Though we cannot discount the possibility that this image has faded over time, the parallel rows of scorch marks from the 1532 fire in its previous home of the Sainte-Chapelle in Chambéry are present but far fainter than in the original or in many of the other copies. But it is in its treatment of the image of Christ’s body where this Roman copy reveals pictorial characteristics that most distinguish it from others dating to the same period. As we have seen, despite the range of representational strategies employed by the various artists charged with the task of replicating the Shroud’s unusual anthropomorphic stains, many generally did strive to preserve the basic flattened, impressionistic qualities of the original. However, while the anonymous artist of this Roman copy attempted to repeat the original’s blurred portrayal of Christ’s corpse, the body still appears in distinct three-dimensional relief, as if lying supine in front of or on top of the linen sheet rather than as an impression interlaced among the fabric’s threaded weave. In this regard, this painted copy, at variance from all other examples presently known, bears a strong resemblance to the 1579 ostension engraving in Pingone’s Sindon Evangelica (1581) (fig. 25). This unexpected naturalism underscores the physical presence of Christ’s bodily matter in the actual cloth, ultimately displaying for the viewer an image that suggests more vividly what

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the Shroud only preserves in trace fragments. The artist has effectively translated synecdochical deposits of blood into a representation whose completely coalesced likeness signals Christ’s total physical presence. In other words, this naturalistic rendering grafts a complete body onto the surface of the cloth as a form of transubstantiation achieved through the process of its own making—the painterly equivalent of a miraculous infusion of physical matter and a figural explanation for the Shroud’s status as a resurrection relic. The design of the altar housing this copy reinforces this identification of the Shroud as a miraculous and celestial icon of Christ (figs. 40 and 41). Panciroli, we remember, reports that the Shroud copy was displayed at the high altar at least as early as 1625. However, we do not know what this original altar looked like or the exact way the Shroud copy was displayed within it. Nevertheless, the current altar ensemble from the 1680s still allows us to consider its role in the cult of the Shroud of Turin in seventeenth-century Rome. It is a thoroughly Baroque ensemble typical of the time that unites diverse artistic media in a sumptuous display of visual and material magnificence. A broken round pediment struggles to contain an ecstatic God the Father. Beneath God’s feet four lively putti hold aloft a billowing fringed embroidery of carved stone that frames the painted copy of the Shroud inserted inside. A section of the pronounced entablature that encircles the entirety of the church interior divides this upper portion of the altar from two pairs of monumental red-veined marble columns flanking Gherardi’s altarpiece painting of the dead Christ. The format for this upper zone showing angels suspending the Shroud derives from the earliest imagery associated with the Shroud’s post-1578 emergence as an object of widespread devotion. This is seen in illustrations adorning early devotional texts by Alfonso Paleotti (1599) (fig. 42) and Camillo Balliani (1610) (fig. 39).41 Further, the altar shelters the Shroud in a way consistent with other portrayals that treat it as a heavenly relic. These include Giovanni Battista della Rovere’s Deposition (fig. 5), Francesco Vanni’s Adoration of the Holy Shroud (fig. 17), and the Vittrice Chapel ensemble at the Chiesa Nuova (fig. 20). All of these examples provide precedents for the late seventeenth-century high altar at Santissimo Sudario by situating the Shroud in axial alignment above an image of the dead Christ. Further, such is the emphasis on visual display that some have likened the altar’s design to a large-scale monstrance.42 Indeed, the framing mechanism at Santissimo Sudario derives from a Bildtabernakel, a multimedia ensemble wherein a work of art encloses a devotional object, usually a precious icon of presumed ancient origins.43 In particular, the composition, featuring angels presenting a miraculous cult icon, appears in prominent ensembles elsewhere in Rome around this time. One example with special relevance to the Shroud, though on a much-reduced scale, is the reliquary frame made by Francesco Comi in 1623 for the Mandylion of Edessa, then at San Silvestro in

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figure 42 | Illustration in Alfonso Paleotti, Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Bologna: Heredi di Gio. Rossi, 1599), n.p. Photo: author.

Capite, one of the other miraculous imprints, together with the Veronica, of Christ’s face in Rome (fig. 43).44 Further, the emergence and installation of the Shroud copy at Santissimo Sudario took place during a time of renewed interest in medieval cult icons in Counter-Reformation Rome that resulted in even more monumental ensembles from which the altar ultimately derives.45 Two monumental antecedents in particular help us understand the genealogy and didactic function of the installation and display mechanism of Rome’s Shroud copy: Girolamo Rainaldi and Pompeo Targone’s altar tabernacle at the Pauline Chapel in Santa Maria Maggiore, completed in 1613 (fig. 44), and Peter Paul Rubens’s altarpiece at Santa Maria in Vallicella (Chiesa Nuova), completed in 1608 (fig. 45).46 These essentially function as reliquaries that reaffirm the special prestige of the cult images of the Virgin and Child they enshrine. While those highly revered icons differ in subject from the Shroud of Turin, they were similarly regarded as both images and relics on account of the miracles they were credited with producing. The Pauline Chapel preserves the famous icon of the

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figure 43 | Francesco Comi, frame for Mandylion of Edessa, 1623. Photo: Ufficio delle Celebrazioni Liturgiche del Sommo Pontefice, Vatican City. figure 44 | Girolamo Rainaldi and Pompeo Targone, Altar Tabernacle of the Virgin, completed 1613. Pauline Chapel, Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome. Photo: author.

Virgin and Child (later given the title Salus Populi Romani), a palladium possessing apotropaic powers that was one of Rome’s principal cult images. Since it was also believed to have been painted by Saint Luke, it enjoyed the additional status of being a true image. The Chiesa Nuova altar houses the Madonna di Vallicella, a humble wall painting originally found in an auxiliary chapel of the old church that was regarded as having behaved in miraculous ways. It was moved to the high altar and ultimately installed within a Bildtabernakel designed by Peter Paul Rubens, thereby elevating it to a position of supreme devotional importance as part of the building’s restructuring when it became the seat of the Oratorian Order in Rome.47 As extravagant installations for holy icons, these altars at the Pauline Chapel in Santa Maria Maggiore and the Chiesa Nuova help us understand the dialectics of display at Santissimo Sudario. Each exhibits interplays of “art” and “sacred image” drawn into a mutually reinforcing relationship that affirms the distinct status of each. For Hans Belting, the ornate artistry of the Pauline Chapel and Chiesa Nuova altars that conspicuously frame

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figure 45 | Peter Paul Rubens, Madonna della Vallicella, 1608. High altar, Chiesa Nuova, Rome. Photo: Istituto Centrale per il Catalogo e la Documentazione.

their respective archaic holy images charges material splendor and enchanting artifice with the task of presenting cult images “with due dignity in sumptuous surroundings,” ultimately lending “the old images a new aura.” Conspicuous artfulness, most especially that which conforms to what Belting calls “the Baroque intoxication with lavish presentation,” functions to reinforce the holy “otherness” of a sacred object.48 The Pauline Chapel utilizes an appropriately opulent adornment, rich in its materiality and artistry, that elevates the aura of the miracle-working true image encased within it. Steven Ostrow has pointed out that the design of the Pauline Chapel influenced Rubens’s final and current version of the Chiesa Nuova altarpiece. Both essentially reframe and redefine the iconographic function of their respective inset images, activating them as protagonists within a narrative artistically represented by its surrounding context. The altar tabernacle at the Pauline Chapel features animated angels carrying the icon upward against a blue lapis lazuli ground signifying the heavenly sky. Similarly, the altarpiece Rubens ultimately

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supplied for the high altar at the Chiesa Nuova features, in its central panel, angels gazing upward as putti carry the oval-framed Vallicella icon against a painted background of radiant celestial splendor. In both cases the framed icon is cast in a narrative role within a representation of Mary’s assumption. The miraculous icon effectively stands in as the embodiment of the Virgin herself—a function that could not be assumed by an ordinary work of art.49 These prominent Counter-Reformation and early Baroque altar ensembles must have been kept in mind by the designer of the pictorial contextualization for the Shroud copy at the high altar of Santissimo Sudario. The elaborate framing device making use of the stylistic exuberances of the Baroque similarly establishes the Shroud copy’s prestige as an icon of Christ by granting it an appropriate sacred aura. But in so doing this ensemble also exploits the Roman shroud’s status as an icon with nested prototypes. Just as the Pauline Chapel and Chiesa Nuova altars treat the Virgin’s icons as the embodiments of Mary herself within a narrative portrayal of her assumption, the copy of the Shroud becomes a surrogate for Christ thanks to the prototype’s own preservation of the body’s material remains. The primary referents of this copy, therefore, are both the Shroud and, vested within that image through traces of his blood, the very body of Christ. In this manner the installation at Santissimo Sudario confers the copy’s role as a narrativized icon playing the role of the resurrected body ascended into heaven.

Copy: A Problematic Category in Seventeenth-Century Rome

The altars at the Pauline Chapel and Chiesa Nuova that enshrine their respective cult images of the Virgin and Child establish a formal and iconographic genealogy for the high altar at Santissimo Sudario. However, much more can be learned about the singular role accorded to the Shroud copy within the sacred topography in Rome by examining how differently all three examples deal with the relative authority of copy and original. At the same time that the original icon of the Virgin and Child at Santa Maria Maggiore was treated as a singularly prestigious object through its installation in the Pauline Chapel, the circulation of officially sanctioned copies disseminated the power of the original to wider audiences who had no other means of accessing Rome’s preeminent Marian image. The Jesuits, who played a particularly fervent role in fostering devotion to this miraculous icon, had copies installed in various institutions abroad as part of a campaign to promote the image as a flagship icon of the post-Tridentine church. Many others were carried as instruments of propaganda in distant missionary campaigns. Remarkably, the potency of these copies was such that they were revered as having an efficacy equal to that of the original at Santa Maria Maggiore.50 Through these efforts of circulation the

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copies effectively carried their own agency, ultimately conferring upon the original what Mia Mochizuki describes as “a virtual mobility” extending far from its primary locus in Rome and deep into a global arena.51 While the copies of the Santa Maria Maggiore icon acquired their efficacious agency when dispatched away from the original, the case of Peter Paul Rubens’s painted altar ensemble at the Chiesa Nuova is far more complex, both structurally in its development as a Bildtabernakel and dialectically as a statement about the relationship between copy and original. There a painted copy is directly superimposed over the miraculous image. As is well known, the artist had originally presented quite a different altarpiece formula than what is presently in place. His first altarpiece, eventually rejected and now in Grenoble, France, would not have resulted in a true image tabernacle because the original miracle-working image would not have been visible as an inset icon. Instead, the Madonna di Vallicella was to be hidden from view underneath Rubens’s altarpiece, effectively replaced, therefore, by his painted interpretation of it (fig. 46). To be clear, this means that the actual icon would forever be visible only by way of the representational powers of Rubens’s artistry. Scholars have long discussed the reasons why this version was rejected. The most commonly held view is that the first altarpiece design treated the original miracle-working icon in an unsatisfactory way by not making it directly visible, and thus not distinct from the painter’s artifice.52 Since the sacred prototype could only be accessed by way of Rubens’s painted representation of it, this altar would effectively diminish the power of the original by making the painted copy at the very least its functional equivalent.53 For Victor Stoichita, this conceptualization denies the different ontologies that they are supposed to uphold—a distinction embodied by the terminology in surviving texts related to this project, which refer to the painted altarpiece as a “picture” (quadro) and the icon itself as a “holy image” (sacra immagine).54 Rubens’s second version of the altarpiece remedies the problem of visibility that troubled his first one. It employs a modular copper cover with a painted representation of the original that can be lowered out of view on special occasions to reveal the authentic icon through an ovular window cut into the panel. This ensemble was evidently deemed appropriate because it maintains the higher authority of the original by incorporating it into the painted altarpiece itself as its own distinct presence. This arrangement thus makes the original “holy image” and the later painted “picture” mutually exclusive. As Stoichita remarks, even this mechanism underscores the inherent referential transparency of the painted copy nested within a series of references to the original. The copy only functions properly when in proximity to its authentic forebear, for “just as behind Rubens’s Virgin the old image can be found, so beyond the old picture the prototype can be discovered.”55 For Belting, this solution, even with the cover, which acts in a way analogous to the veils that concealed and could be drawn back to reveal cult icons, demotes the artistic representation to a deferential position with respect to the sacred image. While

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figure 46 | Peter Paul Rubens, Madonna della Vallicella, first version, 1607. Musee de Peinture et de Sculpture, Grenoble, France. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

virtuosic artistry can provide an appropriately sumptuous stage to elevate the status of holy objects saturated with sacred power, the artist’s brush should remain subservient to the greater prestige of the miraculous icon itself. Rubens’s second altarpiece thus supplies an artistic frame, up to date in its exuberant Baroque style, that upholds the aura of the older, more archaic miraculous icon embedded within it.56 For Ruth Noyes, the central panel of the second altar ensemble “magnif[ies] the artistic presence and potency of Rubens through the ritualized mechanical obliteration of the visible figure of his facture (the copper facsimile of the Marian icon) and the sublimation thereof into the visible figure of the venerable original in the space behind the altarpiece.”57 It is imperative to keep in mind that the requisite maneuvering of painted copy and miraculous original gets staged within a resplendent artistic setting—a shimmering, painterly evocation of celestial glory that recalls the glittering apse mosaics found in medieval Roman churches.58 The relationship between human artifice and powerful presence is ultimately bonded by mutual reinforcement. Nevertheless, we should not forget that while the presence of the divine image certainly augments the glorification of Rubens’s brush, this painted copy unquestionably concedes the greater authority of the authentic original during high ecclesiastical functions when the cover sinks out of view to allow unfettered access to the miraculous image. The authentic original thus prevails when it really matters most.

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While the Pauline Chapel and Chiesa Nuova altars provide formal and iconographic precedents for the design of the Santissimo Sudario altar, neither furnishes a single model by which the latter articulates the relationship between an original and its copies. The icon at Santa Maria Maggiore acquires some of its authority as a sacred image through its displacement from the far-flung copies of recent manufacture that carry out their mission as referential agents to the sacred prototype marvelously enshrined in its altar in Rome. The icon at the Chiesa Nuova brings a copy into direct coincidence with the original, but in such a way that the painted representation cedes its role as icon when it regresses to reveal the real sacred image beneath. The ensemble at Santissimo Sudario follows neither of those examples. While it provides a magnificent setting suitable for an original miraculous icon, what it enshrines is merely a copy of the distant Shroud—a highly revered one, to be sure, but still a painted representation of human manufacture. At no point would contemporary viewers have misunderstood that what was on display was a later replica and not the original miraculously imprinted image. Other Shroud copies, as seen in the previous chapter, very often correspond to the dimensions, material, and appearance of the original, but the prominent inscriptions adorning most of them signal that they too were never intended to deceive viewers into being regarded as the authentic cloth. Further, while the Santissimo Sudario copy is given a more opulent setting than any other—indeed, a setting even befitting an original sacred object—Panciroli’s Tesori nascosti, we remember, is perfectly clear in identifying it as a copy of the original kept in Turin. By this token the copy openly existed in tandem with the original and not at the end of a chain of substitutability that equates it with the singular Shroud itself.59 Consequently, the signifying relationship between copy and original is strongly inflected by the particulars of physical, conceptual, and devotional context. The Roman copy of the Shroud of Turin defers to its illustrious prototype but also maintains its own autonomy as a copy. In this regard, it best resembles the situation involving the copy of the Santa Maria Maggiore icon at the Jesuit College in Ingolstadt.60 In both cases the prototype is an exalted original without which the copy is powerless; even so, that copy, distanced from the mother icon, is also given lavish treatment enshrined in a monumental altar, as if it were itself an authentic relic. Curiously, this prominence of the Shroud copy at Santissimo Sudario does not in any way resemble the situation involving the Veronica, Rome’s most powerful true image icon of Christ’s face. In that case, the relationship between the original and its own copies—and indeed the very idea of a copy—was significantly more fraught than what we see with regard to the examples hitherto examined. The Veronica was arguably the most important Christian artifact in Rome, having been revered continuously from at least the eighth century.61 But it cannot be taken for granted that the object revered as the Veronica was the original one. The image was in fact reported by some chroniclers to have

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been lost in the 1527 Sack of Rome.62 Then something at least claiming to be the original is documented to have been exhibited shortly afterward in 1533, and then again more prominently during the triumphant 1575 Holy Year celebrations, the first after the closing of the Council of Trent. It featured again in 1601 at the closing of the Porta Santa to conclude the Jubilee of 1600.63 Moreover, there may have been at least three other exhibitions in 1535, 1536, and 1550.64 Because of conflicting reports of what happened to the cloth during the 1527 Sack and these documented accounts of at least a few exhibitions of something purporting to be the Veronica in the ensuing years, scholars speculate that the lost original was surreptitiously replaced by a surrogate copy, which is what still exists today though it is only very rarely seen. The Veronica’s status is especially murky in precisely the years that the Shroud was emerging, in the form of a copy installed in the altar at Santissimo Sudario, as an object of significant devotional attention in Rome. First of all, scholars have noted a sudden change in the iconography of the Veronica’s so-called true image of Christ’s face starting at least around the early 1600s. Up to that point the Veronica was traditionally depicted showing Christ’s face with eyes open and no signs of the passion. But by the early 1600s a new iconographic format with Christ’s eyes closed and a face marred by wounds replaced the old one, as evidenced by a few early seventeenth-century copies by Pietro Strozzi (fig. 47).65 It appears that this “new” prototype had been in place at least since 1606. In that year Giacomo Grimaldi’s manuscript Opusculum de Sacrosancto Veronicae Sudario (dated 1618) claims to have seen what was then still regarded as the original and verified its resemblance to a copy (now lost) Strozzi made in 1616 for the Queen of Poland, Constance of Austria, which exhibited these new features.66 Indeed, 1606 serves as the terminus ante quem for this iconographic change. In that same year whatever was passed off as the Veronica, either the original or a clandestine copy, suddenly became hidden from view when deposited along with other precious relics in the upper niche of one of the four crossing piers of the new Saint Peter’s Basilica.67 While the Shroud in Turin was being exhibited nearly annually and repeatedly copied with the full backing of its ducal custodians, the Veronica was only rarely exhibited and visible access became increasingly restricted. Gianlorenzo Bernini, the designer of a new reliquary frame, needed special privilege to inspect the cloth. So did even the highest-ranking members of the church following a decree by Urban VIII.68 This Veronica pier, one of the four designed by Bernini, would later be enhanced by Francesco Mochi’s daringly exuberant sculpture, unveiled in 1640, of Saint Veronica displaying the now-hidden miraculous cloth. Fittingly, given the sudden invisibility of the original, Mochi’s portrayal of Veronica’s cloth features a face that is hardly legible among the sheet’s windswept folds (fig. 48).69 By virtue of its changing iconography and restricted visibility, the Veronica in Rome was an increasingly obscured image at the same time the Church of Santissimo Sudario facilitated devotional attention to the Shroud of Turin.

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figure 47 | Pietro Strozzi, Copy of the Veil of Veronica, 1617. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Photo: KHMMuseumsverband.

It is certainly not the intention here to suggest that the Shroud copy on permanent display at the high altar of Santissimo Sudario in Rome became a more prominent and less secretive devotional replacement for what was by then a rarely seen Veronica. The Shroud and Veronica remained distinct objects with different points of origin and possessed their own histories as sacred images. That said, there are two additional points that help illuminate the diverging fortunes of the copy of the Shroud of Turin and Rome’s receding Veronica. First, the basis for this new iconography of the Veronica that replaced the old is a pastiche composed in part of the image of the Shroud—something that, according to Grimaldi’s Opusculum, Constance of Austria recognized upon receiving her requested copy.70 Heinrich Pfeiffer has even suggested that the very copy at Santissimo Sudario served as the model for the new Veronica replacement.71 Second, as we have seen, the open acknowledgment of the shroud at Santissimo Sudario as a copy reveals greater comfort with the very idea of an artistic replica standing in for the original than what we see with the Veronica, whose status as an original or a painted replacement was and still is kept secret.

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figure 48 | Francesco Mochi, St. Veronica, 1640. Basilica di San Pietro, Vatican City. Photo: St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City. © Giuliano Valsecchi / Bridgeman Images.

In fact, anxieties about duplicates of the Veronica were so acute as to necessitate extraordinary measures to curtail their production. Roughly contemporaneous with the change in iconography is the curious issuance of official prohibitions against making copies of it. In 1617 Pope Paul V placed anyone who derived copies of the original from the few sanctioned replicas under threat of excommunication. This ban on possessing unauthorized copies had to be reinforced by Urban VIII in 1628 through letters from Cardinal Bernardino Spada circulated to all bishops. It also ordered all unsanctioned copies to be returned.72 As a result, copies from the 1600s are scarce, and those that were made were themselves restricted from serving as the basis for further reproduction. For example, a copy at the Gesù in Rome is accompanied by a bull issued by Paul V’s successor Gregory XV that similarly threatens excommunication to anyone who copies its faithful recording of the secretive “original,” whatever that may be. Another copy, from 1625, contains a similar warning restricting its unauthorized dissemination through artistic replication.73 It was precisely the fate of the “original” that remained a point of contentious speculation. These actions were apparently taken in attempt to control the diffusion of the “new”

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Veronica iconography. But for some scholars they signal an effort on the part of the ecclesiastical authorities to cover up the fact that the original Veronica had disappeared.74 The restrictions against making copies of the Veronica oppose Alexander Nagel and Christopher Wood’s formulation concerning “substitution,” where a secondary image that bears sufficient typological likeness to another takes the place of that original. This results in the folding of linear time in such a way that a modern crafted image can effectively be regarded as the selfsame prototype that it resembles. In this relationship the original and copy are alloyed, their temporal disparity contracted, and the material rupture survived.75 By this model, it would scarcely matter much if there was no longer any “original” Veronica because a sequential system of continual replacement folds the presence and prestige of the original into its subsequent copies. Similarly, Gary Vikan makes the case that Byzantines regarded copies and originals as functionally equivalent.76 We might not know why authorities in Rome took the measures that they did with regard to the Veronica and what, if anything, this says about the fate of the original. Yet considering its case against those described here with regards to copies of the Shroud of Turin proves that for late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Romans the issue was not one that could be understood in broad general terms. Substitution was not universally acceptable or evenly applied. The Veronica and Shroud, and the copies related to them, followed inverse trajectories—the latter being celebrated through a copy put on prominent display and the former ceasing to exist at all, in any form, in the visible realm. Indeed, the case of the Veronica reveals anxiety about what copies could imply about the fate of the original. Since the real Shroud was not part of Rome’s sacred topography, the Santissimo Sudario copy took its place and flourished to a degree that the Veronica, weighted with the burden of originality, did not. Moreover, it did so in multiple media. Not only did the altar at Santissimo Sudario provide permanent access through the installed fullsize cloth copy; archival documents show the extraordinary efforts through which the confraternity in Rome sought to spread awareness of the Shroud through the medium of reproductive prints that often accompanied the institution’s ceremonies.77 The numbers suggest widespread distribution: payments for one hundred small and one hundred large prints in 1603,78 an unspecified number of “miniature di santi sudari” in 1604,79 five hundred prints with “figure et orationi del Santissimo Sudario” in 1633,80 eight hundred more in 1658,81 a staggering twenty-two hundred images in 1677,82 and as many produced on silk and paper to accommodate around two thousand attendees in 1681.83 All the while, hardly any copies of the Veronica from that same period exist. To conclude, we return to the questions posed at the outset of this chapter: What allows this particular Shroud copy to occupy a place of unparalleled prominence? What does this treatment say about the relationship between the Santissimo Sudario copy and the original Shroud in Turin, and about the copy’s mediative function within Rome

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specifically? We have seen by now that no single precedent defines how audiences in Rome regarded this artifact as a devotional image. The examinations undertaken over the course of this chapter reveal a unique case at Santissimo Sudario where materiality and artifice converge to allow this single object to be conceived as a relic, an icon, and a copy. Crafted by way of what must have been rather conventional practices of artificial creation, the cloth was essentially a painted icon, matching the scale and appearance of the original Shroud of Turin. And yet it also acquired traits that warranted its promotion as a relic alongside others in seventeenth-century sources. It touched the original cloth to absorb its sacred power and was possessed by prominent ecclesiastical figures. This dual function as both icon and relic shapes the way that it acts as a copy in ways distinct from others in Rome. Unlike the icon of the Virgin and Child at Santa Maria Maggiore or the miracle-working image enshrined at the high altar of the Chiesa Nuova, Rome’s Shroud copy is not itself an original miraculous artifact. Further, unlike the controversial Veronica, the Shroud copy would not and could not have been regarded as a replacement for a lost original. Even so, it enjoyed an autonomy that apparently made it worthy of being installed in an extravagant Baroque altar ensemble resembling the treatment lavished upon other original icons and relics of unquestioned divine provenance. These circumstances by which the Santissimo Sudario copy of the Shroud of Turin became the focal point of a grand altar installation are strongly inflected by the surrounding sacred topography of Rome to which it contributed. The fact that a range of holy icons and relics—including two of Christ’s exalted “true images,” the Veronica and Mandylion—could be venerated directly in Rome testifies to the city’s appeal as a repository for prominent sacred icons of Christ. Equally, the fact that worshippers in Rome could only venerate the Shroud through this copy at Santissimo Sudario says much about how a replica as surrogate functioned within the city’s collection of authentic Christian remains. It was because of this sacred context in Rome that the copy was asked to do something that it could not have done elsewhere. It served as a relic that complemented the array of original passion relics and brought the power of a more distant original from outside Rome into the city, joining other prominent holy artifacts. In this economy the copy was openly acknowledged to be a copy, and so viewers and commentators both unhesitatingly treated it as such. As a proxy for the authentic cloth in Turin that transmitted the visible traits of the original, it could be and presumably was still scrutinized for the Shroud’s role within the scriptural accounts of the preparations of Christ’s body for burial. For this reason, the emergence of the cult of the Shroud of Turin within Rome’s sacred topography allows for unprecedented authority granted to a copy, becoming, like the Duke of Savoy’s holy sheet in Turin, an artful relic.

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Epilogue

On June 1, 1694, 116 years after the Shroud’s transfer to Turin triggered waves of unprecedented devotional enthusiasm over the next century, the primary dynastic relic of the Duke of Savoy finally received a permanent resting place in Guarino Guarini’s chapel behind the choir of Turin’s cathedral. Instead of a grand public spectacle of the sort that had featured regularly in the city’s spiritual and civic life, this installation took place behind closed doors before the duke’s family and select dignitaries. After the Shroud was brought up the stairs leading from the cathedral to the elevated base of the new chapel, its bloody imprints of Christ’s body were displayed from a balustrade to the modest gathering in the church below. The duke then returned the relic to its casket, which was then inserted into a compartment halfway up Antonio Bertola’s flamboyant reliquary altar under the chapel’s rotunda.1 Locking the Shroud behind the altar’s gilded grate on that day in 1694 signaled what would become a virtual entombment far more prolonged than the original, whose brevity yielded the relic’s conversion from utilitarian burial implement to one of Christianity’s most precious sacred artifacts. Emergent political challenges requiring immediate resolution distracted the Savoy from staging the near-annual events that had up to then propelled the public cult of their prized palladium. Increased secularization and politicization soon sent the Shroud’s potency as a sacred image, as well as it its public displays, into decline. Only five ostensions occurred between 1698 and 1813 (four of them marking Savoy family marriages), and only twelve from 1814 to 2000.2 Apart from those fleeting appearances, the Shroud remained interred in the depths of Guarini’s and Bertola’s Baroque splendor until 1993, when its casket was moved to a temporary display

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case at the back of the cathedral choir in preparation for much-needed restoration work in the adjacent chapel. Then, in 1997, with the refurbishment nearly complete, the Shroud of Turin found itself, for the second time in its history, threatened by a raging fire that would devastate the building designed to protect it. While early modern hagiographies credited its survival of the 1532 fire in Chambéry to miraculous intervention, this time the task fell to heroic firefighters, who smashed the bulletproof glass case and rushed the cloth’s casket to safety. Meanwhile, the roaring flames proceeded to reduce the interior of Guarini’s architectural masterpiece to a charred husk. It is tempting to regard these two unlikely yet obviously coincidental conflagrations— not to mention the equally fortuitous escapes from the flames—as fatefully linked, even divinely orchestrated to remind us of the Shroud of Turin’s sacred providence. Yet they bracket a history of the Shroud whose fortunes at both end points could not have been more different from each other. In 1532 the Shroud’s rise as Europe’s preeminent religious artifact seemed inevitable. It had already received papal authorization to be treated as Christ’s authentic burial cloth, and within a matter of decades Carlo Borromeo’s first pilgrimage to Turin in 1578 triggered the expansion of its cult far beyond the ramparts of the new ducal capital. But by 1997 the relic’s army of supporters had contracted into a loud minority fanatically undaunted by the results of the carbon 14 dating from 1988, which for many others proved that the sheet was not nearly old enough to have witnessed the burial of Jesus. The Shroud’s unparalleled regard as an artful relic of unquestioned sacred pedigree, covered so extensively in the pages of this book, was already lost in the annals of distant history. Even the long-awaited reopening of Guarini’s chapel on September 27, 2018, after two decades of painstaking reconstruction, transpired with so little international fanfare that the festivities came and went without my notice—in the midst of writing this very book, no less—until some weeks after the fact. Fittingly, I began the research for this book with an experience that also affirmed the Shroud’s weakened appeal. In May 2010 I traveled to Turin for an official ostension, one of three to have taken place between 2000 and 2015. My pilgrimage, an admittedly secular and scholarly one only, was at that time the culminating moment of a fascination with this mysterious cloth image that has gripped me from the moment I first became aware of it, at the age of nine, around the time of its contentious carbon dating. Perhaps naively, I thought this opportunity, even with all its modern trappings, would allow me to comprehend something of the spirit of these events in the late 1500s and 1600s, when pilgrims expected to partake of an exhilarating religious experience. I even imagined arriving at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport for my flight to Turin to find countless far more spiritually motivated pilgrims awaiting delivery to join others gathering in astonishing numbers. But for all I could tell I was the only one making the trip just to gaze upon what many surely dismissed as an old sheet crudely marked by awkward shapes that resemble a human

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body only for those who desire to see them as such. After disembarking from an entirely unremarkable flight, I quickly realized that the spectacle of the Shroud’s modern public display would pale, in both scale and fervor, in comparison to those from centuries ago. The only indications of what was taking place in Turin’s city center were a banner spanning the via Roma, which links the main train station to Piazza Castello from the south, and a cluster of souvenir stands hawking trinkets at the point where the via Garibaldi spills pedestrians into that same space from the west. In no way did this scene resemble the exciting chaos evident in Antonio Tempesta’s engraving from the early 1600s, where heaving crowds unleash an unbridled devotional cacophony in the city’s primary public gathering space (fig. 3). Instead, the pilgrims lining up to see the Shroud, all brandishing timed entry tickets printed off the internet, were routed behind the scenes in a circuitous path through the Royal Gardens and into the rather more cozy confines of the cathedral, where the Shroud was displayed at the altar inside its special high-tech display case. While the numbers of visitors were certainly substantial—estimated to have reached 2.5 million over the course of the ostentation (April 10 to May 23)—so effective was crowd control that Piazza Castello, the epicenter for these riotous events of yore, remained positively serene. This latter-day edition of a wildly popular Christian pilgrimage was almost invisible to anyone in the square. In its stead the scaffolded dome of Guarino Guarini’s still nearly ruined chapel peeked over the rooftops of the old Savoy Royal Palace. My research in the years after my only direct encounter with the Shroud has hardly changed my perception of its rather diminished place in today’s collective imagination. Expeditions to track down some of the seventeenth-century painted copies that were instrumental in cultivating the Shroud’s widespread prestige served up anecdotal evidence for the marginal position they hold among their modern custodians. We have seen that early modern sources report these copies being handled with the greatest reverence and care, befitting the aura of genuineness they possessed, even as reproductions, for audiences in the past. Indeed, a number of them, including some whose delicate states of preservation necessitate infrequent public exposure, are still customarily exhibited as worthy objects of devotion at Easter. But at other times they rest forlorn in their obsolescence, attracting only a perfunctory admiration not at all inconsistent with how we today often regard mere copies of things, no matter how simulative they might be.3 While most of my solicitations to view them were greeted with accommodating hospitality, the occasions themselves elicited little ceremony. Traveling to see the important Shroud copy from 1624 in, of all places, Summit, New Jersey—an extreme dislocation that somehow both affirms and denies the alluring aura of the original that emanates from it—was itself emblematic of the disjointed and sporadic enthusiasm that the Shroud currently attracts. A chatty barista curious about my visit bluntly stated that she had never heard of this local curiosity. More revealing, neither had an early modern art historian acquaintance

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of mine who grew up there. Of course, the kind nuns at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Rosary were justifiably proud to have in their midst something so laden with devotional potential, whose existence is prominently proclaimed on their website, while the church where it resides is kept freely open to visitors. But I found the copy hidden in the shadows to one side of the darkened and empty church nave, which they declined to illuminate even at my request. The situation in Italy was little different. Friends and fellow scholars more familiar with Rome than I am usually confess to being totally unfamiliar with the Church of Santissimo Sudario and the sacred artifact installed for centuries at the altar inside. Another copy in Rome, at the surprisingly modernist Church of San Giuda Taddeo in the peripheral neighborhood of Colli Albani, exists in even graver obscurity. A priest who happened upon me while I waited to find anyone who might, as promised, chaperone my visit claimed to be unaware that the church even had such an object. A secretary finally took pity and escorted me to an unlabeled door. There I stepped inside a musty, garishly lit sacristy and saw the framed copy under a sheet and positioned against a wall like an ungainly and slightly embarrassing heirloom still too precious to get rid of but hardly thought worthy of the special reverence it doubtless once commanded. My request to see the copy at the Bologna Cathedral was returned with uncommon promptness and an enthusiasm masking the banal conditions in which it exists. A priest distractedly dressing for Mass directed me to climb atop a rickety bench and reach for the top shelf of a huge armoire. There I found the copy rolled up in a tube among dusty candles and other items packaged in bubble wrap. After helping spread the cloth out on a table, he excused himself and left me alone to do with it as I pleased. Examples in Piedmont, all within the historical orbit of the most intense public enthusiasm for the Shroud, do not garner much more than obligatory reverential sentiments either. The Church of Santa Maria della Pieve in Cuneo keeps their copy hanging dormant in a tiny dead-end storage corridor. The nuns at the Monastery of San Giuseppe in Moncalieri who graciously arranged my entry remarked on the unusual circumstances that my request to see their copy presented, and only for my benefit strung it up in one of their common rooms. A young priest at the Church of Sant’Ilario in Casale Monferrato, clearly perplexed that I had shown up unannounced at his remote parish—he had ignored every single e-mail I sent—could not be bothered to let me see their copy for vague reasons of its fragility. He suggested instead that I come back around Easter, when it is apparently deemed more convenient to be examined while displayed at the altar. I never did get to see it. My final research trip for this book brought me to Italy’s deep south, to see the seventeenth-century Shroud copy in the possession of the Archconfraternity of Santa Maria del Suffragio in Bitonto, near Bari. This one more than any other I have seen inspires still today a living cult akin to that in the 1600s. Every year on Good Friday the institution

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processes its copy of the Shroud through the city’s streets alongside highly revered polychrome sculptures of the Virgin Mary and Christ’s passion, in an apparent homage to the high holy solemnities performed in southern Spain. “But everyone else thinks we’re nuts,” declared one of the ranking confraternity brothers. To examine their copy I was taken to the nearby Museo Diocesano. Along the way the small entourage who welcomed my arrival at Bitonto’s ancient city gate gradually grew to include friends encountered in the streets, and even a class of grade school students. Despite this rare opportunity even for them to see an object of civic pride up close, their greater curiosity was at my having arrived from afar to dispense secrets about an item of arcane local interest spread nakedly and unceremoniously over two folding tables in an otherwise empty room. My mind, pregnant with the contents of this book, unspooled the saga of Carlo Borromeo journeying on foot from Milan and inspiring huge, convulsing crowds of pilgrims to travel long distances of their own in hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse of Christ’s only earthly remains. Summoning a conviction entirely foreign to my secular sensibilities, I described the mystical encounters with a suffering body still bleeding before one’s very eyes that those twin corporeal stains stimulated for worshippers long ago. I invited those gathered to ponder how the Shroud’s marks bear witness to a form of divine artistry once more highly regarded than anything produced by Italy’s great painters of the past, and to contemplate how its traces of blood that formed into Christ’s likeness at the moment of the resurrection made his artificed body on the Turin sheet a proxy for his revived one that miraculously stepped out of the tomb. And of course, gesturing to the copy at close reach, I explained how pious artists faithfully replicated the Shroud’s strange features, pressed their creations against the sacred original, and peeled them back to admire the invisible touch of sanctity unavailable to a mortal artist’s brush. To my amusement I found the next day that my visit made the local news, complete with a photograph that I certainly did not expect to grace the city’s online media outlet.4 Two weeks later I would watch from my campus office in rural Ohio a live internet broadcast of Bitonto’s Good Friday procession, its full solemnity on vivid display. The Shroud, hung vertically and dimly lit by candles, for just a moment appeared to be the very physically tormented Christ trudging through the narrow streets of Jerusalem. The gregarious confraternity members who had met with me just a fortnight earlier were now frocked and austere in their quiet meditation as they accompanied their precious image. They looked every bit like the pilgrims I imagined gathering in Turin centuries ago. But when I look at the photograph that accompanied the published report of my visit, I am struck by how casual those same individuals appear in front of an object that they hold to be sacred, even as a copy, and that would trigger such sincere expressions of piety just a short time later. We all look at the camera, smiling, our arms interlocked in the openly affectionate manner customary of Italian men. The most monastic-looking

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of them is incongruously dressed in a hooded sweatshirt irreverently emblazoned with “Hawaii.” Outside the context of sacred ritual this picture could easily be mistaken as showing a group of people whose gathering by itself is the primary reason for its photographic commemoration. In a gesture of accidental poignancy regarding the authentic Shroud’s dimmed allure, the very cloth relic that actually occasioned our assembly in the first place is cropped almost entirely out of view.

Notes

introduction

Original-language quotations for translated material are not included in cases where the original source is widely available (including Google Books) or has already been cited in scholarly publications. 1. Nicolotti, Sindone, 131–34; Savio, “Pellegrinaggio di San Carlo Borromeo”; and Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 60–65. For contemporary accounts, see Adorno, Lettera della peregrinatione; Bascapè, Vita e opera, 440–49; Cusano, letter of October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fols. 29–36; and Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo, 334–44. 2. Pollack, Turin, 1564–1680; and Symcox, “From Commune to Capital.” 3. “Breve del Papa Gregorio XIII con cui concede Ind. Plenaria all’Espositione (1582),” AST, Benefizi di qua dai monti, mazzo 11, fascicolo 11. See also Savio, Ricerche storiche, 302–5. 4. Fossati and Giaccaria, “Carlo Borromeo a Torino.” 5. Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 59–60. 6. For these ostensions generally, see Merlotti, “Holy Shroud”; and Scott, Architecture for the Shroud. For the documentary history of these ostensions, see Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 128–82; and Savio, Ricerche storiche, 305–32. One of the largest of these early exhibitions celebrated the baptism of Prince Filippo Emanuele on May 13, 1587; see Bucci, Solenne battesimo, 33v–36v. Ostensions in 1663 and 1665 coincided with the two marriages of Duke Carlo Emanuele II; see

the Savoy court ceremonial, “Registro originale di mano propria del fu signor conte Muratore, già mastro delle cerimonie di S.A.R., cominciato li 20 ottobre 1643 sino alli 24 dicembre 1672,” BRT, ms. Storia patria 726/2, 15 maggio 1663 and 14 maggio 1665 (n.p.). See also Savio, Ricerche storiche, 319–21. 7. “Istruzione al Segretario Corte mandato a Roma coll incarrico di molte raccomandazioni per Benefizj, Pensioni, Indulgenze, indulti, ed altri fatti particolari. Con un altra in cifra per affari di Stato,” AST, Materie ecclesiastiche, Negoziazione colla Corte di Roma, mazzo 1, fascicolo 3, fol. 1r. 8. See Bury, Print in Italy, 56; Fossati, “Ostensione della Sacra Sindone,” 7–18; Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 144–49; and Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 224–28. 9. Savio, Ricerche storiche, 309, 311–12, and 315–16. 10. See the Savoy court ceremonial, “Ceremoniale Scaravello 1675–1684,” vol. 1, BRT, ms. Storia Patria 726/2–4, fols. 121v–128v. 11. For these posters, see Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 31 and plate V; and Scott, “Seeing the Shroud,” 633–34. 12. Merlotti, “Holy Shroud,” 126; and Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 18–19 and 342–43. 13. For the Council of Trent decree, see Canons and Decrees, 215–16; and Fabre, Décreter l’image? For the common separation of images and relics, see Dillenberger, Images and Relics, 13–15; Walsham, “Introduction,” 12–13; and Wortley,

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“Icons and Relics.” For images that function as relics, see Cornelison and Montgomery, Images, Relics, and Devotional Practices; and Stoenescu, Interaction of Art and Relics. 14. Casper, “Mandylions in Genoa and Rome.” For the early history of the Mandylion, see Kessler, “Mandylion.” For the relic in Genoa, see Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena; and Dufour Bozzo, “Sacro Volto” di Genova. 15. Among the extensive literature available, see Belting, Likeness and Presence, 215–24; Kessler and Wolf, Holy Face; and Kuryluk, Veronica and Her Cloth. Other related image-relics in Jaen, Spain, and Manopello, Italy, buoyed by public evangelism today, were at the time relatively obscure. 16. Andrea Nicolotti’s exhaustive summary of the full documentary history of the Shroud will surely remain indispensable for all future scholarship. See Nicolotti, Sindone. Similarly, see Fossati, Sacra Sindone. 17. Cozzo, Geografia celeste, 62–74, 192–99, 229–31, 248–54; Cozzo, Sindone e i Savoia; and Cozzo, Merlotti, and Nicolotti, Shroud at Court. 18. Scott, Architecture for the Shroud. 19. For example, Ghini da Siena, Dell’imagini sacre, 45–46 and 59; Lomazzo, Idea, 265; Maiolo, Historiarum, 14–17; and Pacheco, Arte de la pintura, 233. 20. Paleotti, Discourse, 99–100. 21. Ibid., 100. 22. For an overview of the various miracles attributed to the Shroud, see Casper, “Blood Kinetics,” 5–6. For contemporary accounts, see Baldi, Discorso, 51–54; and Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 25–36. For miraculous images generally, see Garnett and Rosser, Spectacular Miracles; Holmes, Miraculous Image; and Thunø and Wolf, Miraculous Image. Cults of miraculous images continued to flourish after the close of the Council of Trent. See Scavizzi, Controversy on Images, 232–37. 23. Belting, Likeness and Presence, 1–16 and 458–90. 24. On the “ugliness” and “simplicity” of certain cult images, see Freedberg, Power of Images, 27–28 and 110–12. 25. Kessler and Wolf, Holy Face.

26. Didi-Huberman, “Face, Proche, Lointain,” 95–108; and Didi-Huberman, “Ressemblance par contact,” 51–55. 27. Didi-Huberman, Confronting Images, 194. 28. Belting, “In Search of Christ’s Body,” 3, 2. 29. Pon, Printed Icon, 7. 30. By contrast, material, artistic, and iconographic analyses of the Virgin of Guadalupe, whose origins as an artistically manufactured image are more securely verified than the Shroud, have yielded important new insights. See Peterson, “Creating the Virgin of Guadalupe”; and Peterson, Visualizing Guadalupe. 31. Damon et al., “Radiocarbon Dating.” This result has prompted Gary Vikan, a medieval art historian, to propose both the circumstances and methods by which an artist crafted the Shroud in the 1350s. See Vikan, Holy Shroud. 32. Some allege that the Shroud of Turin’s history prior to the fourteenth century converges with that of the Mandylion of Edessa. Wilson, Shroud of Turin, 66–194. For an extensive rejection of this theory, see Nicolotti, From the Mandylion of Edessa. For an overview of the history of the Shroud in the centuries leading up to its transfer to Turin in 1578, see Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 23–97; Nicolotti, Sindone, 3–130; and Perret, “Essai.” 33. Letter transcribed in Chavalier, Étude critique, appendix G (pp. vii–xii); translated in Wilson, Shroud of Turin, 230–35. For a discussion, see Nicolotti, Sindone, 63–83; Perret, “Essai,” 61–70; and Vikan, Holy Shroud, 18–20, 124–28, and 138–42. 34. Chavalier, Étude critique, appendix documents K (pp. xv–xvii), N (pp. xviii–xix), O (pp. xix–xxi), and P (p. xxi). Other scholars, however, do not accept the interpretation of this document as support for the Shroud’s inauthenticity. See Poulle, “Linceul de Turin.” 35. Nicolotti, Sindone, 86–88. 36. Original text transcribed in Chavalier, Étude critique, 34 and appendix document U (pp. xxx–xxxi). 37. For discrepancy concerning this date, see Zaccone, “Contributo,” 41. For the acquisition of the Shroud by the Savoy generally, see Nicolotti,

Note s to Page s 10–18 “Acquisition of the Shroud”; and Nicolotti, Sindone, 97–104. 38. Savio, Ricerche storiche, 247–50. 39. Original text transcribed in Chevalier, Étude critique, appendix document CC (p. xlv). See also Zaccone, “Contributo,” 43. For the text’s date of 1462, see Nicolotti, Sindone, 111. 40. Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 66–82; Nicolotti, Sindone, 112; and Savio, Ricerche storiche, 207–10 and 232–45. 41. Nicolotti, Sindone, 112–15. 42. Ibid., 115–17; and Perret, “Essai,” 106–10. 43. “Atto di Visita del SS.mo Sudario, ed informazioni prese dal Cardinale di Morienna Ludovico di Gorrevod Legato a latere, e Delegato dal Papa Clemente VII sovra il miracolo seguito in occasione dell’Incendio della S.ta Capella di Chiamberi,” AST, Materie ecclesiastiche, Benefizi di qua dai monti, mazzo 31, fascicolo 9. See also Nicolotti, Sindone, 119–20; and Savio, Ricerche storiche, 296–300. 44. Adorno, Lettera della peregrinatione, n.p. 45. Pingone, Sindon Evangelica, 22. 46. Calvin, Treatise on Relics, 237. 47. Bucci, “Breve trattato.” 48. For an overview of the various investigations undertaken, see Barberis and Zaccone, Sindone; and Nicolotti, Sindone, 197–351. Leading proponents of the Shroud’s authenticity include Wilson, Shroud of Turin; and his updated version, Shroud: The 2000-Year-Old Mystery. For a prominent skeptical account about the Shroud’s authenticity, see, most prominently, Nickell, Inquest on the Shroud. For an integration of scientific findings into a historical evaluation of the Shroud as a medieval and early modern icon, see Cormack, Painting the Soul, 114–32. 49. McCrone, “Shroud of Turin.” 50. Heller and Adler, “Blood on the Shroud”; and Baima Bollone, Jorio, and Massaro, “Dimostrazione,” 8. 51. Fanti and Zagotto, “Blood Reinforced by Pigments.” 52. Freeman, “Origins of the Shroud”; and Vikan, Holy Shroud. Indeed, Shroud exhibitions up until the early 1500s often coincided with Easter ceremonies. Gaffuri, “First Exhibitions.” For Byzantine liturgical textiles whose iconography

of a supine Christ resembles the Shroud, see Woodfin, “Liturgical Textiles.” 53. Pingone, Sindon Evangelica. See also Nicolotti, Sindone, 164–69; and Zaccone, “Contributo,” 39–40. 54. Fossati, “Opera sulla Sacra Sindone”; and Paleotti, Esplicatione. See also Fanti, “Genesi e vicende.” 55. For these texts generally, see Doglio, “‘Grandezze e meraviglie’”; and Zaccone, “Contributo.” chapter 1

1. Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 149–52. For the attribution of this painting, see Bo Signoretto, “Quadro della S. Sindone.” 2. For contact relics, see Brown, Cult of the Saints, 88. 3. Theodore the Studite, On the Holy Icons, 112–13. 4. Bynum, Christian Materiality. 5. I borrow this term from Geoffrey Batchen, who also discusses objects combining the image and material remains of absent subjects in Batchen, “Ere the Substance Fade.” 6. Montgomery, “Introduction,” 2. For the legacy of images that are also relics, see Barber, Figure and Likeness, 13–37. 7. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 151–61. See also Lecercle, “De la relique à l’image.” 8. Cozzo, “Nella scia del ‘pegno celeste,’” 131. See also De Jussieu, Sainte-Chapelle, 538. 9. Evangelisti, “Material Culture,” treats relics as part of the overall emphasis on the material culture of religious devotion in the Counter-Reformation (see esp. 399–400). See also Julia, “Église post-tridentine”; Mochizuki, “Reliquary Reformed”; Piccirillo, “Memorie e reliquie”; and Walsham, “Introduction,” 21–22. 10. Mamino, “Culto delle reliquie.” 11. Cozzo, “‘Et per maggior divotione,’” 408. 12. Cozzo, Geografia celeste, 77–81. For a contemporary account, see Cornuato, Breve relatione. 13. “Relazione della solenne Entrata fatta in Torino dal Duca Carlo Em.l 1o e delle altre

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fonzioni fatte in conseguenza 22 febr.o 1599,” in AST, Materie politiche per rapporto all’interno, Cerimoniale, Funzioni diverse, mazzo 1, fascicolo 1. 14. “Testamento del Duca Carlo Eman.le P.mo,” AST, Materie politiche per rapporto all’interno, Testamenti de’ sovrani, e principi della Real Casa di Savoia, mazzo 4, fascicolo 11. See also Mamino, “Culto delle reliquie,” 58–59. 15. Lanza, Santa Sindone, 110–13. See also Merlotti, “Holy Shroud.” 16. Balliani, Ragionamenti (1624), 493–537. 17. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 179–95. 18. See Braun, “Linceul de Turin”; Ghiberti, Sepoltura di Gesù; Gramaglia, “Panni funerari”; and Vaccari, “Sindone, bende e sudario.” For associated relics, see Nicolotti, Sindone, 12–41; and Nicolotti, “Sudario de Oviedo,” 91–94. For a seventeenth-century account of these relics, see Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 462–65. 19. Calvin, Treatise on Relics, 237–39. 20. Maragi, “Carteggio.” 21. BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fols. 23–24. For the attribution of this unsigned text to Paleotti, see Maragi, “Carteggio,” 217–18. 22. BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fols. 22–23. 23. Ibid., fols. 39–972 and ms. 30.2, fols. 973– 1449. For an analysis, see Maragi, “Implicanze sindoniche.” 24. Maragi, “Carteggio,” 226–30. 25. For an analysis of these texts, including the etymology of sindone and sindon, see Nicolotti, Sindone, 3–6. 26. Pingone, Sindon Evangelica, 9–12. 27. Ibid., 12. 28. Paleotti, Esplicatione, 4–7. 29. Chifflet, De Linteis Sepulchralibus, 40–49 and 145–50. For the Besançon shroud, see Nicolotti, Sindone, 172–76. 30. Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 9–11. 31. Mallonio, Historia admiranda, 13–19. 32. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 12–25. 33. Ibid., 36–41. 34. Bynum, “Blood of Christ”; Bynum, Wonderful Blood; and Vincent, Holy Blood.

35. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 115–16 and 127–28. For blood cults in Italy, see Strazzullo, Sangue di Cristo. 36. Calvin, Treatise on Relics, 226–27; and Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 130–37. 37. Didi-Huberman, “Index,” 67 and 68. 38. Ibid., 77; and Ricci, Way of the Cross, 43–56. 39. Letter from the Venetian ambassador to the Savoy court, October 14, 1578, ASV, Senato, Dispacci, filza 4, n. 159; original text transcribed in Cozzo, Geografia celeste, 64–65. 40. Letter from Agostino Cusano, October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fols. 32–33; original text transcribed in Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 111. 41. Letter from Agostino Cusano, October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fol. 35; original text trascribed in Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 113. 42. Paleotti, Esplicatione, 68–71 and 127–28. 43. For the original, see ibid., 51. 44. Ibid., 104. 45. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 237. 46. Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 14–15. 47. Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 41. 48. For the original, see Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 26. 49. Quarantotto, Sacra Sindone componimento, 18. This is a standard number of drops that many medieval theologians calculated as having been shed by Christ. See Areford, “Passion Measured,” 217. 50. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 185–86. 51. For the original, see Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 56. 52. For the original, see Tesauro, “Commentario,” 101–2. See also Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 155; and Torre, “Writing on the Body,” 110–11. 53. For a similar use of moving images, see Zchomelidse, “Descending Word.” 54. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 41–48. 55. Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 64–65.

Note s to Page s 26–33 56. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 6. The medium of blood itself imparts authority as well. See the discussion of the Charter of Human Redemption in Bynum, Christian Materiality, 89–93. 57. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 25. 58. Bascapè, Vita e opera, 440–49, 552–53, 564–67, and 613; and Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo, 334–44, 419, 435–36, and 479–80. See also Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 98–116. Borromeo’s interest might have originated in an ostension in Milan in 1536. Debiaggi, “Sull’origine.” For this ostension, see Grossi, “Ostensione Milanese.” 59. See Harpster, “Carlo Borromeo’s Itineraries,” 42–75. Borromeo’s pious enthusiasm for the Holy Nail and its processions in Milan beginning in 1577 established a devotional template into which the Shroud could easily fit. See “San Carlo ed il santo chiodo.” 60. For the original, see Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo, 343. 61. For the original, see ibid., 341. See also Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 380–81. 62. Terry-Fritsch, “Proof in Pierced Flesh.” 63. Sawday, Body Emblazoned; for Christ’s body as a site for scrutiny, see pp. 117–25. 64. For the original, see Bascapè, “Sopra la visitazione,” fol. 153r; and Fossati and Giaccaria, “Carlo Borromeo a Torino,” 434. 65. For the original, see Bascapè, “Sopra la visitazione,” fol. 155r; and Fossati and Giaccaria, “Carlo Borromeo a Torino,” 435. 66. Original text cited in Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 381. 67. Crispino, “Report,” 24–25. 68. Barralis, Anatomia sacra, 49 and 54. 69. Segneri, “Deformità che innamora,” 291– 92. See also Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 157–58. 70. Cranston, Muddied Mirror, 83–87; and D’Elia, Poetics, 56–83. 71. See Larivaille, “Scritti religiosi.” 72. For medieval examples, see Bynum, “Violent Imagery”; and MacDonald, Ridderbos, and Schlusemann, Broken Body. For Renaissance examples, see the exhibition catalogue by Puglisi and Barcham, Passion in Venice.

73. Gilio, Dialogue, 133. 74. Berdini, Religious Art of Jacopo Bassano, 113–14. 75. Weststeijn, “Seeing,” 152. 76. Paleotti, Discourse, 119. For a discussion of this passage, see Muraoka, Path of Humility, 121–22. 77. Blancardi, Tesoro celeste, 48. 78. For the original, see Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 33. See also, with a slightly different translation, Torre, “Writing on the Body,” 114. 79. Baldi, Discorso, 35–36 and 40. 80. Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 50–51: Co[n]templa quelle fontane, d’onde scaturisce: vedi quanto ne sian ricche, & abbonda[n]ti quelle sacratissime vene delle cinque piaghe. Ti sporge Christo nella Sindone i piedi impiagati, acciò bascia[n]doli ti satolli di sa[n]gue; ti fà mostra delle ferite mani, acciò t’arrichischi del sangue, che da esse distilla: ti spalanca il costato con la sua scaturigine sanguinolenta, acciò per l’apertura della piagha ti facci entrata al cuore di Christo, e co’l sangue che versa t’inebrij del divino amore: piove da tutta la persona pioggia di copiosissimo sangue, accìò co[n] quello inaffiando l’anima tua non pur la mondi, e lavi, ma à se la tiri, e congionga in sposa perpetua, e la faccia co[n] verità sentire, e contare: Sponsus sanguinum tu mihi es. 81. “Monk of Evesham’s Vision.” For the original Latin and fifteenth-century English translation, see Adam of Eynsham, Revelation, 32–35. 82. “Monk of Evesham’s Vision,” 214; and Adam of Eynsham, Revelation, 156–59. 83. For Hendrick ter Brugghen’s Crucifixion and other related examples, see Seaman, Religious Paintings, 73–101. See also Areford, “Passion Measured,” 219–20; and Didi-Huberman, Confronting Images, 205–7. Late medieval Italian painters similarly painted the liquid effects of flowing and even coagulating blood to resist fixed temporal moments in the past. See Fricke, “Liquid History.” 84. For Christocentrism, see Nagel, Controversy of Renaissance Art, 88–95. 85. Quiviger, Sensory World, 66–67.

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86. Tibone, Sindone e sacri monti. 87. Terry-Fritsch, “Performing the Renaissance Body,” 118. See also Göttler, “Temptation of the Senses.” 88. Hood, “Sacro Monte of Varallo,” 302. 89. Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 391–98; Harpster, “Carlo Borromeo’s Itineraries,” 76–106; and Stoppa, “Quattro pellegrinaggi.” 90. For the original, see Bascapè, Vita e opera, 449. 91. Bascapè, Vita e opera, 613–25 (esp. 617). 92. Biscottini, Carlo e Federico, 259–60. See also Muraoka, Path of Humility, 72–73. 93. Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo, 480–87. 94. Benzan, “Doubling Matters,” 39–40. 95. Harpster, “Carlo Borromeo’s Itineraries,” 102–3; and Stewart, “Devotions to the Passion,” 320–22. 96. For the mediative similarities between the Shroud and the Holy Sepulchre at Varallo, see Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 396–97; and Longo, “Sacro Monte di Varallo,” 86–88. The direct encounter with Christ’s body was a common theme for confraternities devoted to the passion in Borromeo’s Milan. See Stewart, “Devotions to the Passion.” 97. For the role of images in stimulating visions, see Niccoli, Vedere, 85–113. 98. Dolce, Dialogue on Painting, 148. 99. Loh, “Outscreaming the Laocoön.” 100. Witte, “Passeri’s Vite,” 212–15. 101. For “composition of place,” see Göttler, Last Things, 278–317. 102. Stewart, “Devotions to the Passion,” 212–309. 103. Bascapè, Vita e opera, 613–17. See also Benzan, “Doubling Matters,” 86–95; Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 383–84; Göttler, Last Things, 75–78; and Harpster, “Carlo Borromeo’s Itineraries,” 100. 104. Careri and Ferranti, Baroques, 61–78. See also Bailey, Between Renaissance and Baroque, 3–37; Fabre, Ignace de Loyola; and Freedberg, Power of Images, 237–45. 105. Maggi, “Prayer Around His Body,” 157. 106. See the discussion by Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 148–218.

107. See Rubin, Corpus Christi, 302–10; and Sallay, “Eucharistic Man of Sorrows.” 108. Gertsman, “Multiple Impressions,” 310–37; and Pon, Printed Icon, 58–59 and 66–68. 109. For the original, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 153–54. See also Flemming, “Was ist ein Bild?,” 28; Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negative,” 444; and Giunta, “Pittura di Giovan Battista Marino.” 110. Adorno, Lettera della peregrinatione, n.p.; and Paleotti, Esplicatione, 50. 111. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 163. Calcagnino had argued that the Mandylion of Edessa in Genoa also deserved latria on account of its being a painting by God. See Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 482. 112. De Boer, “Early Jesuits,” 64. 113. Paleotti, Discourse, 132. 114. Relics since the medieval period had already been regarded in eucharistic terms. Snoeck, Medieval Piety. 115. For a theological examination of the Shroud as spiritual nutriment, see Blancardi, Tesoro celeste, 17–18. 116. Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 48–50. 117. Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 135–36. 118. Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 57–60. See also Anno secolare. 119. Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 57–59. 120. For the Forty Hours Devotion, see Weil, “Devotion of the Forty Hours,” 218–49; and Petersen, “Quarant’Ore.” 121. Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 64–65. 122. Grossi, “Ostensione Milanese,” 805–6. 123. Van Ausdall, “Art and Eucharist,” 582–96. 124. Catechism, 205. 125. The literature on medieval vision and the Eucharist is vast. See, among many others, Bynum, “Seeing and Seeing Beyond”; Göttler, “Is Seeing Believing?”; and Göttler, Last Things, 31–69. 126. For a history of the vision of the host within the liturgy of the Mass, see Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, 2:206–12. For the elevatio as the consecration of the host, see Wandel, Eucharist in the Reformation, 237–40. 127. For the “visual evidence” of transubstantiation, see Clark, Vanities of the Eye, 183–91.

Note s to Page s 42–50 128. “Unite il Santissimo Sacramento, con la mia Sindone, e così, con la fede credete la mia reale presenza nel Sacramento, e con gl’occhi mirate il mio colorito Sangue nella Sindone. . . . Horsù nel’ Sacramento sono vivo, mà invisibile, & nella Sindone visibile, mà non vivo. Voi unite il Sacramento con la Sindone, ed eccomi, e visibile, e vivo. Quà mi crederete con la Fede, e là mi vedrete col’senso.” Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 54–55. chapter 2

1. Dobschütz, Christusbilder, 76n3; translation from Geimer, Inadvertent Images, 101. 2. Vignon, “Réponse à M. Donnadieu,” 368. See also Didi-Huberman, “Index,” 63. 3. Geimer, Inadvertent Images, 101. 4. Ibid., 101–2. 5. For the original, see Bascapè, “Sopra la visitazione,” 152v–153r; and Fossati and Giaccaria, “Carlo Borromeo a Torino,” 433–34. 6. “La figura tutta è assai oscurata, et come d’una ombra nera, o, come d’un primo bozzo di pittura che hora si vede hora non si vede, e semp[re] genera maggior desio e diligenza di rivederla meglio; hora si vede meglio d’apresso, hora da lontano.” Letter from Agostino Cusano, October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fol. 36. Also cited in Fossati, “Alcuni inediti sulla Sindone,” 13; with slight variation in transcription in Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 141; and Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 113. 7. Kessler, “Christ’s Dazzling Dark Face.” 8. Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negative,” 447. 9. Paleotti, Esplicatione, 5–6; and Pingone, Sindon Evangelica, 12. 10. See, among many others, Didi-Huberman, “Ressemblance par contact”; and Kessler, “Configuring the Invisible,” 133–39. For the Byzantine theory of icons as a form of imprinting, see Pentcheva, “Performative Icon.” 11. For an overview, see Hall and Cooper, Sensuous. Individual studies that also reinforce such notions include Casper, Art and the Religious Image; Hall, Sacred Image; and Lingo, Federico Barocci. 12. Bauer, “‘Quanto si disegna,’” 45–57. Of course, the distinction between a sketch and a

finished work is subjective. See Sohm, Pittoresco, 9–10. 13. For the original, see Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1. Related terms become synonymous with the roughness of underpaintings or unfinished works more generally. See Bauer, “‘Quanto si disegna,’” 50. 14. For the original, see Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 86. For a further discussion, see Snyder, “Strokes of Wit,” 196–98. 15. Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 111. 16. See Stoichita, Short History of the Shadow, 48–59. 17. Belting, Anthropology of Images, 118–20 and 125–43 (quote on 128). 18. For these terms, see Grassi, “Concetti.” See also Barocchi, “Finito e non-finito.” 19. Principal studies on artistic sketches include Beiträge zur Geschichte der Ölskizze; Image and Imagination; and Wittkower, Masters of the Loaded Brush, xv–xxv. 20. Edgerton, “Galileo.” 21. Gombrich, Art and Illusion, 181–290. 22. Sohm, Style, 151. 23. For painterly formlessness in early modern art and criticism, see Sohm, Pittoresco. 24. Cranston, Muddied Mirror, 32–38. For the tension between the opacity of a painting’s materiality in the form of liquefied pigment and the transparency of representation, see Cassegrain, Coulure, 17–86 (for Titian, see 45–46). 25. Sohm, Style, 148–53. See also Sohm, Pittoresco. 26. Sohm, Pittoresco, 43–53. 27. For the original, see Vasari, Vite, 7:452; translation in Gombrich, Art and Illusion, 195. 28. For the original, see Vasari, Vite, 2:170–71; translation in Gombrich, Art and Illusion, 193. 29. Even far less modulated displays of painterly indeterminancy, such as those by Federico Barocci, cast an allure calculated to draw the viewer into pious contemplation. See the discussion of vaghezza in Lingo, Federico Barrocci. 30. See Snyder, “Strokes of Wit,” 212–13. 31. Boschini, “Breve instruzione,” n.p. See also Sohm, Pittoresco, 146. 32. Gombrich, Art and Illusion, 182–83 and 199 (quote).

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33. Jacobs, Living Image, 116–26; Janson, “‘Image Made by Chance’”; and Powell, “Images (Not) Made by Chance.” Also rejected are notions of creatio ex nihilo, which had anyway only tentatively shaped Renaissance concepts of artistic image-formation. See Barasch, “Creatio ex nihilo.” 34. Gamboni, Potential Images, 16–17. For examples from classical antiquity, see Janson, “‘Image Made by Chance,’” 256–58. 35. Powell, “Images (Not) Made by Chance,” 397–99. 36. For the original, see Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 86. 37. Sohm, Style, 151. See also Sohm, “Maniera and the Absent Hand”; and Sohm, Pittoresco, 36–43. 38. Sohm, Pittoresco, 36–43 and 140–49. 39. Held, “Early Appreciation of Drawings,” 85. See also Sohm, Pittoresco, 31–32. 40. For the original, see Vasari, “Introduzione,” 174; translation from Sohm, Pittoresco, 31. 41. See Aretino, Lettere sull’arte, 15–16. This example is cited, among others, by Held, “Early Appreciation of Drawings,” 80–81; and Koering, “Michelangelo’s Relics,” 131. However, Emison, Creating the “Divine” Artist, 4–5n7, cautions against taking the word “reliquia” too literally in this context. 42. Condivi, Life of Michelangelo, 37. See also Keizer, “Michelangelo,” 313. 43. Deza, “Oratione III,” 88–89. 44. For the original, see ibid., 89–90. 45. Ibid., 92. 46. For this idea generally, see Grossman, “Sovereignty of the Painted Image,” 197. 47. Marino, Dicerie sacre. Principal scholarly treatments include Ackerman, “Gian Battista Marino’s Contribution”; and Casper, “Painting as Relic.” 48. For the original, see Paleotti, Esplicatione, 56–57. 49. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1617), 286. 50. Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 103–4. For the applications of this legend to the Shroud, see Lecercle, “De la relique à l’image,” 110–12.

51. “O venerabile Pittura, à cui l’amor diede il dissegno, il minio de colori somministrò il sangue, l’immagine delineò il figurato, l’ombre per farla spiccar communicò un sepolcro avanti di te profundamente m’inchino, e con gl’atti più reverenti adoro un’opera stupenda.” Barralis, Anatomia sacra, 58. 52. For the original, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 171; translation from Grossman, “Sovereignty of the Painted Image,” 199–200. 53. Jurkowlaniec, “Miracle of Art.” 54. For the original, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 89. 55. For literary references to the Deus pictor topos possibly known to Marino, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 8n14. 56. For the original, see Lomazzo, Idea, 245. 57. Lomazzo, Trattato, 379–80. 58. Comanini, Figino, 52–53. 59. Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 12–13 and 482. 60. Gerhard Wolf examines how the Veronica was used to advance incarnational themes due to its special status as icon and relic. Wolf, Schleier und Spiegel. 61. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 181. 62. Crocetti, Sfinge evangelica, 113–14. 63. Marino, Dicerie sacre, 136–38. 64. Quarantotto, Sacra Sindone componimento, 14. 65. See also Melion, “Self-Imaging,” esp. 112 and 114. 66. Sohm, Style, 153–59. 67. For the original, see Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 482. 68. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 181–82. 69. See Wolf, “From Mandylion to Veronica,” 157–58. 70. For the original, see Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 42. 71. “Questa è un immagine, che à chi non intende l’arte del Pittore parerà deforme, e niente simile all’Originale, mà chi sà che questo è un colorito, non più mai praticato, che da gli istromenti d’amore bellissimo lo confesserà

Note s to Page s 58–63 intelligentibus magna est pulchritudo.” Crocetti, Sfinge evangelica, 24. 72. “[D]alla maniera del colorire si ravvisa, che il Mastro è stato quell’istesso Pittore eterno, che col pennello legiero d’un fiat distese sù l’ampia tela dei Cieli tante luminose figure.” Crocetti, Sfinge evangelica, 113. 73. Rosand, Painting in Sixteenth-Century Venice, 20. 74. Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 54–55. 75. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 47–48. 76. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 78. See also Doglio, “‘Grandezze e meraviglie,’” 18. 77. See Casper, “Painting as Relic,” 281–83. 78. Painterly styles marked by open brushwork were seen as special indicators of authenticity and originality and therefore signature traits that could not be easily replicated. Muller, “Measures of Authenticity.” 79. Sohm, Style, 168–73. For brushwork as a signature style, see Sohm, Pittoresco, 63–87. 80. Sohm, “Maniera and the Absent Hand,” 113–16; and Sohm, Style, 65–70. 81. Sohm, Style, 74. 82. Marino, Dicerie sacre, 160. 83. For the original, see ibid., 163. 84. D’Elia, “Drawing Christ’s Blood,” 96–100. 85. For the original, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 155–56. See also Ackerman, “Gian Battista Marino’s Contribution,” 332. 86. Summers, Judgment of Sense, 283–308; and Williams, Art, Theory, and Culture, 135–50. 87. Zuccaro, Idea, 152–53. 88. For the original, see ibid., 157–58. 89. Similarly, see Maiolo, Historiarum, 14–15. Also cited in Lecercle, “De la relique à l’image,” 98. 90. Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 56–57. 91. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 60. 92. Ibid., 33. 93. For the original, see ibid., 180. 94. For the original, see Bascapè, “Sopra la visitazione,” fol. 152v; and Fossati and Giaccaria, “Carlo Borromeo a Torino,” 433. Also cited in Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 143.

95. Marino, Dicerie sacre, 93. See also Casper, “Painting as Relic,” 284. 96. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 67. 97. Panvinio, Sette chiese principali di Roma, 245. 98. See Herbelot, Rayons esclatans, 84. See also Coquery, “Veronica o il Santo Volto,” 163. 99. See Barralis, Anatomia sacra, 2; Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 9–10 and 164; Quarantotto, Sacra Sindone componimento, 9; and Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 28. 100. For the original, see Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 242. 101. See Holmes, Miraculous Image, 259–64. For the original, see Ferrini, Corona, 1v–5v. 102. Bocchi, Opera, 87; translation in Holmes, Miraculous Image, 145. 103. Bocchi, Opera, 88–89; translation in Stowell, “Artistic Devotion,” 34. 104. For the original, see Marino, Dicerie sacre, 153. See also Flemming, “Was ist ein Bild?,” 28; and Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negative,” 444. 105. Vercellini, Iride sacra, 28–29. 106. “[P]er quanto sforzato si sia humana mano d’eminente Pittore, non però mai è arrivata à poterlo esprimere al naturale. E dove l’arte in Zeusi arrivò à fingere frutti, e mela, & ad ingannare gl’uccelli, e quella di Parahasio à ridersi co’l finto velo del accortissimo occhio del suo rivale, in questo certo vinta, e superata abbassa l’ali, ne trova pen[n]elli, che co’ raggi del Sole, ne tavola si Diafana, e liscia, che con le nubi trasparenti, ne colori, che con la luce paragonar si possino. Solo il Pittore celeste eccelle in quello.” Ibid., 29–30. 107. “Chi dunque potrà stimare l’eccellenza d’opra immediatamente uscita da Dio, chi fare adequato concetto dell’artificio, e della perfettione d’un’imagine penelleggiata dallo stesso Dio? E se il nome d’eccellente scultore, ò pittore, come d’un Polignoto, d’un Policleto, ò de i più moderni d’un Rafaello d’Urbino, d’un Michel Angelo Bonaruota suol dar il preggio à qual si sia imagine, che da quelli formata sia stata; quale sarà la gloria di questa, ch’hebbe per pittore l’architetto dell’universo?” Ibid., 34. 108. Ibid., 35–36:

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Ditelo voi Pittori di prima classe, ch’alle reali magnificenze di questi Serenissimi Prencipi co’l esquisito valor vostro il freggio fatte, voi che gl’antenati Heroi à degni figli di tali Padri nelle tavole, e tele vostre rappresentate à gloria havete, voi che i sembianti di quei Semedei rimirando vi fatte beati, e con l’effegie loro il nome vostro ancora immortale rendete, dite voi se arte vostra mai sia arrivata ad adombrare, non che delineare perfettamente si misteriosa imagine. Quante volte tremò la mano nel primo abbozzo, quante cadette il penello tinto nell’ostro, quante chiudeste gl’occhi saettati da quei divini raggi, che nelle macchie del sangue ascosto aventa Amore? Cedete pur, cedete ad eterno pittore, cedete al paragone di sì artificioso lavoro; sono l’opre tutte di Dio perfette, onde stà scritto, Dei perfecta sunt opera, ma questa pare ch’avanzi in eccellenza, e di materia, e maestria ogn’altra. 109. “Ponghino pur dunque gl’altri Pittori il nome loro à piedi delle opre fatte, e consapevoli di non essere ancor giunti alla perfettione dell’arte scrivino, faciebat, delineabat, che à questa nostra pittura di arco divino scriverassi, non già, aperiebant, ma si bene, manus excelsi aperverunt illum.” Ibid., 36. 110. Casoni, Opere, 150–51. Cited in Doglio, “‘Grandezze e meraviglie,’” 19–20. 111. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 30. 112. Nagel, “Leonardo and sfumato,” 14. 113. For the original, see Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 38. 114. Didi-Huberman, Confronting Images, 185–94. 115. Ibid., 189. chapter 3

1. Viatte, Dessin italien, no. 98. 2. Savarino, “Sviluppo della liturgia ufficiale,” 213. The full text is published in Savio, Ricerche storiche, 207–45. 3. See Benay, “Touching Is Believing,” 68. 4. See Cohen, “Corpse as a Symbol.”

5. Cited in Grossman, “Sovereignty of the Painted Image,” 201–10. 6. One of these reenactments, in 1625, was reportedly responsible for the miraculous healing of a blind woman. See Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 302. 7. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 187. 8. “[R]avvivato con l’anima, resuscitato à nuova vita, immortale, incorruttibile, e via più risplendente nell’aurora della Resurrettione, che oscurato no[n] fù nell’eclisse della sua passione.” Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 48–49. 9. For the original, see Tesauro, “Simpathia,” 32–33. 10. For the original, see Ormea, “Spettacoli divini,” 292. 11. “Dui Natali riconosce la Santa fede in Xpo; il primo alla vita mortale dal Ventre di Maria; il secondo alla vita immortale, e gloriosa dal Ventre di questa Sindone.” Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 24. 12. Crocetti, Sfinge evangelica, 67. 13. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 96. 14. Ibid., 299–300. 15. Vercellini, Iride sacra, 13–14: “All’hora dunque formossi questa bella Iride quando al sangue sparso seguì la morte, qua[n]do dopo d’essersi scaricata la nube con impetuoso nembo di quasi tutto il sangue nella passione, il rimanente come ruggiada gocciò in questo Sacro Lenzuolo; quando risorgendo il figlio di Dio ad immortale vita penetrò con infinita luce questa ruggiada di divino sangue all’oscura nube di morte congionta. Spiegò dunque questo bell’arco nel giorno della resurrettione sua, allumollo di luce immortale, e dipinselo di celesti colori.” See also Giachino, “Syndonic Panegyrics,” 191. 16. Loffredo, Tabernacolo del riposo di Dio, 24. 17. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 39. See also Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 147. 18. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 195–96. 19. For a general overview of the debate, see Bynum, Wonderful Blood, 96–110.

Note s to Page s 73–79 20. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae III, q. 54, a. 3 (55:28–31). 21. Ibid. (55:30–31). For an overview of medieval blood relics, see Bynum, Wonderful Blood. 22. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 119–37. 23. Chevalier, Étude critique, appendix document CC (p. xlv). 24. Chifflet, De Linteis Sepulchralibus, 219. See also Pereda, “Veronica According to Zurbarán,” 135. 25. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 137–42. 26. For the original, see ibid., 40. See also Zaccone, “Manuale,” 680. 27. “[M]à hebbe però il suo finimento compito nell atto della Resurrettione gloriosa . . . poiche all’hora, e non prima, si determinò dalla Divinità, qual parte di quel Sangue Sacrato doveva riassumirsi nelle vene, per goder vita di Gloria, e quale lasciarsi nella Tela, per formar compita l’Imagine à consolatione della Chiesa.” Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 45. 28. For the original, see Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 40–41. See also Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 147. 29. For the animate powers of early modern imagery see, among others, Jacobs, Living Image; Van Eck, Art, Agency and Living Presence; and Van Eck, Van Gastel, and Van Kessel, Secret Lives of Artworks. Perhaps the most influential account of living images is Freedberg, Power of Images, 283–316. 30. Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, 94–104. 31. Augustine, Enchiridion 23.89. 32. For mimetic illusionism and the understanding that artists possess magical power, see Kris and Kurz, Legend, Myth, and Magic, 38–59. See also Cole, “Harmonic Force.” 33. Campbell, “‘Fare una cosa morta parer viva,’” 598. 34. Ibid. 35. Dolce, Dialogue on Painting, 121. 36. Ibid., 188–90. See also Bohde, “Corporeality and Materiality,” 25–26. 37. Neilson, “Carving life,” 223–39. 38. For a discussion, see Jacobs, Living Image, 33–36. “Liveliness” would also be taken up by

Francesco Bocchi; see Summers, Judgment of Sense, 143–46. Painters were praised for portraying the flesh of figures in such a way as to appear alive instead of painted. For examples of the use of the term morbidezza (softness) in sixteenth-century art treatises to describe the appearance of real flesh, see Göttler, “Imitation as Animation,” 156 and 170–71n11. 39. Vasari, Vite, 4:11. 40. Jacobs, Living Image, 106–10. 41. Barolsky, Michelangelo’s Nose, 69. See also Smick, “Evoking Michelangelo’s Vatican Pietà.” 42. For the original, see Vasari, Vite, 7:724; translation slightly modified from Sohm, Pittoresco, 27. 43. For this generally, see Jacobs, Living Image, 168–98 (esp. 171–74). 44. See Campbell, “‘Fare una cosa morta parer viva,’” 598. 45. Jacobs, Living Image, 38. See also Barolsky, Michelangelo’s Nose, 53–54. 46. For the original, see Vasari, Vite, 7:213. 47. Hall, “Michelangelo’s Last Judgment.” 48. Ibid., 88. 49. Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la scultura, 70. 50. Cole, “Cellini’s Blood,” 222–25. See also Smith, “Vermilion, Mercury, Blood, and Lizards,” 43–44. 51. Witte, “Passeri’s Vite.” 52. Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 181. 53. Fehrenbach, “Bernini’s Light.” 54. Baldinucci, Life of Bernini, 72. For a discussion of the terms spirito and anima, see Jacobs, Living Image, 126–27. 55. See Delbeke, “Public Lives of Artworks”; Preimesberger, “Bernini’s Portraits,” 212–18; and Warwick, Bernini, 9. 56. Cited in Warwick, Bernini, 9–10. See also Fehrenbach, “Bernini’s Light,” 1–2. 57. For the original, see Tesauro, Cannocchiale aristotelico, 2. Translation from Delbeke, “Public Lives of Artworks,” 302. 58. Kris and Kurz, Legend, Myth, and Magic. 59. Cole, “Demonic Arts.” 60. Campbell, “‘Fare una cosa parer viva.’” For the role of anatomical investigations for creating living bodies, see Jacobs, Living Image, 55–61,

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66–70, and 86–94; and Pesta, “Resurrecting Vivisection.” 61. The foundational study of Caravaggio in this regard remains Cropper, “Petrifying Art.” 62. Translated in Hibbard, Caravaggio, 371. For an alternative translation, see Bellori, Lives, 184. 63. For the altarpiece’s patron, see Sickel, “Remarks.” For this altarpiece generally, see, among many others, Grossman, Caravaggio; and Hibbard, Caravaggio, 171–79. 64. For plans to complete the project, see ACOR, C.I.5, “Libro dei Decreti della Fabbrica di Santa Maria in Vallicella, 1594–1614,” fol. 261. For final payments, see ASR, Congregazione dell’Oratorio in S. Maria in Vallicella 1441–1874, busta 164: “Conti dal 1602–1616,” fols. 224v–225r. See also Zuccari, “Cappella della ‘Pietà.’” 65. Grossman, Caravaggio, n.p. 66. For the chapel dedications, see Barchiesi, “S. Filippo Neri”; and Zuccari, “Cultura e predicazione.” 67. Grossman, Caravaggio, n.p. See also Bologna, Incredulità del Caravaggio, 111. 68. Cozzo, Geografia celeste, 254–57. 69. Hibbard, Caravaggio, 174–76. For Caravaggio’s allusions to Michelangelo’s Vatican and Florence Pietà sculptures, see Pericolo, Caravaggio and Pictorial Narrative, 343–73. 70. Graeve, “Stone of Unction.” For the ambiguity of subject, see also Muraoka, Path of Humility, 186–90. 71. Grossman, Caravaggio, n.p. 72. Hibbard, Caravaggio, 174. In spite of evidence of the open tomb appearing on the left, Georgia Wright claims that Nicodemus is purposefully lowering the body downward, out of the lower border of the painting. Wright, “Caravaggio’s Entombment Considered in Situ.” 73. Wright, “Caravaggio’s Entombment Considered in Situ.” 74. See Lavin, Bernini. 75. Shearman, Only Connect, 180. 76. This connection was suggested by Grossman, Caravaggio, n.p. There is no reason to believe the earlier assertion that Mary of Cleophas was a later addition. For that hypothesis,

see Argan, “Ipotesi caravaggesca”; and Longhi, “Ultimissime sul Caravaggio.” 77. Barchiesi, “Cappella della Pietà,” 64–65. See also Barchiesi, “S. Filippo Neri,” 138–39. 78. For an overview of seventeenth-century sources describing Caravaggio’s naturalism, see Bologna, Incredulità di Caravaggio, 144–54. For Carlo Borromeo’s influence, see Muraoka, Path of Humility. 79. Pericolo, Caravaggio and Pictorial Narrative, 354–62. 80. Schütze, Caravaggio, 121. 81. Bellori, Vite, 212; translation in Hibbard, Caravaggio, 371. 82. Bellori, Vite, 203; translation in Hibbard, Caravaggio, 362. 83. For Damascene icon theory, see Pentcheva, Sensual Icon, 66–71 (quote on 70). 84. Land, “Living and the Dead.” For further examples, see Jacobs, Living Image, 108 and 128–30. 85. Kruse, “Fleisch werden—Fleisch malen,” 314–22. See also Bohde and Fend, Wieder Haut noch Fleisch. 86. For the original, see Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 186. 87. For the original, see ibid. 88. For the original, see Vasari, Vite, 4:40. 89. Bohde, “Corporeality and Materiality,” 26; and Bohde, “Titian’s Three-Altar Project,” 467–72. 90. Bray, “Sacred Made Real,” 19. 91. Jacobs, Living Image, 17–20. 92. Pericolo, Caravaggio and Pictorial Narrative, 356–57 and 358. 93. Bellori, Vite, 207; translation in Hibbard, Caravaggio, 366. 94. Olson, Caravaggio’s Pitiful Relics, 183. 95. Cited in Hibbard, Caravaggio, 377. chapter 4

1. For these early projects, see Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 60–75. Other useful accounts include Moore, Architecture of the Christian Holy Land, 279; and Tamburini, “Luoghi della Sindone,” 91–92.

Note s to Page s 89–97 2. For the original, see “Historia vera come la sacra Sindone di N. S.re sia pervenuta nelle mani dell’Alta Savoia. Con alcuni miracoli successi,” in AST, Benefizi di qua dai Monti, mazzo 31, fascicolo 23, fol. 19r; translation from Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 72. See also Scott, “Seeing the Shroud,” 626. 3. For the geographic diffusion of Shroud paintings in Piedmont, see Terzuolo, “Sacralizzazione del territorio.” For the diffusion of reproductions in all media, see Fusina, “Diffusione della iconografia della Sindone.” 4. See Nicolotti, Sindone, 158–59; and Savio, Ricerche storiche, 313. 5. See Camille, “Simulacrum.” 6. Muller, “Measures of Authenticity.” 7. Benjamin, “Work of Art,” 215. 8. Garnett and Rosser, Spectacular Miracles, 195. Similarly, David Freedberg calls multiplication the third stage of a miraculous icon’s life cycle. Freedberg, Power of Images, 99–104. 9. The literature is far too vast to enumerate here. Important recent contributions incude Nagel and Wood, Anachronic Renaissance; and Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction. Other more specialized studies include Maniura, “Images and Miracles”; Noreen, “Icon of Santa Maria Maggiore”; Pon, Printed Icon, 195–217; and Ricci, “Madonna del Popolo di Montefalco.” 10. Hamburger, “‘In gebeden vnd in bilden geschriben.’” For this term more generally, see Schwartz, Culture of the Copy. 11. For the original, see Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 102; for other copies, see 331–32. 12. For copies of the Veronica generally, see Kessler, “Configuring the Invisible”; Wolf, “From Mandylion to Veronica”; and Wolf, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?’” For the pictores Veronicarum, see Pecchiai, “Banchi e Botteghe.” 13. Cozzo, “‘Et per maggior divotione.’” 14. Vecchi, Culto delle immagini, 45–56. 15. Sindone nei secoli, cat. 4 (pp. 74–75). See also Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 117–20; and Fossati, “Souvenir Engraving.” 16. Grossman, “Poetry and the Shroud,” 186n25. 17. “L’anno del Sig.re 1578 alli 12 e 14 Del Mese d’Ottobre in gratia D.S. Carlo il quale Vense con

Sua Familia in habito di Pelegrini da Milano a Torino Gli fu Mostrato Publicamente il Santissimo Sudario et Fu Da Sua Altesa R.e Ricevuto Con Grande Allegrezza. E V’intervennero G[l]i Soprascritti Ill.mi e R.mi Prelati.” 18. Comoli and Bernard, Potere e la devozione, cat. 38 (p. 126); Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 94–95; Fossati, “Due incisioni romane del 1579”; and Sindone nei secoli, cat. 1 (pp. 70–71). 19. Fossati, “Stampa-ricordo delle ostensioni”; and Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 120–23. See also Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 21–22. 20. Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 123–27. 21. For example, see Sindone nei secoli, cat. 11 (pp. 86–87), cat. 12 (pp. 88–89), and cat. 13 (pp. 90–91). 22. Ibid., cat. 49 (p. 156). 23. Comoli and Bernard, Potere e la devozione, cats. 102 and 103 (p. 137). See also Maggi, “Prayer Around His Body.” 24. Comoli and Bernard, Potere e la devozione, cat. 56 (p. 129); and Doglio, “‘Grandezze e meraviglie,’” 22. Other texts also feature images of the Shroud on their frontispieces, but are much smaller in scale and in other ways do not carry clear devotional functions. For example, see Berod, Prerogative della Santissima Sindone; Buonafede, Regalo di Dio; Paggi, Scudo; Quarantotto, Sacra Sindone componimento; and Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica. 25. Some studies include Cingoli, Coppini, and Fanti, “Copie della Sindone”; Cozzo, “‘Et per maggior divotione’”; Fossati, “Copie della Sindone”; Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part I”; Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III”; Fossati, “Repliche sindoniche”; Marinelli and Marinelli, “Copies of the Shroud”; and Molteni, Memoria di Cristo. 26. Colombo, “Più antica copia”; Fossati, “Copia della Sindone”; Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 56–57; Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 298; and Van Haelst, “Lier Shroud.” 27. For a list of known copies in Spain, see Pereda, “Veronica According to Zurbarán,” 146– 49. See also Santo Sudario en España; and Leone, Santo Sudario en España. For copies associated with the royal court, see Gabaldón, “Copies of the Holy Shroud.” For copies dated 1568 and 1571,

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see Fossati, “Tre antiche copie.” A copy at the cathedral of Puebla, Mexico, bears the inscription “extractvm ab originali tavrini / die 8 apri. 1594.” Cervantes, “Copia della Santa Sindone.” 28. Cozzo, “‘Et per maggiore divotione’”; Cozzo, Geografia celeste, 192–99; Cozzo, “Idiomi del sacro.” Copies of the Santa Maria Maggiore icon in Rome also served a similar function. See Noreen, “Icon of Santa Maria Maggiore,” 664–65. 29. Kubersky-Piredda, “Et sia ritratto.” 30. This is mentioned in Masini, Bologna perlustrata, 1:57 and 62. See also Cingoli, Coppini, and Fanti, “Copie della Sindone,” 394–95. 31. For the original, see Paleotti, Esplicatione, n.p. The whereabouts of this copy are unknown. Cingoli, Coppini, and Fanti, “Copie della Sindone,” 395. 32. Cordiglia, “‘Sacrosancta Sindonis vere impressa imago.’” It was actually given to Borromeo by the bishop of Vercelli, Carlo Francesco Bonomi; see Gorla, Sindone di Inzago, 52–53. For more on this copy, see Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III,” 30; Fossati, “Repliche sindoniche,” 803–5; Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 58–59; and Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 298–99. For doubts concerning the veracity of this identification, see Gentile, “Carlo Borromeo,” 388–91. 33. Debiaggi, “Su una scomparsa riproduzione.” 34. For a succinct summary of these features, see Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III,” 34–38; and Molteni, “Imago Christi e devozione privata,” 47–49. 35. See Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 68–69. 36. For imprinting, see Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negatif,” 416–21; and Pentcheva, Sensual Icon, 57–96. 37. Pon, Printed Icon, 57–64. See also Eisenstein, Divine Art, Infernal Machine, 15–17; and Eisenstein, “Printing as Divine Art,” 2–4. 38. Gertsman, “Multiple Impressions”; and Kessler, “Configuring the Invisible,” 134. 39. Pon, Printed Icon, 58–59. 40. Koerner, Moment of Self-Portraiture, 222–23.

41. Pon, Printed Icon, 64–71. 42. Letter from Agostino Cusano, October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fol. 32; original text cited in Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 110–11; and Gentile, “Contributo di Carlo Borromeo,” 141. 43. For the original, see Balliani, Ragionamenti (1610), 7. 44. Berod, Prerogative, 36; and Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 41. 45. Harpster, “Carlo Borromeo’s Itineraries,” 53–54 and 71. 46. Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 25–27: Come notoria cosa è del gran Rè Filippo II. di Spagna, il quale scrisse al Duca Emmanuel Filiberto suo cugino, che, poiche, com’egli grandemente bramava, no[n] potea personalmente transferirsi à venerare la Sindone del Signore, lo supplicava per amor dell’istesso Signore, che permettesse, che da eccellenti Pittori gli ne fusse fatto un Ritratto, & inviatogli in Spagna, dove in luogo del Prototipo l’haverebbe conservato con ogni riverenza. Ubedì il Duca al Re, e per ottenere la gratia del Ritratto da colui prima, che era stato il Pittore Prototipo (dico da Christo) & acciò non accadesse quello, ch’altre volte era occorso, che Pittori valenti accostatisi alla Sindone per ricavarla, si erano smariti, e persi, non senza segno manifesto, che’l Signore non gradiva tal’ufficio; fece esporre la Sindone in una Privata Cappella attorniata da un’infinità di lampardi, e lumi, & ordinò, che mentre il Pittore Regio col capo scoperto, & inginocchiato la ricavava, vi si facessi avanti l’oratione delle quarant’hore solamente da persone Ecclesiastiche Regolari, e molto pie. E n’hebbe la gratia per special favore di Dio con somma allegrezza non pur del Duca, ma del Re di Spagna. Il quale ottenuto il Ritratto l’incontrò, e l’adorò, e lo ripose fra le sue più grandi, e pregiate Reliquie. 47. Barralis, Anatomia sacra, 9–10; Berod, Prerogative, 29–30; Chifflet, De linteis sepulchralibus, 79–80; Quarantotto, Sacra Sindone componimento, 41–42; Solaro, Sindone evangelica,

Note s to Page s 102–104 historica, e theologica, 100; and Victon, Histoire ou brief traité, 82–83. 48. For this letter, see Bouza, Cartas de Felipe II, 133. This copy may be one of the two at the Escorial; see Kamen, Escorial, 44–45; and Martín and Díez, Reliquias del Real Monasterio, 1:181–84. 49. For these letters, see AST, Benefizi di qua dai monti, mazzo 31, fascicolo 15. 50. The complete quotation reads: Essendo io stata richiesta da persona, à chi devo molto, et à chi desidero servire, di procurargli un vero ritratto di cotesto sacro sindone, hò subito pensato di valermi del favore di V.A., non sapendo chi più di lei possa farmi questo piacere, et la prego perciò con gl’ maggiore affetto, che posso, che si contenti di commettere, che sia copiato da mano più eccellente che si trovi costà, et in tela della mede.ma qualità, che è quella del sudetto sacro sindone, ó almeno nella piú simili, che sia possibile; et il detto ritratto vorrei, che fusse appunto della lunghezza di questo filo, et misura, che mando à V.A., lasciandovi però il Pittore attorno al detto ritratto tanto avanzo di tela, si come stà appunto cotesto naturale, et proprio; et perchè esso habbia poi maggior veneration, et per maggiorm.te l’A .V. obligarmi si compiacerà di farlo poi toccare tutti le parti di cotesta sacra Imagine originale, la quale se habbia Indulgenze, et di chè qualita, et tempo, et quante volte l’anno si mostri, et con che sorti di cerimonie, et con tutto quelpiù che si possa minutam.te sapere, mi sarebbe gratiss.o di haverne notizia dalla cortesia di V.A., alla quale restarò davero obligatissima e tanto più disiderosa di servire a lei, et le bacio di cuore le mani. (Letter from April 18, 1624, in AST, Benefizi di qua dai monti, mazzo 31, fascicolo 15) 51. Atto di remissione, April 4, 1626, in AST, Benefizi di qua dai monti, mazzo 31, fascicolo 15. 52. Insinger, “True Copy of the Shroud.” 53. De Hollanda, Four Dialogues on Painting, 65. 54. For this copy, see Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 8; Fossati, “Copia della

Sindone”; Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 56–57; Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 298; and Perret, “Essai,” 118. The attributions of this copy to Dürer and Bernard van Orley have been disputed by Van Haelst, “Lier Shroud.” 55. Croset-Mouchet, Vita della Veneranda, 32. 56. Cingoli, Coppini, and Fanti, “Copie della Sindone.” 57. Fossati, “Copie della Sindone firmate.” 58. Romano, “Della Rovere.” 59. Baudi di Vesme, Schede Vesme, 2:405–6. Translation from Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III,” 39n3. 60. Baudi di Vesme, Schede Vesme, 2:405–7. 61. Gabaldón, “Copies of the Holy Shroud,” 332; and Leone, Santo Sudario en España, 37–38. 62. Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 25–27. 63. Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 9–10 and 242. See also Wilson, Shroud of Turin, 276. 64. See Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 116; and Scott, “Seeing the Shroud,” 635. 65. For the original, see Mallonio Historia admiranda, 29; translation by Caramello, “Splendor of the Holy Shroud,” 29–30. 66. “Diteme voi, o sacre corone, qua[n]te volte chiamasti i Pittori, per formare i ritratti di questa Santissima Sindone, e li vedeste abbagliati, persi, e confusi, ne mai vi fù rimedio, finche inspirati da Dio, non facesti portare il Santissimo Sacramento, l’uniste insieme, e subito ripreso il vigore, e la vista, i Pittori terminarono l’impresa? E, che era questo se non accenarne il Cielo, che il modo d’invigorire, e confortare la debolezza de gl’occhi humani, in tanti misterij, era quest’unione del Sacramento, e della Sindone?” Buonafede, Regalo di Dio, 56–57. 67. The story is recounted in Fournyer, Histoire très-remarquable, 41. See also Coquery, “Veronica o il Santo Volto,” 163; and Cozzo, “Relic to See and Touch,” 115. 68. For the original, see Adorno, Lettera della peregrinatione, n.p.; cited in Savio, “Pellegrinaggio di San Carlo Borromeo,” 447–48. See also Jori, Per evidenza, 200–01. 69. This process was also used in the first state of Antonio Tempsta’s ostension engraving. See Comoli and Bernard, Potere e la devozione, cat. 58 (pp. 129–30); Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 144–49;

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Peyrot, Torino nei secoli, 1, no. 15; and Sindone nei secoli, cats. 6 and 7 (pp. 78–79). 70. The original text is transcribed in Fossati, “Copie della Sindone,” 604; and Leone, Santo Sudario en España, 137. 71. Harpster, “Turin Shroud.” In some cases, copies were subjected to processes of verification for their own authenticity. 72. For the Bitonto copy, see Milillo, “Sindone di Bitonto.” 73. Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 72–73. See also Pfeiffer, “Visita alla parrocchia.” 74. For “negative differentiation,” see Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction, 45. 75. Prominent studies of Zurbarán’s Veronicas include Calabrese, “Véronique de Zurbarán”; Pereda, “Veronica According to Zurbarán”; and Stoichita, “Zurbaráns Veronika.” 76. Stoichita, Visionary Experience, 66. 77. Pereda, “Veronica According to Zurbarán,” 144. 78. Ostrow, “Zurbarán’s Cartellini,” 84–89. 79. De Hollanda, Four Dialogues on Painting, 67. 80. For archaism, see Lingo, Federico Barocci, 4–6 and 13–31; Nagel, Controversy of Renaissance Art, 85–87 and 93–95; and Nagel, Michelangelo, 13–15. 81. Calvillo, “Authoritative Copies and Divine Originals.” 82. For the original, see Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 39; translation from Loh, Titian Remade, 21. 83. Holmes, “Reproducing ‘Sacred Likeness,’” 32. See also Areford, “Multiplying the Sacred,” 124; Garnett and Rosser, Spectacular Miracles, 195–99; Krautheimer, “Introduction”; Pon, Printed Icon, 196–97; Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction, 43; and Zchomelidse, “Aura of the Numinous,” 221 and 239. 84. Barry, “‘Painting in Stone,’” 35–38. 85. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 42. 86. For the relationship between prints and relics, see Areford, “Multiplying the Sacred.” 87. Holmes, Miraculous Image, 269–70. 88. Maier, “‘True Likeness,’” 713. See also Cranston, Poetics of Portraiture, 117–19; Keizer,

“Portrait and Imprint,” 31; and Woods-Marsden, “Theorizing Renaissance Portraiture,” 364–65. 89. Letter from Agostino Cusano, October 25, 1578, in BUB, Fondo Ulisse Aldrovandi, ms. 30.1, fol. 32. 90. Parshall, “Imago contrafacta,” 556–60. 91. “È da sapere da questo A al B vi è la distanza da capo a capo, dal A al C la larghezza delle spalle dal A al C—3 volte—la larghezza della Santa Tella, B dal A al C—4 volte—la longhezza dell’immagine del N.o Sig.re Giesu Xpto dal A al C—9 volte—in Circa è longa la S.ta Touaglia C.” 92. See Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 122. 93. “E da sapere, che dall’A al B vi è la distanza da capo à capo, cioè dalla fronte alla coppa della Santissima Imagine del Nostro Salvator Giesu Christo, & dall’A al C la larghezza delle spalle d’essa Sacrosanta Imagine, dal A al C parimente tre volte è l’altezza, ò sia larghezza della santa Tela, & dall’A a C ancor Quattro volte vi è la longhezza dell’Imagine del N. Signore, & dall’A al C nove volte in circa è longa tutta la santa tovaglia.” 94. “Misura della sacra Sindone, e dell’Imagine di Nostro Signore, che in lei rimase. / Dall’A , al B. cioè da un punto all’altro trentasei volte è la longhezza della Sindone. / Dall’A , al B. dodeci volte è l’altezza, ò sia larghezza di essa. / Dall’A , al B. sedici volte è la longhezza dell’Imagine del Signore. / Dall’A , al B. quattro volte è la larghezza delle spalle.” 95. Bynum, Christian Materiality, 93–99. 96. Areford, “Multiplying the Sacred,” 130–41; and Areford, “Passion Measured.” For printed images of the Titulus Crucis, see Nagel and Wood, Anachronic Renaissance, 219–39. 97. For an example, see Borello, Sindone e le ostensioni, 30; and Verdon, Gesù, cat. 4.8 (p. 231). See also Savio, “Height of Christ.” On scale measurements of sites in Jerusalem as both souvenirs and even relics in their own right, see Pereda, “Measuring Jerusalem”; and Shalev, “Christian Pilgrimage and Ritual Measurement.” 98. For an example in Acireale, see Romeo, “Copie sindoniche.” For examples in Casale Monferatto, Cuneo, Imperia, and Savona, see Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 64–65, 66–67, 70–71,

Note s to Page s 117–122 and 74–75. For an example in Turin, see Verdon, Gesù, cat. 4.52 (p. 263). 99. Insinger, “True Copy of the Shroud,” 24–27. 100. Fossati, “Copie della sacra Sindone—2,” 7. 101. Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 17; and Leone, Santo Sudario en España, 89–92. 102. Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 17–18; and Leone, Santo Sudario en España, 93–101. 103. Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 20; and Fossati, “Copie della Sindone,” 609. 104. As transcribed by Molteni, “Storia di devozione della Sindone,” 282n35. For a slightly different transcription, see Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 8. 105. Samuele Cultrera, Flagellato dalla buona fama, 140–41. See also Fossati, “Copie della Sindone,” 609. 106. Translation slightly modified after Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III,” 23. 107. Molteni, Memoria di Cristo, 68. 108. Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Part 1,” 17–18 and 20–21; and Fossati, “Copies of the Holy Shroud: Parts II and III,” 24 and 28–29. 109. Holmes, Miraculous Image, 194–202. For the role of touch in mediating authenticity or genuineness more generally, see Korsmeyer, Things. 110. For the practice of touching objects against relics to transfer numinous power, see Belting, Likeness and Presence, 49–57. Curiously, one major Shroud treatise offers a dissenting voice against the practice. Solaro, Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica, 158–59, argues that only objects owned and used by holy figures become relics of those figures, but does concede that at times God allows grace and favors to others. 111. The original is transcribed in Gabaldón, “Copies of the Holy Shroud,” 317. 112. Brown, Cult of the Saints, 88. 113. Maniura, “Images and Miracles,” 86–93. 114. Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negative,” 416–21. 115. Alessio, Vita della Serenissima Infanta, 118. The same source (p. 283) mentions the

exhibition of another copy at the Collegio di Sant’Alessandro in Milan. 116. Fenelli, “Creating a Cult, Faking Relics.” See also Keazor, “Six Degrees of Separation.” 117. Bryson, Vision and Painting, 13–36; and Podro, Depiction, 6–7. chapter 5

1. Tabarrini, “Carlo Rainaldi e i Savoia.” Carlo di Castellamonte’s role is disputed by Caretta, “‘Se bene è nella città’”; and Perin and Soriano, “Chiesa del SS. Sudario.” 2. Croset-Mouchet, Chiesa ed arciconfraternita, 31; and Tabarrini, “Carlo Rainaldi e i Savoia,” 308–9. For payments to Gherardi for this altarpiece, see Mezzetti, “Pittura di Antonio Gherardi,” 178–79. 3. See Pickrel, “Two Stucco Sculpture Groups”; and Tabarrini, “Carlo Rainaldi e i Savoia,” 310. 4. This copy at Santissimo Sudario may have been compromised through later nineteenth-century repainting by a Torinese artist named Ricciardi under the direction of Eugenio Balbiano di Colcavagno. Croset-Mouchet, Dello stato presente, 38. 5. For the political implications of the confraternity with respect to Savoyard sovereignty in Rome, see Cozzo, “Chiesa sabauda”; Cozzo, “Santo Sudario dei Piemontesi”; Osborne, “House of Savoy”; and Serra, “‘Accesi di devoto affetto.’” 6. For the propagandistic role of the Shroud in establishing Turin as the Savoy center of power, see Cozzo, Geografia celeste; and Cozzo, Sindone e i Savoia. 7. For the general diffusion of Shroud imagery in Rome, see Caretta, “‘Se bene è nella città.’” 8. Ibid., 220–21. 9. Fossati, “Repliche sindoniche,” 805. Most tabernacles kept their miraculous relics and icons hidden from view to prevent their sacred powers from diluting. See Davies, “Framing the Miraculous,” 909. Other Shroud copies were only brought out on special occasions such as Good Friday and the May 4 feast day celebrations.

169

Note s to Page s 124–128

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10. For Baronio’s restoration of early Christian churches, see Herz, “Cardinal Cesare Baronio’s Restoration.” Recent studies examining Baronio’s use of early Christian history include Guzzelli, “Cesare Baronio”; and Tutino, “‘For the Sake of Truth.’” 11. Baronio praised Panigarola’s compendium for allowing the original to be translated into other vernacular languages. Pullapilly, Ceasar Baronius, 186n24. 12. For the original, see Baronio, Annali Ecclesiastici, 204. 13. Baronio, Annales Ecclesiastici, 1:182. 14. For the original, see Gracián, Trattato del giubileo, 228. 15. For an overview of the icons and holy images, see Casper, “Icons, Guidebooks, and the Religious.” For the cult relics in Rome in the post-Tridentine period, see Palumbo, “‘Assedio delle reliquie.’” For private relic collections, see Sanger, “Sensuality, Sacred Remains and Devotion.” For the sacred economy and trafficking of Rome’s catacomb relics to Spain, see Harris, “Gift, Sale and Theft.” 16. For the original, see Panciroli, Tesori nascosti (1600), 873. 17. “[A] Ms Gio. Maria Bogliello, banditore di detta compagnia scudi 10 di moneta quali si deveno per una immagine del Santissimo Sudario con il taffetà e ferri posti in essa.” “Registro dei mandati della compagnia del ss. Sudario di N.S. dall’anno 1597 all’anno 1671,” in ACSR, Santissimo Sudario, busta 114, October 9, 1600, [n.p.]. 18. “Non posso con parole esprimere quanto animo, e forze m’habbi recato l’haver veduto quì in Roma l’affettuosa divotione delle Nationi soggetti alla Sereniss. Altezza Vostra, verso la santa Sindone del Redentore del mondo.” Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 3–4. 19. Ibid., 6. See also Caretta, “‘Se bene è nella città,’” 284–85. 20. “E se bene voi presente non havete l’istesso Linteo, nel quale fù involto Christo morto, havete però un’eccelle[n]te Ritratto.” Bonafamiglia, Sacra historia, 51–52. 21. For a general description, see Osborne, “House of Savoy,” 182–84.

22. Letter from Anastasio Germonio, April 21, 1601, in AST, Materie politiche per rapporto agli Esteri, Lettere Ministri, Roma, mazzo 20, fascicolo 1, “Lettere dell’abate Germonio,” n. 18, fol. 3. Text transcribed in Cozzo, “Chiesa Sabuada,” 95; and Cozzo, “Santo Sudario dei Piemontesi,” 500–501. 23. “Memoria sopra l’attuale Venerabile Regia Chiesa Nazionale Sarda del SS.mo Sudario in Roma,” manuscript in ACSR, Real Casa, Chiesa del SS. Sudario, busta 24, fascicolo 3, fols. 6–9. Though undated, this text likely dates to the mid-1800s, as it makes references to events up to 1849. See also Caretta, “‘Se bene è nella città,’” 283–84. 24. Croset-Mouchet, Chiesa ed arciconfraternità, 9. 25. Croset-Mouchet, Dello stato presente, 37–38. 26. Cozzo, “Chiesa sabauda,” 100–01; and Tabarrini, “Carlo Rainaldi e i Savoia,” 304. 27. Lattari, Monumenti dei principi di Savoia, 52 and 55–57. 28. This is essentially the argument made by Fossati, “Repliche sindoniche,” 806, though he claims 1605 as the proper date of origin. 29. “[U]n SS. Sudario grande sopra l’altar maggiore, con suo taffetà rossa innanzi.” ACSR, Real Casa, Chiesa del SS. Sudario, busta 28, fascicolo 1, “Venerabile regia chiesa del Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi in Roma. Inventarij dal 1598 al 1846,” doc. 2 “Inventario, 1639,” fol. 4r. 30. For the original, see Panciroli, Tesori nascosti (1625), 796. 31. For the original, see ibid., 794–95. 32. Notably, Panciroli does not include the miraculous Salvatore icon at the Lateran, though he does briefly discuss it in Tesori nascosti (1625), 145–48. For Pius V’s cancellation in 1566 of the procession on the Feast of the Assumption, which saw the icon processed through the streets to meet the Salus Populi Romani icon of Mary, see Noreen, “Serving Christ.” Nevertheless, the icon was still an important holy image in Counter-Reformation Rome, as evidenced by continued donation of gifts and the activities undertaken to refurbish the icon and its chapel

Note s to Page s 129–141 in the Sancta Sanctorum. Noreen, “Re-covering Christ,” 129 and 135n104. 33. Bertelli, “Storia e vicende”; and Casper, “Mandylions in Genoa and Rome.” Seventeenth-century sources blame Cesare Baronio for rampant misidentification of the San Silvestro icon as the Mandylion of Edessa, and instead identify it as the much less famous Camuliana image. See Calcagnino, Dell’imagine edessena, 361–80. 34. For their roles in Baronio’s approval of imagery generally, see Fumaroli, “De l’icône en negative,” 435–38; Ronca, “Devozione e le arti”; and Toscano, “Baronio e le immagini.” 35. Miedema, “Following in the Footsteps,” 82–83. 36. Panciroli, Tesori nascosti (1625), 873; he had noted earlier that the foreskin was stolen in the 1527 Sack of Rome (pp. 147–48). For the relics at the Sancta Sanctorum, see Kessler and Zacharias, Rome 1300, 49–61. 37. Panciroli, Tesori nascosti (1625), 873–75. 38. Ibid., 529–30. 39. Ibid., 142–43. 40. Ibid., 875. 41. Tabarrini, “Carlo Rainaldi e i Savoia,” 310 and 319n73. 42. Ibid., 308–11. 43. The definitive study is Warnke, “Italienische Bildtabernakel.” 44. See Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 91. 45. For some examples, see Noreen, “High Altar”; Noreen, “Serving Christ,” 242–44; and Noreen, “Time, Space, and Devotion.” 46. See Ostrow, Art and Spirituality, 113– 83; and Stoichita, Self-Aware Image, 67–76. For insights into how both impacted the materiality of religious art in Baroque Rome, see Seaman, Religious Paintings, 21–48. 47. MacCaskey, “Tainted Image / Sacred Image.” 48. Belting, Likeness and Presence, 484– 90 (quotes on 485 and 486). See also Ostrow, Art and Spirituality, 155–56. For a similar argument regarding the quattrocento ornamentation for the Annunziata tabernacle in Florence, see Davies, “Adornment and Decorum.”

49. Ostrow, Art and Spirituality, 158–65 and 174–78. 50. Belting, Likeness and Presence, 485–86; and Ostrow, Art and Spirituality, 127. For more on the dissemination of the Santa Maria Maggiore icon and its efficacy through copies, see Mochizuki, “Reliquary Reformed,” 438–42; and Noreen, “Icon of Santa Maria Maggiore.” For a more general assessment of the power of secondary imagery, see Freedberg, Power of Images, 125–26 and 135–39. 51. Mochizuki, “Reliquary Reformed,” 438. 52. For an altogether different interpretation, see Noyes, “Rubens’s Chiesa Nuova altarpiece.” 53. Herzner, “Honor refertur ad prototypa,” 170; and Ostrow, Art and Spirituality, 175. 54. Stoichita, Self-Aware Image, 69–70. 55. Ibid., 75. 56. Belting, Likeness and Presence, 486–88. 57. Noyes, “Rubens’s Chiesa Nuova altarpiece,” 192. 58. Costamagna, “‘Più bella et superba occasione,’” 165–66. 59. Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction, 36–42. 60. Noreen, “Replicating the Icon.” 61. Newly uncovered documents suggest that it was venerated in Rome even before the twelfth century; see Morello, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?’” See also Belting, Likeness and Presence, 215–24. 62. For the fate of the Veronica, see Chastel, Sack of Rome, 100–105. 63. Casper, Art and the Religious Image, 32–33; Chastel, “Véronique,” 78; and Pfeiffer, “Immagine simbolica,” 109. 64. Gaeta, Altra Sindone, 61n15. However, the author does not provide documentary support for these three exhibitions. 65. Morello, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?,’” 61–71. See also Pfeiffer, “Immagine simbolica,” 109–10. For the Vienna copy, see Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 205–7. 66. See Morello, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?,’” 69–70; and Wilson, Holy Faces, Secret Places, 106–11. 67. The closest contemporary report on the transfer of these relics is found in Grimaldi, Descrizione della basilica.

171

Note s to Page s 141–151

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68. For the frame commissioned to house the Veronica in 1675, see Montagu, “Frame of the Volto Santo.” It has recently been established that the original design for this frame was by Bernini. Rice, “Bernini and the Frame.” 69. For Bernini’s work at Saint Peter’s, see Lavin, Bernini and the Crossing. For a more detailed history of this pier, with an extensive bibliography, see Rice, “Pre-Mochi Projects.” For Mochi’s sculpture and extensive bibliographies, see most recently Lingo, “Mochi’s Edge”; and Rice, “Unveiling of Mochi’s ‘Veronica.’” 70. See Wilson, Holy Faces, 110–11. 71. Pfeiffer, “Invenzioni e verità,” 22. See also Pfeiffer, “Immagine simbolica,” 110, which only tentatively mentions the possibility that the original Shroud, not the Santissimo Sudario copy, could have served as the model for these later Veronica copies. 72. Di Blasio, Veronica, 61–62. See also Gaeta, Altra Sindone, 59–60; and Morello, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?,’” 68. 73. See Gaeta, Altra Sindone, 59–60; and Morello and Wolf, Volto di Cristo, 207. 74. Heinrich Pfeiffer argues that the “original” Veronica survived the 1527 Sack but was stolen from the Vatican during the reign of Paul V and is now the so-called Holy Face of Manoppello. See Pfeiffer, Volto Santo di Manoppello. This hypothesis is reinforced by Badde, Seconda Sindone; Gaeta, Altra Sindone; and Gaeta, Enigma del volto. For arguments against this theory, see Wilson, Holy Faces, Secret Places, 112. Giovanni Morello proposes that the “original” Veronica is in fact the Mandylion from San Silvestro in Capita, now in the Vatican. See Morello, “‘Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?,’” 73–80. This hypothesis receives tentative support from Belting, Likeness and Presence, 218. 75. Nagel and Wood, Anachronic Renaissance. See also Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction. 76. Vikan, “Ruminations on Edible Icons.”

77. For an overview, see Serra, “‘Accesi di devoto affetto,’” 232–33. For comparison, see the santini produced by Niccolò and Domenico dal Jesus in the early 1500s, in Pon, Raphael, Dürer, and Marcantonio Raimondi, 59–61 and 159–60. 78. ACSR, SS. Sudario, busta 114, “Registro dei mandati della compagnia del ss. Sudario di N.S. dall’anno 1597 all’anno 1671,” 22 marzo 1603. 79. Ibid. 23 aprile 1604. 80. ACSR, SS. Sudario, busta 140, “Filza di giustificazioni della V. Regia Chiesa del Ss.mo Sudario in Roma dal 1598 al 1640,” fascicolo 1633. 81. ACSR, SS. Sudario, busta 142, “Filza di giustificazioni, vol. 3,” fascicolo 1658, “Spese per la festa del Santissimo Sudario.” 82. ACSR, SS. Sudario, busta 142, “Filza di giustificazioni, vol. 3,” fascicolo 1677, “Conto di Andrea Rubini stampatore,” 5 maggio 1677. 83. ACSR, SS. Sudario, busta 143, “Filza di giustificazioni, vol. 4,” fascicolo 1682, “Relazione della festa del Santissimo Sudario, 1681.” epilogue

1. Fossati, Sacra Sindone, 188–89; and Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 113. For documentary sources, see “Cerimoniale della Real Corte Savoia (1690–99),” BRT Storia Patria 726/3, fols. 186v–188r; and “Registro del Ceremoniale praticatosi nella Corte di Savoia in diversi Fonzioni Solenni (1690–1699),” AST Materie politiche per rapporto all’interno, Cerimoniale, Funzioni diversi, mazzo 1, fascicolo 9, fols. 214r–215v. 2. Scott, Architecture for the Shroud, 18–19 and 342–43. 3. For genuineness as an aesthetically perceptual quality lacking in reproductions, see Korsmeyer, Things, 21–57. 4. “Dagli Stati Uniti per studiare la Sindone di Bitonto.” Bitonto Viva, April 4, 2019, https://‌www‌.bitontoviva‌.it‌/notizie‌/dagli‌-stati‌ -uniti‌-per‌-studiare‌-la‌-sindone‌-di‌-bitonto.

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Index

Italicized page references indicate illustrations. Endnotes are referred to with “n” followed by the endnote number. Abgar, King of Edessa, 5, 103, 129 acheiropoieta, 7, 66, 130 Adoration of the Holy Shroud (Vanni, attrib.), 67, 69, 132 Adoration of the Shepherds (Bassano), 49 Adorno, Francesco, 10, 35, 39, 104 Aldrovandi, Ulisse, 19 Allori, Alessandro, 62, 113 Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud (Bertola), 90, 91, 147 Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud (Daudet), 89–90, 91 Altar Tabernacle of the Virgin (Rainaldi, G. and Targone), 133–37, 135, 140 altar tabernacles monumental Baroque, 133–37, 135, 136 Shroud reproductions displayed in, 121, 123, 131, 132, 137, 140 Amadeus IX, Duke of Savoy, 10 Ananias, 103 “Anatomia Sacra della imagine di Christo Signore nostro impressa nella Santa Sindone,” from Anatomia sacra (Barralis), 94, 97, 105, 106 Anatomia sacra per la novena della santa Sindone (Barralis), 29, 53, 94, 97, 105, 106 Angel and the Veronica (Dürer), 99–100, 100 Annales Ecclesiastici (Baronio), 124–25 Annali Ecclesiastici del R. P. Cesare Baronio, ridotti in compendio, Gli (Panigarola), 124–25 Annunciation (Titian), 86 Aquinas, Thomas, Saint, 73–74

Archconfraternity of Santa Maria del Suffragio, Bitonto, 150–52 Architecture for the Shroud (Scott), 5, 103 Arcis, Pierre d’, bishop of Troyes, 9 Areford, David, 116 Aretino, Pietro, 29, 51 argutezza, 79 Arquato del Tronto, San Francesco, 118–19 ars est celare artem, 65 artistic process artifice and authenticity qualities, 54 brushwork, 46, 49, 56, 58, 59 printmaking, 99–100 reproduction printmaking and theological associations, 99–101 resurrection associations, 68, 75–80, 85–87 sixteenth-century concept of, 56 three-dimensional modeling techniques, 46, 65, 106 divine artifice; naturalism; painting artists’ signatures, 59, 64, 111, 116, 161n78 Augustine, Saint, 76 authenticity blood stain origins debates, 73–74 divine artifice signs as evidence of, 57 papal declarations of, 148 printed reproductions and, 114–16, 120 qualities of, 54 reproductions and relic physical contact for, 118–19, 128 reproductions to validate original’s, 105 Shroud history and, 9–12 Avvertenze per l’oratione delle quaranta hore (Borromeo), 41 Badolatosa (Spain), 119 Balbiano di Colcavagno, Eugenio, 169n4

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Baldi, Innocenzio, 31 Baldinucci, Filippo art term definitions, 46, 50, 78–79, 86, 113 sculptor’s practice descriptions, 79 Balliani, Camillo. See Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone di N.S. Giesu (Balliani) Baronio, Cardinal Cesare, 124–25, 129 Barralis, Vittorio Amedeo, 29, 53, 94, 97, 105, 106 Bascapè, Carlo, 28, 33–34, 44–45, 46, 61 Bassano, Francesco: Adoration of the Shepherds, 49 Battle of Anghiari (Leonardo da Vinci), 51 beholder’s share, the, 47, 50–51 Bellori, Gian Pietro, 85, 86, 87 Belting, Hans, 7, 8, 46, 134, 136 Benjamin, Walter, 92 Bernini, Domenico, 79 Bernini, Gianlorenzo, 79, 141 Bertola, Antonio: Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud, 90, 91, 147 Bildtabernakel, 132–37 Bitonto, Archconfraternity of Santa Maria del Suffragio, 150–52 Bitonto, Museo Diocesano, 106, 108, 111, 116, 151–52 Blancardi, Giovanni Francesco, 30, 96 blood relics, 21 See also blood stains blood stains (Shroud of Turin) descriptions, 21–25, 22, 24 devotional adoration due to, 38–39 divine artifice and imagery formation, 57–60, 74–75 divine artifice and incarnation associations, 55–56 eucharistic associations, 37–42 passion trauma dramatizations based on, 25–31 relic classification based on, 21 resurrection theology and debates on origins of, 73–74 visionary encounters due to, 31–37 Bocchi, Francesco, 62 Bologna, Monastery of Corpus Domini, 103 Bologna Cathedral, 103, 106, 107, 111, 116, 150 Bonafamiglia, Prospero, 20, 31–32, 71, 101, 125–26 Borromeo, Cardinal Carlo, archbishop of Milan burial linens in scriptural references, 19 religious rituals promoted by, 40–41 reproduction commissions, 62–63 Shroud adoration and devotional impact, 26, 27, 28, 30, 37, 38

Shroud painted reproductions of, 98, 126, 128 Shroud printed reproductions featuring, 93, 93 Shroud viewing pilgrimages of, 1, 2, 93 visionary devotional practices, 33–35, 36 Boschini, Marco, 49 brandea, 119 Bridget, Saint, 29 brushwork, 46, 49, 56, 58, 59 Bryson, Norman, 120 Bucci, Agostino, 11 Buonafede, Giuseppe. See Regalo di Dio alla Real Corona di Savoia burial linens paintings featuring function of, 15, 16 paintings with entombment themes and, 82–83, 84 scriptural references to, 15, 18–21, 68, 130 Bynum, Caroline Walker, 17 Calcagnino, Agostino, 55, 57, 62, 92–93 Caltagirone, Innocenzo da, 118 Calvin, John, 11, 18, 21 Cambiaso, Luca, 62 Campbell, Stephen, 79–80 Cannocchiale aristotelico (Tesauro), 79 Caravaggio Doubting Thomas, 87, 88 Entombment, 80–88, 81, 84 carbon dating, 9, 148 Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Dead Christ at Varallo (Crespi/Il Cerano), 34–35, 36 Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Shroud (Anonymous), 37, 38 Carlo Emanuele I, Duke of Savoy, 18, 89, 103, 125–26 Carlo Emanuele II, Duke of Savoy, 153n6 cartellini, 111 Casale Monferrato, Sant’Ilario, 150 Casella, Giacomo and Giovanni Andrea: San Carlo Borromeo in Adoration to the Shroud, 26, 27 Casoni, Guido, 64–65 Castellamonte, Carlo di, 89, 121 Catechism of the Council of Trent, 41 Catherine, Saint, 18 Catholic Counter-Reformation cult object popularity as triumph of, 6, 11 God as divine painter, 55 human art as divine truth, 54–55 medieval cult icon popularity during, 133 real presence doctrine, 39

Inde x religious imagery validity, 26, 129 sacred violence imagery popular during, 29 transubstantiation doctrine, 41 cavato (cavare), 102, 117–18 Cennini, Cennino, 46, 86 Cerano, Il: Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Dead Christ at Varallo, 34–35, 36 Chambéry, Sainte-Chapelle, 2, 10, 17–18 Chapel of the Holy Sepulcher (Sacro Monte at Varallo), 34–35, 36, 86–87 Chapel of the Holy Shroud (Turin Cathedral) fire destruction, 148 reconstruction and reopening, 148 relics donated to, 18 reliquary altars in, 89–90, 91, 147 Shroud installation in, 5, 89, 147 Shroud reproductions at, 90 Charlemagne (Holy Roman Emperor), 115 Charles III, Duke of Savoy, 10 Chiesa Nuova (Santa Maria in Vallicella), Rome. See Rome, Chiesa Nuova (Santa Maria in Vallicella) Chifflet, Jean-Jacques, 20, 67, 74, 130 Christian piety practices blood relic cult worship, 21–25 eucharistic devotion, 37–42 overview, 17 passion and resurrection reenactments, 25–31 relic status and veneration levels, 38–39 relic veneration processions for, 3, 17–18, 126, 150–51 reproductions for devotional engagement, 12, 24, 90, 94, 97, 126 visionary encounters, 30–37, 31–37 See also ostensions Christina of Lorraine, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, 92–93 Clement VII (pope), 9 Clement VIII (pope), 121, 126, 127, 128 Cole, Michael, 79 Colonna, Vittoria, 59–60 colore/colorire/colorito, 46, 49, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60 Comanini, Gregorio, 55 Comi, Francesco, 132–33, 134 compendio de gli Annali Ecclesiastici del Padre Cesare Baronio, Il (Panigarola), 124–25 Condivi, Ascanio, 51 Confraternity of the Santissimo Sudario, 121, 126, 127, 128 Confronting Images (Didi-Huberman), 7–8 Constance of Austria, Queen of Poland, 141, 142 contact, physical

relic classification based on, 5, 6, 15, 17, 38–39, 45, 52 of reproductions with original, 118–19, 128 copies, 25, 61, 62, 90, 92–93, 97–99, 101–33, 137–45 See also reproductions; painted reproductions; printed reproductions “Corona Sacra da Presentarsi a Christo appassionata nella Santa Sindone,” from Anatomia sacra (Barralis), 94, 97, 105, 106 Council of Nicaea, Second, 55 Council of Trent, 5, 39, 41 Crespi, Giovanni Battista (“Il Cerano”): Carlo Borromeo Adoring the Dead Christ at Varallo, 34–35, 36 Crocetti, Giacinto Maria, 56, 58, 72 Croset-Mouchet, Giuseppe, 127 Cross, 17, 18, 71, 126, 129 Cuneo, Santa Maria della Pieve, 106, 109, 116, 150 Cusano, Cardinal Agostino, 23, 45, 46, 49–50, 100, 114 Danti, Girolamo and Ignazio: Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, 2, 2 Daudet, Jean-Louis: Altar of the Chapel of the Holy Shroud, 89–90, 91 David (Michelangelo), 77 Dead Christ (Ferrari), 34–35, 36, 86–87 De Linteis Sepulchralibus Christi Servatoris Crisis Historica (Chifflet), 20, 67, 74, 130 Della Rovere, Giovanni Battista, 103 See also Deposition of Christ (Della Rovere) Dell’imagine edessena (Calcagnino), 55, 57, 62, 92–93 Deposition of Christ (Della Rovere) composition and subject matter, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 67 Roman guidebooks supporting imprinting theories of, 130 symbolism, 132 “De ritu sepeliendi apud diversas nations” (or “De sepulchris et condiendis cadaveribus”) (Aldrovandi), 19 De Sanguine Christi (Sixtus IV), 10, 74 Deus artifex, 13–14 Deus pictor, 52–56, 59 Deza, Massimiliano, 52 Dialogo della Pittura (Dialogue on Painting) (Dolce), 35, 76 Dicerie sacre (Marino) content descriptions, 12 divine artifice and artistic style, 58, 59, 60–61 divine artifice and inimitability, 63

195

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Dicerie sacre (Marino) (continued) divine artifice and master artist comparisons, 62 divine artifice and painting metaphors, 53–54 divine artifice theories, 52, 56 Shroud’s prestige compared to paintings, 37–39 Didi-Huberman, Georges, 7–8, 21, 23, 66 diplomatic gifts, 97, 126 Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane (Paleotti, G.), 6–7, 19, 30, 39 disegno, 14, 58, 60–61, 77 disegno esterno, 60 disegno interno, 60–61 divine artifice artistic craftsmanship of, 56–64 artistic process associations, 44–45, 46–51, 75 concealment of, 64–66 imprinting theories, 15, 19–21, 67–68, 72–73, 75 incarnation associations, 55–56 intentionality of, 45, 50, 57, 72 painted reproduction process and, 101–12 painting metaphors, 52–56, 58 print reproduction process and, 99–101 purpose of, 54, 72 theories of, 45–46, 52 Dobschütz, Ernst von, 43 Dolce, Ludovico, 35, 76 Donatello, 49 Doubting Thomas (Caravaggio), 87, 88 dulia, 39 Dürer, Albrecht Angel and the Veronica, 99–100, 100 art style descriptions, 76 Shroud reproductions attributed to, 102 Emanuele Filiberto, Duke of Savoy, 1, 12, 97, 101 encarnación (incarnazione), 46, 85–87 Enchiridion (Augustine), 76 Enrico, Giovanni d’: Road to Calvary, The, with Tabachetti, 33, 34 (detail) Entombment (Caravaggio), 80–88, 81, 84 Escalona del Prado (Spain), 119 Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Paleotti, A.) artifice and artistic metaphor descriptions, 53 artifice theories, 45 blood stain analysis illustrations in, 23–24, 24, 29, 70, 82, 94 book donations, 128 burial practice descriptions, 20

description and publication, 12 devotional meditation function, 70 painted reproduction acquisitions referenced in, 98 passion narrative, 29 Shroud with angels illustrations in, 132, 133 status and devotional levels, 39 Eucharist, 37–42, 83, 99 expressum, 117–18 extractum, 116, 117–18 Fantino, Giovanni Battista, 103 Ferrari, Gaudenzio: Dead Christ, 34–35, 36 Ferrero, Cardinal Guido Luca, 93, 93 Figino, Il (Comanini), 55 fires, 3, 10, 131, 148 Forty Hours Devotion, 40–41 Fumaroli, Marc, 45 Galen, 74 Galilei, Galileo, 47 Galleria delle Carte Geografiche, Vatican City, 3, 122 Garnett, Jane, 92 Geimer, Peter, 43 Genoa, San Bartolomeo degli Armeni, 4, 5, 62, 71, 129 Geoffroi de Charny, 9 Germonio, Anastasio, 126 Gerolamo, 103 Gertsman, Elina, 99 Gesù, Rome, 129, 143 Gherardi, Antonio Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi altarpiece, 121, 123, 132 Santissimo Sudario design attribution, 121–22 Gilio da Fabriano, Giovanni Andrea, 29, 33 Giussano, Giovanni Pietro, 26 Giustiniani, Vincenzo, 77–78 God as artist, 13–14 design idea theories and, 60–61 devotion levels reserved for, 38, 39 as painter, 52–56, 59 See also divine artifice Gombrich, Ernst, 47, 50 Gorrevod, Cardinal Louis de, 10 Gospels, 18–19, 20, 68, 130 Gracián, Jerónimo, 125 Graeve, Mary Ann, 82 Grampin, Giulio Cesare: Turin with Holy Shroud, Corpus Christi, and Patron Saints, 40, 40

Inde x Gregorios (archdeacon), 57 Gregory XIII (pope), 2 Gregory XV (pope), 143 Grimaldi, Giacomo, 141, 142 Grossman, Sheldon, 52, 81–82 Guarini, Guarini: Chapel of the Holy Shroud, 5, 89–90, 147 Guettus, Joannes: vero ritratto del santissimo sudario, Il, 94, 95, 115 Guzmán y Zuñiga, Antonio de, 104

paintings featuring Veil of Veronica with, 33, 34 relic hierarchy and, 6, 18, 21, 129 sacred measurements of, 116 sculpture featuring dead, 34–35, 36, 86–87 John of Damascus, 85–86 John the Evangelist, 15, 16, 19 Joseph of Arimathea, 15, 16, 19–20, 82, 84 Julius II (pope), 2, 10, 77 Jurkowlaniec, Grażyna, 54

Hall, Marcia, 77 Held, Julius, 51 Historia admiranda de Jesu Christi stigmatibus sacrae sindoni impressis (Mallonio), 20, 103–4 Hollanda, Francisco de, 102, 111 Holmes, Megan, 113 Holy Face of Manoppello, 172n74 Holy Lance, 116 Hood, William, 33

Keramion, 99 Koerner, Joseph Leo, 99–100

idea de’ scultori, pittori e architetti, L’ (Zuccaro), 60–61 Iesu Christi Crucifixi stigmata sacrae sindoni impressa (Mallonio), 4, 5, 70 Ignatius, Saint, 35 imago contrafacta, 115 incarnation, 46, 55–56, 66, 85–87, 99 incarnazione, 46, 85–87 indulgences, 2, 10 Ingolstadt, Jesuit College, 140 Intentionality (artistic), 45, 50, 57, 72 Inzago, Santa Maria Assunta, 98 Iride sacra (Vercellini), 63–64, 72 Jesuit College, Ingolstadt, 140 Jesuits, 137–38, 140 Jesus Christ altarpieces featuring dead, 121, 123, 132 burial process descriptions, 18–19, 20 image-relics of, 5 (see also Mandylion of Edessa; Shroud of Turin; Veronica, the) medieval icon style descriptions, 45 paintings featuring adoration of dead, 34–35, 36 paintings featuring deposition of, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 67, 130, 132 paintings featuring entombment of, 80–88, 81, 84 paintings featuring resurrected, 87, 88

labels for reproduction authenticity, 114–15 La Cuesta (Spain), 119 Lancilotti, Francesco, 76 Last Judgment (Michelangelo), 77, 78 (detail) latria, 38, 39 Leonardo da Vinci art style descriptions, 65, 77 Battle of Anghiari cartoon, 51 Mona Lisa, 77, 86 Libro dell’arte (Cennini), 86 Lier, Saint Gommaire, 97, 98, 102, 106 lifelikeness (vivacità), 76–80 Life of Bernini (Baldinucci), 79 Lippi, Filippo, 76 Lives of the Artists (Vite) (Vasari), 49, 76–77, 88 Loffredo, Innocenzo, 73 Logroño (Spain), 117, 119 Lomazzo, Gian Paolo, 55, 87 macchia, 45, 46, 47, 50–51 Madonna della Vallicella (altarpiece) (Rubens), 133–34, 136, 136–37, 138–39 Madonna della Vallicella (altarpiece with reproduction) (Rubens), 138, 139 Madonna delle Carceri, 119 Madonna di Vallicella, 133–34, 136, 136–37, 138, 139, 140 Madonna of the Fire, 8 Maillon, Charles: Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, 94, 95, 105, 131 Mallonio, Daniele, 4, 5, 20, 70, 103–4 Mandylion of Edessa artifice theories, 45, 52, 55, 57, 62 original relic location debates, 129 popularity of, 5 relic classification, 130 relics generated from contact with, 99 reliquary frames for display of, 132–33, 134

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Mandylion of Edessa (continued) reproductions of, 92–93, 103 resurrection reenactments with, 71 seventeenth-century guidebooks featuring, 128, 129 Margaret of Austria, 97 Margherita of Savoy, 102, 118 Maria Francesca Apollonia of Savoy, 18, 103, 119, 127 Maria Maddalena d’Austria, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, 102, 118 Marino, Giambattista, 80 See also Dicerie sacre (Marino) Mary Magdalene, 21, 82, 84 Mary of Cleophas, 82, 84, 84 Maurice, Saint, 17, 18, 121, 125 Maurizio di Savoia, Cardinal, 113, 118 Maximilian I (Holy Roman Emperor), 97 Maximus, Saint, 121 McCrone, Walter, 11 Mentinovese, Pietro, 122 Michelangelo David, 77 divine artifice assessments, 62 divine artifice compared to, 61–62 Last Judgment, 77, 78 (detail) lifelikeness qualities, 77–78 Moses, 77 Pietà, 54, 77, 82, 85, 87 Risen Christ, 77–78 sacred image reproduction requirements, 102 Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. See Caravaggio miracles, 3, 7, 10, 72–74, 133, 134 See also resurrection Mochi, Francesco: St. Veronica, 141, 143 Mochizuki, Mia, 138 Mona Lisa (Leonardo da Vinci), 77, 86 Monastery of Corpus Domini, Bologna, 103 Monastery of Our Lady of the Rosary, Summit, New Jersey, 102, 117, 149–50 Moncalieri, Monastery of San Giuseppe della Madre di Dio, 106, 109, 116, 150 moon topography, 47 morbidezza, 163n38 Moses (Michelangelo), 77 Museo Diocesano, Bitonto, 106, 108, 111, 116, 151–52 Nagel, Alexander, 65, 144 Naples, San Genaro, 21 naturalism

as divine artifice quality, 53, 59 lifelikeness of, 76–80 painting techniques for figural, 46, 85–87 of Shroud reproductions, 105, 131 Nicene Creed, 55 Nicodemus, 15, 16, 20, 82, 84 Noyes, Ruth, 139 “Ode in honor della Sacratissima Sindone” (Casoni), 64–65 Olson, Todd, 87 ombra/ombrare/ombreggiare, 44–45, 46, 47 On Holy Icons (Theodore the Studite), 17 Opusculum de Sacrosancto Veronicae Sudario (Grimaldi), 141, 142 “Oration to the Holy Shroud,” from Anatomia sacra (Barralis), 53 Oratorio dei Santi Pietro e Caterina, Savona, 98, 99, 99, 116 Orley, Bernard van, 102 Ormea, Francesco, 71 Ostension of the Shroud of Turin (Danti and Danti), 2, 2 Ostension of the Shroud of Turin (Maillon), 94, 95, 105, 131 Ostension of the Shroud of Turin (Tempesta), 3, 4, 94, 105 ostensions (public exhibitions) civic influence of, 2, 5 decline of, 5, 43, 147, 148 descriptions, 1–5, 2, 4, 9, 43 modern experiences of, 148–49 pilgrim souvenir prints commemorating, 3, 12, 90, 93, 93–94 purpose, 2, 6, 10 religious practices with, 39, 40–41 for Shroud reproductions, 119 text illustrations commemorating, 3, 4, 94, 95 Ostrow, Steven, 136 Pacheco, Francisco, 86 painted reproductions authorship, 98, 102–3, 116 earliest surviving, 97, 98 features added to, 98 function of, 96, 97 geographic dissemination of, 97 inscriptions on, 98–99, 103, 116–18 mediative proximity of, 113–14, 116–19 modern management and perceptions of, 149–50 popularity of, 97–98

Inde x production and style techniques, 106, 107, 108, 109, 111–13 production and stylistic variability, 105–6 production challenges, 103–4 production process descriptions, 96, 98, 101– 3, 105–13 production requirements, 105 in Rome (see Santissimo Sudario) painting as divine artifice, 52–56, 58, 64–66 naturalistic techniques in, 46, 85–87 reproductions and divine artifice associations with, 101–13 resurrection analogies, 80 resurrection imprinting comparisons, 72–73, 75 Paleotti, Alfonso, 12, 98, 127, 128 See also Esplicatione del sacro lenzuolo ove fu involto il signore (Paleotti, A.) Paleotti, Cardinal Gabriele, archbishop of Bologna, 6–7, 19, 30, 39, 98, 126 Panciroli, Ottavio, 125, 127–28, 129, 130, 132 Panigarola, Francesco, 124–25 Parrhasius, 52, 53, 63 Parshall, Peter, 115 passion relics, 3, 25–30, 73–75, 129–30, 145 Paul II (pope), 10 Pauline Chapel (Santa Maria Maggiore), 133–37, 135, 140 Paul V (pope), 143 Pentcheva, Bissera, 86 Pereda, Felipe, 111 Pfeiffer, Heinrich, 142, 172n74 Philip II of Spain, 101–2, 102, 119 photographic negatives, 43–44, 44 Pia, Secondo, 43–44, 44 Pietà (Michelangelo), 54, 77, 82, 85, 87 Pingone, Filiberto. See Sindon Evangelica (Pingone) Politi, Ambrogio Catarino, 39 Poliziano, Angelo, 76 Pon, Lisa, 8 Poor Clare, 28–29 Pordenone, 76 primo bozzo, 45, 46, 47 printed reproductions authenticity declarations on, 114–15 for civic celebrations, 40, 40 mediative proximity of, 113–16 ostension text illustrations, 24, 90, 94, 95, 96, 96, 97, 105, 117 physical contact authentication, 119

as pilgrim souvenirs of ostensions, 12, 90, 93, 93–94, 105 production and divine artifice associations, 99–101 production techniques, 104–5 purpose, 12, 90, 94 scaled measurements on, 115–16 printmaking process, 99–100 processions, 3, 17–18, 126, 150–51 Protestant Church, 11, 18, 21, 55 quarant’ore, 40–41 Quarantotto, Eugenio, 25, 56 quattro libri de la humanità di Cristo, I (Aretino), 29 Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone di N.S. Giesu (Balliani) artifice and painting metaphors, 53 artifice and printing process comparisons, 100 blood stain descriptions, 24 devotional reproduction illustrations in, 94, 96, 115–16, 117, 132 divine artifice and master artist comparisons, 62 imprinting theories, 72, 73 relic status, 18 Rainaldi, Carlo, 121 Rainaldi, Girolamo: Altar Tabernacle of the Virgin, with Targone, 133–37, 135, 140 real presence doctrine, 39, 41 Regalo di Dio alla Real Corona di Savoia (Buonafede) artifice theories, 57, 61 blood as color analogies, 58 reproduction process requirements, 104 Shroud as visual gospel, 25–26 Shroud’s eucharistic qualities, 42 Shroud as resurrection relic, 71–72 relics, overview blood, 21 classification criteria and hierarchy of, 6, 18, 21, 129 display restrictions, 169n9 passion, 3, 25–30, 73–75, 129–30, 145 processions venerating, 3, 17–18, 126, 150–51 public exhibitions of (see ostensions) reproduction popularity, 92–93 reproduction purpose, 90 reproductions and physical contact with, 118– 19, 128 status of, 26

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reliquary frames, 132–33, 134 reliquia, 51 reproductions artists unable to make, 62 Byzantine view of, 144 culture and practice of, 92–93 dissemination and virtual mobility of, 137–38 formats of, overview, 90 functions of, 12, 90, 92, 93, 120, 137 historicized definitions and style descriptions, 113–14 as originals, 140–41, 142–44 papal decrees on, 90 papal prohibitions on unsanctioned, 143–44 risk of, 144 See also painted reproductions; printed reproductions resurrection artistic process associations, 68, 75–80, 85–88 blood stain debates and, 73–74 chapel programs with themes of, 80–85, 87–88 other relics symbolizing, 71 relic veneration and reenactments of, 25 Shroud imprinting during, theories, 4, 21, 67–68, 69, 70, 72–74 Shroud reproduction styles associated with, 132 Shroud theological significance, 70–72 Revelations (Bridget), 29 Revigliasco, San Martino, 37, 38 Risen Christ (Michelangelo), 77–78 ritratto, 114 “Ritratto della Sacra Sindone,” from Ragionamenti della Sacra Sindone di N.S. Giesu (Balliani), 94, 96, 115–16, 117, 132 Road to Calvary, The (Tabachetti and d’Enrico), 33, 34 (detail) Robbia, Luca della, 49 Rome early Shroud iconography in, 2, 122 relic reproductions and papal bulls, 143 sacred topography of, 124–25, 129 Shroud devotional practices in, 125, 126 Shroud reproductions in (see Santissimo Sudario) Rome, Chiesa Nuova (Santa Maria in Vallicella) altarpiece of high altar, 133–34, 136, 136–37, 138–39, 139, 140 altarpiece of Vittrice Chapel, 80–88, 81, 84 Shroud iconography in Vittrice Chapel, 81, 81–84, 83, 87–88, 122, 132

Rome, Gesù, 129, 143 Rome, San Clemente, 125, 130 Rome, Sancta Sanctorum, Lateran, 62, 129, 170n32 Rome, San Giuda Taddeo, 106, 110, 150 Rome, San Ludovico, 121, 126 Rome, San Silvestro in Capite (Campo Marzo), 4, 5, 128, 129, 132–33, 134 Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore, 129, 130, 133–37, 135, 140 Rome, Santa Prassede, 125, 129, 130 Rome, Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi high altar of, 121, 123, 131, 132–33 history of, 121 modern public familiarity with, 150 painted reproductions of Shroud at (see Santissimo Sudario) Rosser, Gervasse, 92 Rubens, Peter Paul Madonna della Vallicella (altarpiece), 133–34, 136, 136–37, 138–39 Madonna della Vallicella (altarpiece with reproduction cover), 138, 139 sacado, 117–18 sacra historia della santissima Sindone, La (Bonafamiglia), 20, 31–32, 71, 101, 125–26 Sacra Sindone componimento, La (Quarantotto), 56 sacred measurements, 116 Sacro Monte, Varallo, 33–36, 36, 86–87, 98 Sainte-Chapelle, Chambéry, 2, 10, 17–18 Saint Gommaire, Lier, 97, 98, 102, 106 Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City, 128, 129, 141, 143 Salus Populi Romani (Virgin and Child icon), 133–38, 135 San Bartolomeo degli Armeni, Genoa, 4, 5, 62, 71, 129 San Carlo, Turin, 26, 27 San Carlo Borromeo in Adoration to the Shroud (Casella and Casella), 26, 27 San Clemente, Rome, 125, 130 Sancta Sanctorum, Lateran, Rome, 62, 129, 170n32 Sandrart, Joachim von: Teutsche Academie, 87 San Francesco, Arquato del Tronto, 118 San Genaro, Naples, 21 San Giuda Taddeo, Rome, 106, 110, 150 San Ludovico, Rome, 121, 126 San Martino, Revigliasco, 37, 38

Inde x San Silvestro in Capite (Campo Marzo), Rome, 4, 5, 128, 129, 132–33, 134 Santa Maria Assunta, Inzago, 98 Santa Maria della Pieve, Cuneo, 106, 109, 116, 150 Santa Maria in Vallicella, Rome. See Rome, Chiesa Nuova (Santa Maria in Vallicella) Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, 129, 130, 133–37, 135, 140 Santa Prassede, Rome, 125, 129, 130 Sant’Ilario, Casale Monferrato, 150 Santissima Annunziata, 62, 97, 113 Santissimo Sudario (reproduction of Shroud) artists and designers of, theory, 121–22 composition and style descriptions, 122, 130–32 display descriptions, 121, 123, 131, 132, 137, 140 display precedents for, 133–40 functions of, 122, 124, 126 guidebooks referencing, 127–29 history of, 125–28 location, 121 modern public familiarity with, 150 nineteenth-century repainting of, 169n4 other relics supporting status of, 124–25, 129–30 physical contact with original, 128 processions with, 126 relationship to original, 140 reproduction dissemination of, 144 status and distinction of, 122, 128, 137, 144–45 as Veronica reproduction model, theory, 142 Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi. See Rome, Santissimo Sudario dei Piemontesi Savona, Oratorio dei Santi Pietro e Caterina, 98, 99, 99, 116 Savoy, House of church patronage, 121 relic collections of, 18 Shroud acquisition and promotional campaign, 6, 10, 18 Shroud display locations, 89, 147 Shroud history text dedications to, 125–26 Shroud official history commissions, 12 Shroud painted reproductions of, 126 Shroud relocation, 1 as Shroud reproduction artists, 103 Shroud reproduction privileges granted by, 103 Shroud reproduction purpose, 97, 102, 122 sbozzatura, 4, 45, 46, 51, 60, 75 scaled measurements, 115–16, 120 Schütze, Sebastian, 85

scorch marks, 3, 10, 131 Scott, John Beldon, 5, 103 Scriptures, 18–19, 20, 68, 130 Secundus, Saint, 18 Segneri, Paolo, 29 sfinga evangelica, La (Crocetti), 56, 58, 72 sfumato, 65, 106 shadow/shading, 44–45, 46, 47 Shroud of Turin as artful relic, 12–14 art historical recognition, 7–8 artifact descriptions, overview, 3, 3 artifice methods, 45–46, 52 artists unable to copy, 61 authenticity debates, 9–12 authenticity strategies, 54 as blood relic, 21 blood stain descriptions, 22, 22–25, 24 burial practices and authentication theories, 18–21 carbon dating of, 9, 148 classification of, 6–7, 16–17, 21, 130 devotional practices, 17–18, 25–30, 27, 30–37, 37, 38 early documentation of, 9 eucharistic associations, 37–42, 83 feast day designation, 2, 10 fire survival, 3, 10, 28, 131, 148 functions of, 1 head, view of, 48 (detail) imprinting theories, 15, 19–21, 67–68, 72, 130 location and display history, 1, 2, 10, 89–90, 91, 147–48 natures of, 15 original function of, 15, 16 as passion icon, 25–30 photographic negatives of, early, 43–44, 44 pictorial style of, 7, 44–51, 52–56, 75 popularity of, 5, 7 as resurrection relic, 70–75 scorch marks, 3, 10, 131 scriptural references to, 18–20 status and prestige, 2, 3, 10, 13, 17–18, 37–39, 51, 54, 56, 83, 148 status decline, 5, 147, 148 treatise on, early, 12 See also blood stains; divine artifice; ostensions; painted reproductions; printed reproductions signatures of artists, 59, 64, 111, 116, 161n78 “simpathia, La” (Tesauro), 24–25, 30–31, 65–66, 71

201

In de x

202

Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica (Solaro) blood relics, 21 blood stain descriptions and theories, 25 divine artifice, 57, 58, 61, 64–65 imprinting process theories, 73, 75 incarnation associations, 55 printed reproductions and mediative proximity, 114 relic hierarchy theories, 18 relics as resurrection authoritative proof, 71 resurrection and blood origin debates, 74 Shroud authentication and burial practice theories, 20–21 Shroud status and devotion level, 39 Sindon Evangelica (Pingone) artifice theories, 45 burial practices and Shroud authentication, 19–20 description and commission, 12 fire damage and survival, 10 ostension engravings in, 94, 95, 105, 131 Sixtus IV (pope), 10, 74 sketches, 44, 45, 46, 47, 51, 60, 75 Sohm, Philip, 50 Solaro, Agaffino. See Sindone evangelica, historica, e theologica (Solaro) Spada, Cardinal Bernardino, 143 Spiritual Exercises (Ignatius), 35 St. Veronica (Mochi), 141, 143 stain (macchia), 45, 46, 47, 50–51 Stoichita, Victor, 111, 138 Strozzi, Pietro: Veil of Veronica copy, 141, 142 Summit, New Jersey, Monastery of Our Lady of the Rosary, 102, 117, 149–50 Tabachetti, Giovanni: Road to Calvary, The, with d’Enrico, 33, 34 (detail) tabernacolo del riposo di Dio, Il (Loffredo), 73 Targone, Pompeo: Altar Tabernacle of the Virgin, with Rainaldi, G., 133–37, 135, 140 Tarquin and Lucretia (Titian), 47, 48 Tasso, Torquato, 71 Tempesta, Antonio: Ostension of the Shroud of Turin, 3, 4, 94, 105 Tesauro, Emanuele, 24–25, 30–31, 65–66, 71, 79 Tesori nascosti nell’alma città di Roma (Panciroli), 125, 127–28, 129, 130, 132 Tesoro celeste in Discorsi morali sopra la S. Sindone (Blancardi), 30, 96 Testa, Giovanni: Verissimo Ritratto del Santissimo Sudario, Il, 93, 93–94, 105, 114, 115 Teutsche Academie (Sandrart), 87

Theodore the Studite, Saint, 17 Thomas, Saint, 28, 70, 87, 88 Tibaldi, Pellegrino, 89 Titian Annunciation, 86 art style descriptions, 47, 49, 76, 86 divine artifice and comparative authority of, 61–62 Tarquin and Lucretia, 47, 48 Titulus Crucis, 116 “Torculus Calcavi Solus, Isai. LXIII,” from Esplicatione (Paleotti, A.), 23–24, 24, 70, 94 Tornioli, Niccolò, 113 Torres de la Alameda (Spain), 117 transubstantiation, 41, 83, 132 Trattato del giubileo dell’Anno Santo (Gracián), 125 Treatise on Relics (Calvin), 11 Turin, San Carlo, 26, 27 Turin Cathedral. See Chapel of the Holy Shroud Turin with Holy Shroud, Corpus Christi, and Patron Saints (Grampin), 40, 40 Urban VIII (pope), 79, 127, 141, 143 Vanni, Francesco: Adoration of the Holy Shroud, attrib., 67, 69, 83, 132 Varallo, Sacro Monte, 33–36, 36, 86–87, 98 Vasari, Giorgio, 49, 51, 76–77, 86 Vatican City, Saint Peter’s Basilica, 128, 129, 141, 143 Veil of St. Veronica, The (Zurbarán), 111, 112 Vercellini, Giacomo Antonio, 63–64, 72 verissimo ritratto, Il (Anonymous), 94, 96, 114, 115 Verissimo Ritratto del Santissimo Sudario, Il (Testa), 93, 93–94, 105, 114, 115 Veronica, Saint, 33, 34, 141, 143 See also Veronica, the Veronica, the (religious artifact) art historical recognition, 7–8 artifact description, 5 artifice theories, 45, 52, 55 classification of, 6, 130 frontispiece illustrations featuring, 4, 5 history of, 140–41, 142–43, 144, 172n74 location and display of, 128, 129, 141 models for reproductions of, 142 original function of, 130 public exhibitions of, 141 reproduction prohibitions, 143–44 reproductions of, 62, 93, 99–100, 111, 112, 113, 141, 142, 143

Inde x status, 140 text descriptions of, 124, 125, 128, 129 vero ritratto del santissimo sudario, Il (Guettus), 94, 95, 115 Vikan, Gary, 144, 154n31 violence, sacred, 25–30, 29 Virgin and Child (Salus Populi Romani), 133– 38, 135 Virgin Mary, 82, 84 visionary encounters, 31–37 Vite (Lives of the Artists) (Vasari), 49, 76–77, 88 Vittorio Amedeo I, Duke of Savoy, 18 Vittorio Amedeo II, Duke of Savoy, 147 Vittrice, Girolamo, 80

Vittrice Chapel, Santa Maria in Vallicella, Rome, 80–88, 81, 83, 84, 122, 133 vivacità (lifelikeness), 76–80 Vocabolario toscano dell’arte del disegno (Baldinucci), 46, 50, 78–79, 86, 113 Wood, Christopher, 144 Wright, Georgia, 164n72 Yolande of Valois, Duchess of Savoy, 10 Zeuxis, 52, 53, 63 Zuccaro, Federico, 60–61 Zurbarán, Francisco de: Veil of St. Veronica, The, 111, 112

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