The Descent from the Cross

If there were an award for the "Ultimate Tearjerker" of the 15th century, Rogier van der Weyden’s The Descent from the Cross in the Prado Museum would undoubtedly sweep the Oscars. This altarpiece isn’t an early experimental oil painting; it represents the absolute zenith of the Early Netherlandish Renaissance. When the painting was brought to Spain, it was said that even hard-hearted French kings and Spanish friars were unable to hold back their tears.

The true spectacle here is not the cross, but the ten figures squeezed into an extremely shallow, wooden box-like space. Look closely at the Virgin Mary (the woman in the blue robe fainting). Her body’s posture is almost identical to that of Jesus, who has just been taken down—her left arm droops, her body collapsing limply. In theology, this is called "Compassio" (co-suffering). Van der Weyden uses this incredibly precise parallel composition to equate a mother’s piercing grief of losing a son entirely with the physical suffering and death of the Savior.

Move your gaze to the very bottom of the painting and zoom in on the red dress of the woman catching the fainting Mary, or the edge of the headdress of the weeping woman beside her. In the 1430s, painters were just beginning to master the new, somewhat "beta-tested" technology of "oil painting." Because oil paint dries very slowly, Van der Weyden was able to miraculously paint all the textures of the real world: the gold thread embroidery so opulent it looks like it could prick your finger, teardrops as transparent as cicada wings, and even the breathtaking realism of every glint of light in the folds of the fabric.

In the late Middle Ages, the shadow of the Black Death and ceaseless wars gave Europeans a deeply etched understanding of "suffering." This painting was commissioned by a highly powerful archers’ guild at the time. To please his wealthy patrons, Van der Weyden even ingeniously painted the curved shapes of Jesus’ and Mary’s bodies into the form of two invisible "bows." In an era where death was a constant shadow, people did not need an ethereal, god-like Savior; they needed a corpse that bled and lost body heat just like them—a hyper-realistic eulogy onto which they could pin their extreme earthly sorrows.

The fate of this painting was also extremely tumultuous. Initially hanging in a church in Leuven, it became so famous that it was purchased by a notorious art fanatic and ruler of the time, Mary of Austria. Legend has it that the ship carrying the painting suffered a severe shipwreck on its way to Spain, yet miraculously survived with the painting suffering no major damage. Eventually, King Philip II claimed it for himself, loving it so much that he ordered artisans to create an exact replica just in case anything happened to the original.

If you close your eyes, can you hear the rustle of fabric as John, in red, gently catches Mary, and the low sobbing of the woman wiping her tears on the far right?