Tomb of Alexander VII

If you wander deep into the right aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, a scene will suddenly stop you cold—not a ghost, but more unsettling than one. A translucent deep-red marble curtain cascades from above; at its hem, an entirely gilded skeleton, clutching an hourglass, is squeezing through a doorway and hurtling toward the Pope kneeling high above. This is Bernini’s work at 79 years old—and Western art history’s most naked, most merciless act of bringing Death onto a public stage.

The tomb’s composition reads in three tiers: at the top, Pope Alexander VII himself, kneeling with clasped hands in prayer, his marble robes clean and dignified; in the middle, four female allegorical figures representing Charity, Truth, Justice, and Prudence, lifting the entire scene like clouds; and at the very bottom, the doorway—an actually existing architectural door leading to the basilica’s crypt. Bernini didn’t work around it; he incorporated it, making the skeleton emerge precisely from this “real door to the underground.” For the first time, the boundary between life and death was marked by a work of art this concretely, this physically.

The hourglass the skeleton holds has nearly run out. It’s aimed directly at the Pope above—like a silent judge executing the final verdict with the simplest possible prop: time’s up. This iconographic motif is called “Memento Mori” in Western art—Latin for “remember that you must die.” It was one of the most popular themes in medieval and Renaissance art. But among all Memento Mori imagery, none has dared to be this direct—a skeleton in a pope’s tomb, holding a nearly empty hourglass, bearing down on the pope. No packaging. No buffer.

Bernini and Alexander VII were deep collaborators—this Pope commissioned him for the famous colonnades of St. Peter’s Square, among many others. Alexander VII died in 1667; eleven years later, in 1678, Bernini—nearing 80—completed this tomb. It is the only work in his entire career that he finished when he himself clearly knew death was approaching; in some sense, he was also writing his own answer to the question. Two years later, in 1680, Bernini died at 81. The skeleton’s hourglass ran out then, too.

This work is easily missed—it’s hidden in the shadows of the basilica’s deepest right aisle, incomparable in visibility to the carefully lit main altar. But if you find it—the skeleton crouched in the gap of the doorway—you’ll have a strange feeling: it was always there, waiting for you.

ArtBuddy Interactive Challenge: Dare to look directly at the golden skeleton crawling out of the door? Check the hourglass in its hand—do you think the sand is half full, or are there only a few grains left?