The exhibition “Siena: The Rise of Painting, 1300–1350” at the National Gallery in London is a magnificent example of sensual art that celebrates pure love and tenderness—feelings that continue to move the hearts of viewers across the centuries. It is striking that even having left the walls of cathedrals and sanctuaries, these works do not lose their sacredness; on the contrary, they acquire a new language—the language of art—entering into a dialogue with the modern viewer. And in this I see the great achievement of the curators, who have woven together stunning examples of Italian art into a unified narrative. The exhibition features works by outstanding painters of the time—Duccio, Simone Martini, the Lorenzetti brothers—as well as unique examples of textiles, jewellery, sculpture, and decorative art. More than a hundred exhibits created by masters from Siena, Naples, Avignon, and other cities comprise one of the earliest and most refined collections of European art. The selection is subtle and precise: each object contributes to the larger story, helping us immerse ourselves in the beauty of a vanished era.
In the decades preceding the plague of 1350, Siena was a centre of phenomenal artistic flourishing. Although Florence is traditionally considered the cradle of the Renaissance, this exhibition offers a fresh perspective on Siena’s role—from Duccio’s influence on a new generation of painters to the development of narrative altarpieces and the spread of Sienese painting beyond Italy.
The Met / Youtube
Despite the time frame stated in the title, the actual dates of the works extend beyond 1300–1350, encompassing the 13th and 14th centuries. Many of the pieces were first shown last year at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The updated version of the exhibition, having changed slightly, now fills the rooms of the National Gallery in London. Seven galleries filled with golden shimmer, the complex hues of fabrics, and the subtlest of emotions. It is astonishing how different Siena, as presented in these works, is from the Siena of today. Here, the noise of the modern world falls away, and the viewer is immersed in a world of love and inner reflection, into the lives of familiar biblical figures, alive and trembling with emotion. The Madonnas, created by different hands, are filled with real feelings—not even emotions, but their nuances. And the infants as well. There is no standardised gesture or uniform touch: in Duccio’s work, the infant reaches toward his mother’s veil, lifting it to reveal her face—an intimate moment. And then there is “Madonna del Latte” by Ambrogio Lorenzetti: the infant, almost life-sized, gazes out with a piercing, distinctly adult look, and the gentle sorrow vanishes from the Madonna’s face—she has already come to terms with the inevitable and walks the path laid out for her.
WikimediaWikimedia
At the very centre of the exhibition, at the intersection of rooms, stands an incredibly powerful fragment of an altarpiece by Duccio. The altarpiece was dismantled back in the 18th century; the gallery’s collection holds three panels from the lower tier (known as the “predella”), while the remaining parts have been gathered from museums in Italy and the United States. And yet we are presented with a coherent vision. What astounds is how Duccio works with space and perspective (in the sense in which it was understood before the classical era), conveying biblical scenes with a conditional, yet deeply expressive emotional precision: the Temptation of Christ, the victory over the devil (one of my favourite scenes here), the raising of Lazarus, the dialogue with Peter and Andrew. Each scene is worked through in minute detail, full of symbols and endless references to Scripture, and yet remains emotionally touching. These scenes are like poems to be read. It is no coincidence that Duccio’s contemporary was Dante, and the images from the altarpiece echo “The Divine Comedy”. Together, they create the sense that what we see is not allegory, but a lived reality.
The Met / Youtube
I was also deeply impressed by the carefully constructed contrast—paintings alternate with textiles and sculpture, making the overall picture fuller, more understandable, and closer. Thus, quite unexpectedly, the final gallery welcomes the viewer with a work by Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti: we see chalk sketches for an “Annunciation” from the Tuscan church of San Gagliano, in which airy, linear forms reveal the initial idea. And then—a fantastic diptych by Pietro Lorenzetti, “The Virgin and Child and the Dead Christ”. The exhibition ends with a moving and compositionally unusual work by Simone Martini, “Christ Discovered in the Temple” (Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool). The tension in this work is not about inevitable death, but about parental anxiety: Joseph is angry, Mary is depicted as calm—only her hand gesture and the open book speak for her (a rough translation of the text on the book: “Son, why have you treated us so?”), while Christ himself looks sullen, like a moody adolescent. This scene opens a new iconographic narrative, where there is room not only for canonical events, but also for living human feelings. And what a reverse side this work has! But I’ll leave that intrigue for those who choose to follow this small pilgrim path through art. I advise walking it slowly, thoughtfully, looking closely, reading deeply, listening carefully. I would allow no less than an hour for attentive viewing.
Google Cultural Institute / Wikimedia
As I looked at these icons, diptychs, frescoes, canvases, and jewels—all these beauties of the 13th–14th centuries—I couldn’t help thinking: why is it that we, people of the 21st century, with all our technology and speed, so rarely create such pure, sincere beauty? Beauty without provocation, without subtext, without inscriptions or manifestos. Beauty that speaks of love and makes us smile. Must we, to be heard, only shock, shout, protest? I was happy to realise that, when we look at classical beauty, we are still capable of feeling. For me, this exhibition is not so much about religion or medieval Italy, but about love, tenderness, sincerity. Yes, the fates of the protagonists are tragic, and we know how the story ends—but how subtly the artists could feel! And how masterfully they captured a baby’s touch, the Madonna’s soft smile—and how deeply it can still move the heart of a 21st-century person. So perhaps we still know how to feel. Or at least remember what it was like.
