Strange Christ: Part 1
An Introduction to this Strange Christ series
In the fall and winter of 2023, I embarked on a research project inspired by deep reflection on the diverse images of Christ represented throughout history, modern art, and pop culture, called Strange Christ: The Beauty and Peril of Christ in Modern Art. I was curious why the most common reaction when encountering an image of Christ existed on a spectrum of reverence and indignation. I began to wonder if these mixed feelings are rooted in the desire to manage self-constructed notions of an ideal image of Christ, determining what is or is not acceptable for representing Jesus Christ. When presented with an unconventional Christ, like a Black or Latino Christ, or a Christ effigy submerged in a case of urine (more on that one later), uncomfortable feelings seem to disrupt any possible message of the work. First century Christians implored that the image of Christ should not be represented in or associated with art, for he was too holy to be recreated by the hand of a man. In modern and contemporary art, both religious and irreligious artists reimagine the image of Christ in their work, and their unconventional interpretations are considered to be controversial, hostile, or sacrilegious. Somehow, these representations feel wrong, but who determined which image of Christ is right?
In this four-part series, Strange Christ, I explore where the feeling of ownership over the image of Christ originates from, and why unconventional and strange images of Christ cause such discomfort. Through research of the Early Church, analyses of art depicting the image of Christ, and shared insights of religious sister and art historian Wendy Beckett, this series converges at the cross section of theology and art history. It sifts through the centuries of art critics who attempted to define idealized beauty, and it concludes in Part 4 with art critic Charles Baudelaire who humbly confessed, “the beautiful is always strange.” The often-overlooked truth that exists within these controversial images of Christ is that in their strangeness, they more accurately represent the Gospel and the beauty of a deeply diverse God.
Black Christ
In 2005, after reading about the Darfur genocides, Italian-born performance artist and photographer Vanessa Beecroft embarked on a trip to southern Sudan. While there, Beecroft visited a Catholic mission which inspired her to create a series of photographs depicting Christ and the Holy Family. In White Madonna with Twins (fig. 1), Beecroft photographs herself breastfeeding two orphaned Sudanese infants, and in Black Christ (fig. 2) a Sudanese man she befriended, Paul, postures on the floor as Christ crucified. Beecroft’s photographs join the increasing number of modern art images that have created great controversy and world-wide attention due to their unconventional depictions of Christ and Christian iconography. Unconventional interpretations of Christ—whether they be a Black or Latino Christ, an effigy of Christ submerged in urine, or a sculpture of Christ pierced with thousands of metal wire hangers—are perceived to be blasphemous representations. But who is uncomfortable with these representations that they feel that they must call them blasphemous? What is the origin of this sense of ownership and discomfort? The discomfort experienced when viewing these works challenges perceptions of an “ideal” Jesus constructed by a complex history of ideal beauty and taste. This creates an internal struggle considering what is acceptable and unacceptable when it comes to the image of Christ. These uncomfortable feelings implore us to travel deeper and encounter the reality of the gospel of Christ. The discomfort that these modern artists create with their alternative representations of Christ is the ideal posture for the viewer to experience truth about God and themselves. This points the viewer towards seeing versus perceiving truth, and in response calls for humility to accept what desires to be heard.
Figure 1. Vanessa Beecroft, White Madonna with Twins, 2006
Figure 2. Vanessa Beecroft, Black Christ, 2006
The image of Christ has been reproduced for centuries since he walked this earth over two thousand years ago. Renaissance artists were consumed by images of Christ or scenes of the Crucifixion. Independent scholar Laetitia Barber observes that in the twenty-first century, Christ’s image still holds “a universal, trans-religious experience of holiness.” In response to the $450.3 million dollar sale of Leonardo Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi (fig. 3) in 2017, Barber continues to observe how “isn’t it curious that, in our century of image oversaturation, one small portrait can move people to such an extent?” The image of Christ has a power that is inexplicable, and depending on the audience which beholds it, it can bring feelings of comfort or discomfort. Out of all the possible people and postures the artist could recreate, there was something intangibly powerful which captivated Beecroft to choose the posture of Christ.
Figure 3. Leonardo Da Vinci, Salvator Mundi, 1499-1510
The young man depicted in Beecroft’s Black Christ (fig. 2) lays on the cement floor of the Sudanese cathedral. His body is centered by cracks on the floor which form perpendicular lines that seem to radiate from his core, as if the weight of his body created the cracks that stretch away and off the edge of the image. His dark skin is a silver-black, the brown and red hues seem to have been drained from his body, and this dark, nearly black form contrasts with the bright white garment worn around his groin and the light tan cement floor surrounding his body. His head is turned towards his left hand, both arms outstretched and slightly bent at the elbow, and his torso twists slightly as both of his legs are bent and follow his gaze. The entire posture is reminiscent of the historical images of a crucified Jesus on the cross. The difference between Paul in Beecroft’s photo and Jesus on the cross in other works of art is the absence of suffering. Paul’s skin is smooth, with no scars, open wounds, or nails in his hands or feet. He appears to be healthy and restful, and not in anguish or dying. The artist uses the cracks in the cement to draw the eye from the four corners of the photograph to the center, where the young man’s body lay, much like how the four lines of the wooden cross draw the eye towards Christ’s head in traditional images of the crucifixion. The Sudanese young man’s gaze in Black Christ is not on the viewer; he looks away, but not in shame or sorrow. There is a confident surrendering created by his posture, as his chin is lifted slightly and his gaze neutral, his body lay open and vulnerable. It is this posture of openness which Christ also took on the cross, this posture of surrender, interwoven with vulnerability, giving of oneself to others without resistance. In an interview for Museo Magazine, Vanessa Beecroft shares how as a teenager she was influenced greatly by the 1964 film by Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Gospel According to Saint Matthew (fig. 4).
“I was moved by his classical realism, the use of characters from the street who maintain their everyday appearance while being transported into a symbolic dimension. That is dialectical, and it redefines notions that we have of history, religion, myth, and the people in the street creating an image that is apparently neorealist but charged by a destabilizing power. It demystifies history, religion, and class without sarcasm or criticism; it humanizes what is usually presented to us as inhuman. There is empathy in his work, sometimes paternalism.”
Figure 4. Pier Paolo Pasolini’s The Gospel According to Saint Matthew (still frame), 1964
Pasolini’s Christ was portrayed by Spanish professor of literature, Enrique Irazoqui, who challenged the belief that Christ had blue eyes and blonde hair. Beecroft expressed that Pasolini’s imagining of Christ is both “complex and revolutionary.” To see Christ portrayed like the average man creates an uncomfortable duplexity, inviting the viewer to lean in and expand their beliefs.
Pier Paolo Pasolini’s The Gospel According to Saint Matthew (still frame), 1964
Piss Christ
In 1987, Andres Serrano submerged an effigy of Christ in his own urine, receiving criticism for this perceived sacrilegious representation. In this image, Piss Christ (fig. 5), Christ’s face is obscured, but his form and the cross seem to glow in a hazy red orange hue with a light source shining down on his head from above. Serrano placed a familiar, comforting, and sacred object into urine, a substance considered to be one of the most offensive bodily fluids. Most societies consider urine to be insulting. For example, when someone urinates on an object it communicates their disrespect or dislike for it. In British slang, piss off is a vulgar way of dismissing someone, angrily telling them to go away. The term pisser is defined as “an annoying or disappointing event, or an unpleasant person who causes difficulties.” In titling his work Piss Christ, Serrano brings together these cultural connotations of urine with the image of Christ. In Piss Christ, a symbol of cultural discomfort envelopes the perceived comforting image of Christ. The most popular reaction to Piss Christ is disgust, which is also the easiest reaction, often followed by a desire to call it blasphemous and deem it as another instance of the godlessness of our current times. However, these reactions are based solely on two things; the viewer’s previous cultural connotations of how urine is meant as an insult, and on their unidentified desire to protect the perceived image of Christ. At this stage in the evolution of a modern art viewer, the deeper meaning of Piss Christ has been missed.
Figure 5. Andres Serrano, Piss Christ, 1987
According to British religious sister and art historian Wendy Beckett, Serrano’s Piss Christ is low hanging fruit on the topic of comfortability and the image of Christ, since it is easy for someone to call it blasphemous and walk away from it unchanged in their judgement and supposition. Sister Wendy explains that in this hasty initial response, Piss Christ is merely a depiction of what we are doing to Christ, a portrayal of our failure to treat him with reverence. She believes that we must lean into the discomfort to extract the deeper truth of this work of art. In a video interview with journalist and political commentator Bill Moyers, Sister Wendy shares how art, either religious in nature or irreligious, celebrates God’s creation. In the latter portion of this video, Moyers questions Sister Wendy on a statement she had made concerning the greatest gift to artists in the twentieth century is freedom, unbound by rules. Moyers asks Sister Wendy if this freedom is what has gone wrong in the twentieth century, and that this “loss of boundaries, principles of life, tradition, and convention” have muddied both the quality of art and our relationship with God. Sister Wendy explains that this is not her experience, and that these concepts are not mutually exclusive, since she herself finds freedom within boundaries. Within the convention of religious order, Sister Wendy finds freedom to go deeper into her understanding of Christ. For Serrano, Piss Christ employs a freedom that conveys a deeper understanding of our conventional relationship with Christ. In conversation with Moyers, Sister Wendy confessed she was not offended when she encountered Piss Christ. She found the popular reaction of blasphemy existed within the realm of comfort, as she states:
“I think comforting art is art that is very easy to react to…everybody knows exactly what they think about it.…they are not challenged in the slightest. 90% of them think it’s blasphemous, and a few like me think, well, it might not be. Everyone thinks it’s so nice to know I’m right; there exists an instant satisfaction of feeling that I know I can judge this without having to look and take trouble. I just know because it’s so obvious, that is comforting…you see…real art makes demands.”
Sister Wendy Beckett, Neville Elder/Corbis via Getty Images
Art which makes us uncomfortable demands more from us to take a second look and linger longer to see what may emerge after the initial reaction. In a desire to avoid having to understand or interpret Christ’s message due to its difficulty, the public has reduced Christ to something more simple, cleaner, and pleasant. Over time, Christ has been whitewashed, cleaned off, and polished to a shine. It is hard to imagine this clean Christ spitting in his hand and mixing it with dirt to heal a blind man, or even sweating drops of blood as he prayed fervently in the Garden of Gethsemane. It is even harder to accept that Jesus urinated, which is the main reason that makes Piss Christ so appalling in the public arena. Our negative association with urine contributes to our inability to accept a reproduced image of Christ submerged in urine.
In the book Who’s Afraid of Modern Art? contemporary art historian Daniel A. Siedell recognizes that the world we live in is one of “bodily fluids such as blood, milk, semen, urine, and feces, which disgust us but are the very means by which our lives emerge and are sustained.” The struggle to face the humanity of Christ exists because if the son of God had the same disgusting body as our own and was capable of urinating, eating with his mouth open, defecating, or sweating blood, then how could we feel like we had a chance at acceptance and unconditional love considering all our human shortcomings? If Christ was the chosen son of God, yet lived a life humble enough to be immersed in the mud and the mire, then what do we have that is bigger and better than us to strive towards? What do we live for if our God is just as human as us? According to Siedell, these thoughts and realizations are what scare us about our existence, and modern art interrupts our constructed realities to present us with the unsavory truth of our own humanity and that of Christ.