Andrea del Sarto – The Last Supper

Andrea del Sarto’s painting of the Last Supper is sometimes unfavourably compared to Leonardo’s but the first thing to note is that it is so much better preserved than da Vinci’s, its imagery still largely intact, its particular fresco composition proving to be much more stable over the centuries since its creation. The second is that even an aesthetic comparison is invidious. In my view, the del Sarto work, while less histrionic and more restrained than the older rendition in Milan, is a masterpiece just as worthy of acclaim for its treatment of that foundational episode of Christian sacramental belief, the Eucharist, and of Jesus’ chilling divination of perfidy by one of those present: ‘truly I tell you, one of you will betray me—one who is eating with me.’

Andrea del Sarto, The Last Supper, 1526-27, fresco, Museo del Cenacolo di Andrea del Sarto, Florence

According to each of the gospels, Jesus took bread and broke it and shared it among his disciples saying, ‘this is my body’ and then after taking a cup of wine he added ‘this is my blood’, words which when repeated to this day denote real transubstantiation for Roman Catholics during Mass and spiritual presence for Protestants partaking of Holy Communion. The event itself happened during the Jewish celebration of Passover, so depictions often look like The Seder, a feast at which unleavened bread and other special foods are eaten. Like the Leonardo work which del Sarto certainly knew, the figures here are gathered not on either side of the dining table, but along one side of it, affording us an unobscured view of each one and theatrically dramatizing their different responses to these highly charged events.

There is something that feels quite democratic and communitarian in this painting. While Jesus sits in the middle, centre stage as it were, his disciples are like a band of bothers on either side, bound by a common cause albeit with a turncoat hidden among them. Our viewpoint is further away than in the Leonardo, and the painting’s positioning on the wall is more elevated. This distance paradoxically makes it both more proportionally human and our observance of it more reverential. It also renders it more tableau-like, the horizontal sequence having a symmetry and visual alignment that speaks of inclusion and poignant fellowship. At a basic level, the characters here are seen sharing a meal, eating from off the same tablecloth, a white cover which binds them into visual parity and solidarity and below which we can see their bare feet pointing this way and that in such a relatable way. The disciples are depicted as if plainly accepting the corporeal humanity of Christ while dichotomously also conscious of his divinity.

 Jesus turns his head towards John the Evangelist who looks a little feminine in pale blue and with his wavy hair, as he leans in towards his Lord who in turn has placed his hand over the other’s on the table, as if to reassure him that he knows him not to be traitor. Meanwhile, to Jesus’ immediate right we see a dark-haired Judas, his head in profile as he places his own hand over his heart as though saying, ‘surely you can’t think it is me that would denounce you’, enacting the performative over-defensiveness of the guilty as he is offered a piece of bread – the gesture which incriminated by fulfilling the prophesy. In these three figures, Jesus, John and Judas, del Sarto has encapsulated the narrative with consummate, elliptical economy at the very centre of the work.

I like the figure of Peter, also wearing pale blue, painted as is traditional, as an older man, his silver-grey hair and beard lending him an undemonstrative wisdom and dignity. Sitting next to Judas, he has turned to attend closely to the words and gestures of Jesus and somewhat self-effacingly does little more to respond. He is famously the ‘rock’ upon which the church was built, and the colour of his robes provides a visual link to John who shares in its symbolism of heavenly serenity. By contrast, Jesus wears the blood-red crimson of love and martyrdom. Judas’ clothing sounds a discordant note in this harmonic pairing. Scholars have identified its combination of green, turquoise and orange as suggestive of shantung silk, iridescent material which changed colour depending on the viewpoint and therefore similarly denoting its wearer’s moral dubiety.

Del Sarto creates more excitement to the scene by showing figures further left and right of Jesus having risen to their feet, their passions demonstrably roused while others are depicted with their heads turned away. The painting achieves spontaneity and rhythmic dynamism as a result, a sense of momentousness that has shaken the group, jolting them to display shock, distress, disappointment, anger, shame and yes guilt, on their faces. These are painted not as stock, idealized saints but as real people whose reflex deportment feels authentic to us too.

Meanwhile, up above the dining hall and paying scant regard to the goings on below them, we see two servants standing in the loggia style gallery and behind them, a purple-clouded sky. Their appearance seems casual, almost disrespectful. The one wearing orange has been looking below but has now just twisted towards his companion who has turned his back while carrying away a tray and looking over his shoulder, ready to depart. It reads as if they are exchanging words but whether these are about the scene they have witnessed or something more personal between them, we cannot say. But the effect is to add plausibility to the narrative. The fact that the action has been observed not only by the sanctified apostles at table but also by ordinary people like them is like an independent verification of its occasion. These attendants might not have appreciated the magnitude or significance of what has just occurred, but their presence tells us that it was not a dream or a vision, but reality. This sideshow is performed as del Sarto’s brilliant grace note of banality appended to the hallowed (but distinctly halo-less) proceedings in front of us, a reminder too that we should all take heed of the sacramental in our lives and never overlook it.

The painting also plays with the tension between the turbulent human emotions on display, albeit balanced compositionally between left and right sides, and the formal, quiet equilibrium of the architecture. I am struck in particular by the large orange octagons of the floor. On the one hand, these give the illusion of spatial depth, painted as they are in strict perspective, making the whole scene thereby even more believable and guiding the viewer’s eye to the important focal point of the painting. On the other hand, this particular polygon shape would have been recognised by contemporary viewers as symbolic of the day after the seven days of creation, and therefore of a new, spiritual dimension. Also, geometrically speaking, the octagon reconciles a circle (standing for eternity) and a square (with four worldly directional faces). Jesus as God incarnate straddles these realms and is pictured here sitting directly on top of its symbolic shape.

Because of its fame, and as with many blockbuster art exhibitions these days, to see Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper you need to pre-book a slot, with tickets sometimes selling out months in advance. You then need to arrive 30 minutes before your appointed time for ‘security’ and then spend another 10 minutes in line after all of which you are granted a max 15-minute audience with the work. I wouldn’t disagree that it is well worth the trouble but by contrast, you can see the del Sarto work at the Museum of the Cenacolo of San Salvi in Florence without waiting at all.  It is a shame how much the mythologising hype of one artist’s masterpiece eclipses another’s interpretation and results in its unjust relative neglect.