Joel Nessim

Apotheosis of the Slavs (1926) was painted by the Czech artist Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939). It is the last painting in a series of 20 paintings chronicling the history of the Slavic people from the 6th century onwards. It took Mucha some 20 years to complete this series. The painting consists of four parts, starting with the area on the lower right, painted mostly in blue. It refers to the time that the Slavs were living in their original homeland, worshipping pagan deities. The upper part of the painting is dominated by the color red, showing the most celebrated moments of Slavic history. The area in the center is dominated by yellow and refers to the joys of freedom after World War I, when many Slavic nations became independent from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The final part of the painting is made up of the large figure with his arms spread out, symbolizing that he is finally free from oppression. The painting is full of details and references to Slavic history not discussed here, but a lot has been written about this work online if you are interested.

Anguish (1878) By August Friedrich Schenk (1828–1901) National Gallery of Victoria 59.4x98.9 in “Anguish” (French: Angoisses or Angoisse) is an 1878 oil painting by August Friedrich Schenck. It portrays a distressed mother sheep standing over her dead lamb, encircled by a murder of crows. Schenck’s most renowned painting, “Anguish,” has been housed at the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne, Australia, since 1880. This piece was an early acquisition for the gallery and has twice been voted the most popular among its 75,000 works, in 1906 and 2011. The painting captures a grieving ewe, her breath visible in the cold air, standing over her deceased lamb, from whose mouth a trickle of blood stains the white snow. This scene, evoking a pietà, is surrounded by ominous black crows against a dull grey winter sky, poised to scavenge. The painting’s muted, almost monochromatic palette of white, grey, brown, and black underscores its somber theme. Ted Gott, a senior curator at the National Gallery of Victoria, suggests the work might have been inspired by Charles Darwin’s 1872 book, “The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals,” which posits that emotions have biological origins and that animals share emotions with humans. The painting has also been seen as a commentary on societal cruelty, symbolized by the opportunistic crows. Schenck was born in Glückstadt in Holstein, then part of Denmark and now in Germany, and spent most of his life in France. The painting was exhibited at the Paris Salon in 1878 under its French title “Angoisses,” and in London the following year. It was engraved by Charles Maurand in 1878 for the French periodical L’Art and by Tiburce de Mare in 1879. The painting was bought by the London art dealer Agnew’s and sold to the National Gallery of Victoria, arriving in Australia in 1880. It retains its original gilt frame. Schenck revisited this theme in his c. 1885 painting, “L’Orphelin, souvenir d’Auvergne” (“The Orphan, memory of Auvergne”), now at the Musée d’Orsay, which depicts a lamb standing over its dead mother, with a line of black crows waiting on a wooden fence.

Jesus Transported by a Spirit onto a High Mountain, (1886–1894) By James Tissot (1836–1902) Medium: Opaque watercolor (gouache) over graphite on gray wove paper Brooklyn Museum, European Art Collection 10.4x7.2 in In this haunting watercolor from The Life of Christ, James Tissot captures a moment of divine mystery: Jesus, clad in white, is shown suspended midair, transported by the Spirit into the wilderness, as recounted in the Gospels. The Spirit, elongated, dark, and humanoid, is shown gripping Christ invisibly, guiding him to the high mountain where he will soon face temptation. The eerie silhouette stretches downward with an almost skeletal grace, its toes extended like talons toward the earth. It’s a subtle yet profound visual cue: Jesus is not levitating of his own accord, but being carried, guided by something other. This scene illustrates the biblical moment when Jesus, led by the Spirit, is taken to a high mountain, a prelude to his confrontation with Satan and the trials that test his identity and mission. But rather than depicting the Devil or the temptation itself, Tissot chooses to visualize the transportation, making it surreal and introspective. His use of gouache over graphite on a gray paper background gives the work a dusky, almost dreamlike glow. The sky is a void of indigo and midnight hues, evoking the psychological solitude that precedes trial. The earth is far below, distant and alien. Christ's face is serene, but his body is limp, yielding fully to the Spirit’s will. Tissot, once a fashionable society painter in Paris, experienced a religious awakening in 1885 that radically changed his artistic direction. This painting is one of 350 in his Life of Christ series, all meticulously researched during his travels through Egypt, Syria, and Palestine. Yet despite the historical effort, what we feel here is not archaeology, it’s spiritual unease. The series was lauded by the public, though critics were divided. Some found Tissot’s vision too mystical, too theatrical. Others saw in it something rare: an artist who dared to walk the line between the seen and unseen, between biblical record and personal revelation.

The Destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem (1867) By Francesco Hayez (1791–1882) 183 × 282 cm Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice Francesco Hayez’s The Destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem (1867) captures one of history’s most catastrophic moments—the Roman siege and destruction of the Second Temple in 70 AD. The scene is pure chaos: desperate figures cling to the temple’s walls, bodies lie strewn across the steps, and flames engulf the sacred city as Roman soldiers march through the carnage. At the painting’s center, a group of Roman officials in rich robes and armor—possibly led by Emperor Titus—observe the devastation with a chilling detachment. In contrast, the Jewish people are in utter despair: a man holds up the Menorah, a symbol of Jewish faith and identity, as others flee, fight, or fall to their deaths. Smoke billows into the sky, partially revealing angelic figures—divine witnesses to the destruction, or perhaps a symbol of heaven’s silent judgment. Hayez, known for his Romanticism and historical paintings, does more than depict an ancient tragedy. Painted in the midst of Italy’s unification movement (Risorgimento), this work is also a metaphor for his homeland’s struggle—foreign oppression, lost identity, and the hope for renewal. The temple’s collapse mirrors the fate of nations that lose their sovereignty, a message that would have resonated deeply with 19th-century Italians. The painting’s vast scale and intricate detail immerse the viewer in the horror. Every face tells a story—fear, agony, defiance. The viewer is left with questions: What does survival mean when everything sacred is lost? Is destruction inevitable, or is it the birth of something new? In 1868, Hayez donated this masterpiece to the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice, a fitting gesture from an artist who spent his life chronicling both the past and the struggles of his own time.

The Corpses of the De Witt Brothers (1672–75) By Attributed to Jan de Baen (1633–1702) Rijksmuseum 27.3x22 in Now housed in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the painting captures the gruesome aftermath of the assassination of Johan and Cornelis de Witt, their flayed and mutilated bodies hanging upside down at the Groene Zoodje, an execution site in front of the Gevangenpoort in The Hague. The scene depicts the ultimate humiliation: the nude, butchered corpses of the De Witt brothers put on public display on August 20, 1672. For nearly two decades, Johan de Witt had been the most powerful figure in the Dutch Republic, supported unwaveringly by his brother Cornelis. However, in the disastrous year of 1672—known as the Rampjaar or “Year of Disaster”—the Dutch Republic was invaded by France under Louis XIV. The brothers, blamed for the crisis and despised by supporters of the House of Orange, fell from power. After Cornelis was accused of treason and sentenced to exile, Johan was lured to the Gevangenpoort, where an enraged mob—loyal to the new stadtholder William of Orange—tortured and murdered both men. Their bodies were then ritually desecrated, stripped, and displayed as trophies of vengeance. This painting vividly captures Jan and Cornelis de Witt as they remained on display at eleven o’clock that night. Cornelis, identifiable by his lack of a wig, contrasts with Jan, who retains his natural hair. As the only known painting made from life on the night of August 20, 1672, it holds immense historical and monetary value. Since its acquisition by Alexander Gogel in 1802 for nearly 1,000 guilders, the painting has remained a significant artifact in the Dutch national history collection. Originally part of the National Kunst Galerie in The Hague, its graphic nature led to controversy; Cornelis Sebille Roos initially recommended it be covered with a curtain. Though its attribution was initially questioned, it was soon confirmed as a work of Jan de Baen. Today, it remains a chilling reminder of political vengeance and the volatility of power.

Daniel in the Lions’ Den (1872) Briton Rivière (1840-1920) 98.5 x 152.5 x 12 cm National Museums, Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery, Room 08 In Briton Rivière’s Daniel in the Lions’ Den, we are faced with a scene of eerie stillness and immense psychological weight. The biblical story of Daniel—thrown into a pit of lions for refusing to cease his prayers to God—is well-known, but Rivière’s interpretation moves beyond simple storytelling. Here, the tension is thick, almost suffocating. The lions, powerful and unpredictable, surround the elderly prophet, yet they do not pounce. Some snarl, some seem curious, and others, almost eerily, appear contemplative. And Daniel? His hands are bound behind his back, his head slightly bowed—not in fear, but in patience. The lighting is crucial. A soft, golden light filters from above, illuminating Daniel’s simple dark robe and highlighting the texture of the lions’ fur. The stone walls, inscribed with ancient carvings, loom behind them, reinforcing the feeling of confinement. Bones litter the ground—remnants of previous victims—yet Daniel stands unharmed. Is this the moment before divine intervention, or has it already happened? Rivière was meticulous in his depiction of the lions. Each one has a distinct personality: the lioness crouched in the foreground bares her teeth, her muscles tense as if preparing to strike; the dominant male at the center seems almost regal, his eyes locked onto something beyond our sight. One lion looks at Daniel with a mix of curiosity and hesitation—what is it thinking? Is it confused by his lack of fear? The original painting, housed in the Walker Art Gallery, is notably darker and more subdued in its color palette. Rivière intentionally used dim lighting to create a sense of claustrophobia, with the only illumination coming from an unseen opening above. The version here appears warmer, more saturated, but the fundamental essence remains: a moment suspended between life and death, between faith and fate.