Antonio Ciseri was born in Ronco in Italian Switzerland in 1821. He was the son of a decorator. He studied at the Academy in Florence and early won distinction for his portraits. While still young he was made professor in the Academy and for many years he conducted private schools of art in Florence. His historical paintings are nearly all religious and are remarkable for their color and somewhat theatrical composition. He died in Florence in 1891.

"Ecce Homo," or "Behold the Man," is a beautiful and striking picture, worthy to rank with any great historical painting of the last century with regard to technique, truthfulness, and insight. The original was completed shortly before Ciseri's death and is considered his masterpiece. It hangs in the National Gallery of Modern Art in Rome.

No one who has seen the original will ever forget it—the glowing sky, the brilliant Temple, the rich and archaeologically accurate costumes, the "sea of up-turned faces," the dramatic intensity of this moment when the turn of a hand determines the life or death of both the victim and the Jewish nation.

The term "Ecce Homo" usually suggests to our minds the tortured, up-turned face of Christ wearing the crown of thorns. Ciseri shows us Pilate and his prisoner and the mob to whom his words are addressed. Undeniably the scene is well staged. Half the background and more is filled with the mass of the Temple, Egyptian in general motive, to suggest the permanence and dignity of the theocratic institutions on which the Jews prided themselves.

Between it and us rises a column of victory adorned with a spiral band of sculptures like that on Trajan's column in Rome. In the foreground where we are standing, tall pillars of the Roman mode indicate the palatial quality of Pilate's judgment-hall. Other symbols of his power are here. On the left, the bronze eagle of the legionary standard, the plumed bronze helmets of two soldiers of his bodyguard, and not the least the throne chair on its Greek-bordered based, cushioned with a leopard's skin—simple, but indicative of the judicial power of life and death which alone the Roman wielded.

Pilate's dignity is also shadowed by his friends. Note the self-possesion and the power of that Roman patrician behind the chair, by his position and his pose a personal adviser to the chief. By the right-hand pillar stands a dark-haired man with the garb and beard of a philosopher, his roll still in his hand. He will doubtless charm Pilate's leisure by reading and discussing selections from Plato and Cicero and Epicurus. He loses none of his dignity when we learn that it is Ciseri himself.

Beyond the pillar two other Romans, and older and a younger, study intently the passions of the crowd. This is a new experience for one of them at least. Pilate's wife has turned her back on the bloody prisoner and the noisy mob, anxious for her husband and heartily sick of this wretched business, while her maid supports her hand with apparent sympathy. In their faces we see the only spark of feeling for Christ that the picture affords.

The prisoner stands near the balustrade, in full sight of all. He wears the thorns with which the soldiers crowned Him; His back is lacerated with their scourging; His hands are bound with a knotted rope, one end of which His keeper holds, a burly Gaul of gladiator build who also carries the reed with which they smote the King.

Christ is utterly wretched, yet He bears Himself like one who foresees the end and has prepared for it. Pilate, resplendent in royal robes, leans over and presents Him to his subjects. For the moment Pilate subordinates himself, effaces himself by pointing to Christ and addressing the people; his friends likewise efface themselves by giving their attention to the objects of Pilate's thought. There are, therefore, two objects left for us to contemplate, the Man of Sorrows and the mob.

This is the real picture, these two. Over against one another they stand, the silent and bleeding Messiah and the howling crowd that was to constitute His Kingdom! Look at the faces through the balustrade and tell whether citizenship in a kingdom not of this world is for them! Look also at their dignified rulers who have climbed to the roof of their Temple and are undignifiedly waving their arms and hounding the crowd on to cry, "Crucify Him." The moment is big with decision.

A nation's fate is hanging in the balance. But clamor and hatred are tipping the beam, with direst consequences. The nation that rejects its heavenly King in favor of an earthly will ere long reject the earthly also, the white wonder of this Temple will dissolve in Titu's fervant heat, and forever they who would not have this Man rule over them shall be a People of Dispersion, kingless, and homeless, because they knew not the time of their visitation. This is the insight Ciseri gives us—the Jewish nation is sealing its own doom!

©Alberith, 2014