
Lamentation
Two mourners sit with their backs turned to pull us in, and the angels overhead double over. Giotto frescoed it in the Arena Chapel at Padua.

Two mourners sit with their backs turned to pull us in, and the angels overhead double over. Giotto frescoed it in the Arena Chapel at Padua.

Christ is scourged in the middle distance while three men talk in the foreground, indifferent. Nobody has settled who they are or why.

The corner of the stone slab juts out of the picture so the body looks about to be laid down in the room with you.

No crowd, no landscape, nothing but the body against black, with the hair fallen forward to half-cover the face. Made for private prayer.

Christ wears a Jewish prayer shawl while a synagogue burns and refugees flee by boat. Chagall painted it in 1938, watching what was coming.

Three Breton women in white caps kneel at a wooden cross in an autumn field, everything flattened into blocks of color like stained glass.

All seven sacraments happen at once inside one Gothic church, with the Crucifixion looming over the nave to show where they get their power.

The Arno flood of 1966 stripped most of the paint off it, and the ruined cross became the emblem of the whole disaster.

A crush of leering faces fills every inch, and Christ moves through the middle of it with his eyes shut.

This is the largest scene on the back of the Maesta, the Virgin fainting on one side and the crowd arguing on the other.

Soldiers throw dice for Christ's robe on a paved Golgotha. This panel was sawn off an altarpiece by Napoleon's looters and never returned.

Christ turns back toward his mother as she swoons, and legend has it the painting was nearly lost in a shipwreck on its way to Palermo.

El Greco stripped out the crowd and the road and left the face and the embraced wood, a formula he repeated many times for Toledo.

Even the Passion gets Tiepolo's airy color and snapping banners, the whole shoving procession swept upward toward Golgotha as theater.

Behold the man, said Pilate. Titian strips out the crowd and leaves the scourged Christ half-length, close enough to pray to.

Three figures in a shallow dark box, and Caravaggio puts you where the crowd stood, having to decide what to do with him.

Where Cimabue's Christ swings in an elegant curve, Giotto's hangs straight down under his own weight, belly sagging, head on his chest.

Lotto crops the Passion down to one tear-streaked head at the surface, with soldiers' hands coming in from the edges of the frame.

Only the Virgin and Saint John below the cross, and a river winding past a walled town. Early Bellini, carrying feeling in the light.

A soldier drags Christ out through the city gate by his robe, the diagonal of the cross cutting against a bristling line of lances.