"Such a high-minded boy..."

That's what my grandmother says, anyway. I went over to her house on Saturday, at which time she asked me the question, "Well, what have you been doing?" "Working. Reading Chaucer." "Mmm...well, have you eaten today?" Well, it's very grandmotherly of you to ask, grandmother (I thought to myself), and I said, "No way! No time! Chaucer!" which was true; I hadn't eaten. "Oh...such a high-minded boy..." My grandmother, by the way, can be a bit snide, but it's the kind of thing that I find amusing, more often than not. But then, my default reaction is amusement, which I do not associate with high-mindedness. It's the most modern thing about me. Everything else, however, is good and old, except for my body, but that won't tarry too long. So, in honor of old stuff and high minds, let's compare some pictures of St. Matthew, shall we? His is actually my "least favorite" (what a stupid phrase, but I can think of no better) of the Gospels, and yet the symbol we have for his Gospel is the only one that isn't a beast. I must aspire. Let's see some pictures of St. Matthew being inspired.

This is from from the Gospel book of Charlemagne, around 800 AD. He's all trimmed up, and on his face is an expression that is satisfied. I imagine him thinking, "Write a Gospel? Oh yeah. Everybody knows I've got this. I'm the guy with the monster halo, after all." He's literate and considerate, reading over what he has written, resting his arm in the folds of his robe, propping up one of his feet--a scholar without choler. Everything about it is subdued, solid, manly.

And then there's this. It's in the archbishop Ebbo of Reims's Gospels, drawn a little later than the one above, but not much later. The poor man is almost frantic and tense. Look at his wrinkled robes and his buggy eyes like he's been there worrying a while. Look at his hair, so disheveled and crisp. There's an angel in the top right-hand corner reading from a scroll, which is dipping down into St. Matthew's ink horn. He's got pen-to-paper trying to keep up with God. This may sound silly, but his square face and curly blond hair makes me think of a jock in the 70s, like this is someone who isn't usually in this kind of position. No halo.

Caravaggio. Around 1600. Need I say more? No, but I am. The reason this is in black-and-white is because it was in Berlin during WWII when it got bombed to smithereens, so we only have photographs. Horrible, in so many ways. But enough of that. It was actually rejected by the people who commissioned Caravaggio to paint it. Deemed improper. Idiots. St. Matthew is barefooted, and one of his feet is jutting out at us. He is muscular, an Italian working man, hunched, tight--another who is not used to being in this position. He is illiterate, and he looks with shock at what is happening on the page, while the angel, probably unseen by him, is literally (haha) guiding his hand. All three of these are different ways of interpreting inspiration. Just look at the thing.

Caravaggio again, replacing the one above. Compare them.

Well, have fun with that.