Welcome back to the inside of my brain!

And this time it’s all about darkness, beauty, and a very bearded lady.

I have a thing for old paintings - the kind that mix biblical cruelty with unspeakable beauty. You know, the type that makes you wonder why you’re fascinated and a bit disturbed at the same time. Enter Jusepe de Ribera, the Spanish master of shadows and brutality, obsessed with Caravaggio.

First time I noticed him years ago in Madrid, Prado. I stumbled upon his iconic piece: Magdalena Ventura with Her Husband and Son (The Bearded Woman) - yes, you read that right. A monumental woman (sic!) with a beard, magnificent, weird, and totally unbothered. A bold statement about identity and human nature, centuries before anyone started debating it. Painted in 1631, commissioned by the Duke of Alcalá himself, because who wouldn’t want a massive portrait of a bearded woman on their wall?

Ventura was 52 when Ribera painted her with a beard she’d started growing at 37. She was Italian, from Abruzzi, and her beard was probably her main source of income. Honestly, it’s longer and more impressive than her husband’s (in the back) carefully trimmed one. And the fact that she’s just standing there, nursing her kid like it’s the most normal thing in the world? Total statement. Strength, defiance, and “I dare you to look away” energy.

Fast forward to Petit Palais, Paris. I’m back at it - staring at this bearded queen again, feeling like we’re kindred spirits in our shared confusion about what’s considered beautiful. Around her, more Riberas - all soaked in light and shadow, brutality and grace.

One piece that left me completely hypnotized? Venus and Adonis. Painted in 1637, it captures the tragic climax of the myth: Adonis, the breathtakingly beautiful youth loved by Venus, lies dying after a wild boar attack. Venus, all divine agony and fury, reaches out towards him - the drama is pure gold.

He's perfect. Flawless. So delicate and beautiful I couldn’t stop staring. I wanted to reach out, run my fingers over the paint, trace the softness of his skin. But of course, the one thing you can’t do is touch it. Museums, ruining romance since forever.

And then you look away from Adonis, and suddenly you’re surrounded. The saints, the martyrs, the decapitated and the doomed. Saint Sebastian pierced and pale. Saint Bartholomew with his skin peeled like some grotesque fashion statement. The head of John the Baptist served up on a platter. David brandishing Goliath’s severed head like a trophy.

All the stories, all the cruel imagination - details so surrealistic and realistic at the same time, it’s hard to tell if you’re fascinated or horrified. Maybe both. And maybe that’s exactly the point.

And then - the details. Ribeira had a thing for shiny fingernails. I don't know why but I couldn’t stop looking at them.

And the sketches - oh my. There’s one with a man wearing another man on his head. Just like that.

Another one - a pair of ears and a bat, casually existing together. Surreal and bizarre, and I am completely hooked.

So here I am, back in my studio, obsessing over Christian martyrs like they’re the new pop icons. Sainthood, but make it punk.

Bisou bisou, Jo

Ribera. Ténèbres et lumière, Petit Palais Paris, 5.11.2024 - 23.02.2025

Photos: Joanna Gniady