Sick Bacchus, Assignment #8

Neighbors in the Galleria Borghese, the young boy and the sick Bacchus are sinister twins, connected in a complexity of pleasure and sin. I feel their presence as I walk into the room upon my first visit – a bushel of russet curls and a bare shoulder screams Caravaggio’s seductive work, but I cannot help but see the sickly face appear under each layer of paint.

Upon first glance, the boy carrying a basket of fruit is a healthy young boy with a soft complexion: his rosy cheeks emphasize the supple nature of his skin. His eyebrows are thick and perfected – not a single prick of hair falls out from the shapely arches above his large round eyes. His head tilts to the right, his eyes drop to the bottom corner, as if he has just scanned me up and down. Lips are parted with the same lust as Bernini’s Ecstasy and hint a smile of approval, I imagine. He is an image of virility, a strong neck atop rippling muscles teasingly hidden beneath a white linen shirt. But he is painted, in every sense.

All his physical features and supposedly-seductive expression are staged, purposefully obvious though painted in a subtle style. According to Francine Prose, this young man is a ripe peach, who is either anticipating great sex or just had it (or possibly both). His basket is overflowing with rotting fruit – bursting pomegranates and fungus-infested leaves – a clear foil to the boy’s perfection. As I look upon this work, I cannot help but try to peel away the theatricality: take away the livid colors of the fruit – the peachy reds, the palm greens, the deep purples – strip the coats of blush from the skin, dishevel the brunette locks. I search for the reality behind the blatant depiction of fleeting youth; I pull out the guise of forbidden pleasure and before me is the cold chilling stare of the sick Bacchus.

The god of wine travels between the paintings, playing with my terror in mordant amusement. The same dark curls are duller, garnished in a browning wreath. He has pillaged the basket of fruit, now dangling a bruised string of green grapes, which are similar in color to his ghostly skin tone (bilious, as Prose puts it). His previously peachy cheeks are now sunken, which makes his eyes protrude like that of a dying man. His smile is eerie, and I can only feel his invitation to death and disease – perhaps offering a kiss of death. I am terrified of his image; even though he does not stare directly at me I feel as if one of his pupils moves to meet my timid eyes. Every time I look upon his face I cringe at his suffering, and I immediately run away.

Only vaguely remembering the topic of the two paintings, I never related them until I saw the sick Bacchus and began to feel his gaze through all the Caravaggios. Upon my first reading of Francine Prose, I did not ever see the dramatic components – where is this protruding tongue she spoke of? – but upon rereading I realized that I found the same forces of seduction and terror that Prose did, just a bit later.