The Rape of Proserpina by Bernini. When Marble Comes Alive

I’ve been to the Galleria Borghese twice, and both times I found myself standing in front of The Rape of Proserpina far longer than I expected. The first time, I didn’t really know much about Bernini — I’d heard the name before, but it didn’t mean much to me. That changed the moment I saw this sculpture up close. It was only then that I started noticing the details: the way Pluto’s hand presses into Proserpina’s thigh, the twist of their bodies, even the tears on her face. Back home, I looked more closely at the photos I’d taken, zooming in on things I hadn’t seen in person — and that’s when Bernini’s name truly stuck. Since then, I’ve promised myself that next time I’m in Rome, I’ll go back just to see this piece again — and take even more photos.

The Galleria Borghese is one of those places that stays with you — not because it’s large (it isn’t), but because almost every room contains something unforgettable. Housed in a 17th-century villa within the Borghese Gardens, the gallery was originally the private collection of Cardinal Scipione Borghese, an early and enthusiastic patron of Bernini. Today, it holds several of Bernini’s masterpieces — including Apollo and Daphne, David, and The Rape of Proserpina. There’s also an outstanding collection of paintings by Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian. The Rape of Proserpina is displayed in Room IV, also known as the Room of the Emperors.

If you’re curious, I’ve shared more thoughts, tips and photos from the gallery in other entries on this blog (see buttons below).

Gian Lorenzo Bernini was one of the central figures of Baroque art in 17th-century Rome — a sculptor, architect, and all-round creative powerhouse. He worked for both the Catholic Church and secular patrons, including none other than Louis XIV of France.

Bernini was incredibly young when he created The Rape of Proserpina — just 23 years old. The sculpture was commissioned by Cardinal Scipione Borghese, the man who in fact commissioned and assembled the collection that became the Galleria Borghese. It was made between 1621 and 1622, at a time when Bernini was already gaining a reputation for making marble appear soft and alive. The piece became part of his private collection — and remains one of its most impressive works. (Like another one made by 15 years old Bernini.)

The story comes from Roman mythology, adapted from the Greek myth of Persephone and Hades. (The Romans adopted many of the Greek gods and stories, often giving them different names — so Hades becomes Pluto, and Persephone becomes Proserpina.) Proserpina, the daughter of Ceres (goddess of the harvest), is abducted by Pluto, god of the underworld, who falls in love with her and carries her off to be his queen. Her mother’s grief causes the world to go cold and barren — a mythical explanation for the changing of the seasons.

The theme of abduction was often used in Baroque art, not only for its dramatic potential, but also because it allowed artists to explore movement, struggle, contrast, and emotion — all key elements of the style. In Bernini’s hands, the myth becomes something almost painfully real: not just a story, but a moment frozen in motion. And Bernini was a master of using marble to imitate different textures: flesh, fabric, hair, even tears.

One of the most striking things about The Rape of Proserpina is how physical it feels. The sculpture isn’t just dramatic — it’s tactile. Pluto’s fingers press into Proserpina’s thigh with such convincing softness that it’s easy to forget you’re looking at solid stone. Her hand pushes against his face, her hair flies back, her foot twists as she’s lifted — every detail adds to the sense of motion and struggle. There’s even a tear on her cheek (though I didn’t manage to capture it in my photos). Pluto’s body is full of tension — defined muscles, a strong stance, even a vein on his thigh standing out as if pulsing. And then there’s the drapery, barely covering their bodies, adding both modesty and theatrical tension. It clings and flows at once — heightening the drama of the scene.

Nothing is flat or static — the figures spiral upward, locked in movement. From some angles, the sculpture looks as if it might tip over or keep turning. That’s exactly what Baroque art often aimed to do: capture a single moment in all its energy and tension, and make it feel alive. The drama is heightened further by how the sculpture is displayed — raised on a pedestal, so you look up at it. That slight upward gaze gives it even more presence and intensity.

If you walk around the back of the sculpture, you’ll spot Cerberus — the three-headed dog of the underworld — curled behind Pluto’s leg. It’s easy to miss, but it’s a quiet reminder that this isn’t just a struggle between two people, but a story about the boundary between worlds. At the base, partly hidden, lies Pluto’s sceptre — a small but meaningful symbol of his role as ruler of the underworld. It adds a calm note of control beneath the chaos above.

But words can only go so far. Let’s let Bernini speak for himself — below are a few photos of this incredible sculpture taken from different angles.

Even after seeing the Rape of Proserpina twice on site, I still feel like I haven’t fully taken it in. It’s the kind of sculpture that reveals something new each time — a fold, a gesture, a tiny detail you didn’t notice before. Photos can’t replace standing in front of it, but they can help you see more than you did the first time.

The Rape of Proserpina by Bernini. When Marble Comes Alive

Castel del Monte. Geometry, Mystery, and Silence

Despite its remote location, Castel del Monte attracts a steady flow of visitors – drawn not only by its UNESCO status, but also by its unique, almost mathematical design. Perched high on a hill and surrounded by quiet countryside, it feels detached from the everyday world, yet still manages to be surprisingly accessible.

Castel del Monte was commissioned by Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II (1194–1250), a member of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, who reigned as King of Sicily from 1198, King of Germany from 1212, and Holy Roman Emperor from 1220. The Apulia region fell under his direct rule as part of the Kingdom of Sicily, inherited from his mother, Constance of Sicily. It was constructed between 1240 and 1250.

Despite its fortress-like appearance and elevated position, Castel del Monte was not built for military purposes, as it lacks defensive features such as a moat or drawbridge. Its true function remains uncertain, with theories ranging from a hunting lodge or a place of study, to a symbolic expression of imperial power – or even an astronomical observatory.

Castel del Monte on approach

Castel del Monte stands in the Apulia region of south-eastern Italy, within the Alta Murgia National Park. It is located atop a hill 540 metres above sea level, around 20 kilometres from the town of Andria.

We reached Castel del Monte by car. Departing from Bari, the regional capital, we followed the A14 motorway towards Andria and continued along local roads. The drive took just over an hour. At the foot of the hill on which the castle stands, there is a small car park. Although conveniently situated, the parking area is quite limited and can become crowded in peak season. Fortunately, we had no difficulty finding a space, as we visited in mid-November on a misty, drizzling day. From the car park, the ascent to the hilltop is brief and can be done on foot.

Castel del Monte is a masterpiece of medieval architecture, renowned for its strict geometric precision and the harmonious blending of diverse stylistic elements. The core of the structure is a perfect octagon, with eight octagonal towers positioned at each corner. This motif repeats throughout: both floors feature eight rooms arranged around a central octagonal courtyard. Each outer wall is of equal length, and doorways and windows are placed in accordance with a strict axial rhythm, reinforcing the architectural coherence of the whole. The mathematical precision of the layout creates a strong sense of balance and symmetry.

The rooms themselves are architecturally restrained yet refined. The design draws on a mixture of stylistic influences, combining elements of Islamic, Romanesque, and Gothic architecture. Inside, Arab-style pointed arches contrast with classical Greco-Roman tympanums that crown several entrances, while Gothic windows, sculpted from pale limestone and white marble, introduce verticality. The central courtyard, open to the sky, serves both a practical and symbolic role – channelling light into the surrounding roomss while reinforcing the castle’s geometric core.

Today, the interior of Castel del Monte is entirely unfurnished. Visitors are invited to experience the architecture in its purest form – unmediated by decoration or modern reconstruction. The raw stone, the vaulted ceilings, and the spatial rhythm of the layout offer a contemplative, almost a monastic atmosphere.

Frederick II, who commissioned the castle was not only a powerful monarch but also a patron of knowledge. His court was a centre of intellectual exchange, bringing together the scientific, including mathematics and cosmology, and philosophical traditions of the Islamic world, medieval Christianity, and classical antiquity.

Frederick’s fascination with mathematics was reinforced by his association with leading thinkers such as Leonardo of Pisa – better known as Fibonacci. The renowned mathematician, who studied in North Africa, dedicated his Liber quadratorum to the emperor. Other scholars at Frederick’s court, such as Michael Scot and John of Palermo, translated key Arabic texts into Latin, enriching the emperor’s access to advanced ideas in geometry, astronomy, and numerical symbolism.

Although the identity of the architect is unknown, it is widely believed that Frederick himself played a significant role in the conceptualisation of the Castel del Monte. Central to the castle’s design is the number eight. In Christian tradition, the number symbolises regeneration and eternal life; in Islamic architecture, the octagon often mediates between the earthly square and the heavenly circle, reflecting a cosmological balance.

Since its construction in the 1240s, Castel del Monte has undergone several transformations. After Frederick’s death in 1250, it passed into the hands of successive dynasties ruling the Kingdom of Naples. Under Angevin and later Aragonese control, its symbolic imperial role diminished. Over time, it was repurposed – as a hunting lodge, a prison, and a military outpost.

By the 16th and 17th centuries, the castle had fallen into disrepair. Neglected and looted, its fine materials – including columns, marble cladding, and decorative details – were removed or sold. During this period, it also passed into private ownership.

Recognising its cultural significance, the newly unified Italian state acquired the castle in 1876 for 25,000 lire. Restoration work began in 1928 and continued in phases throughout the 20th century. In the 1950s, under the direction of Bruno Malajoli, further interventions helped stabilise the structure and restore elements of its integrity.

In 1996, Castel del Monte was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Today, it is managed by the Italian Ministry of Culture.

While the modern Italian word castello simply means “castle”, the name Castel del Monte uses the older, shortened form castel – and this is no coincidence. Castel is an archaic variant commonly used in the Middle Ages in proper names of places and fortifications. This linguistic form has been preserved in traditional place names such as Castel Gandolfo or Castel San Pietro.

Etymologically, the word derives from the Latin castellum, meaning “fortress” or “stronghold”. The abbreviated form was widely used in medieval geographic naming, much like San is used instead of Santo in the names of saints. Retaining this form in the name of the castle highlights its historical origin and connects it to the linguistic traditions of the time.

Castel del Monte may not overwhelm with grandeur or elaborate exhibitions, but its quiet presence lingers. There’s a sense of order in its geometry, uncertainty in its purpose, and stillness in its setting – a rare combination that makes the visit feel less like ticking off a landmark, and more like stepping into a space designed to make you pause. Geometry, mystery, and silence – it really is all there.

Castel del Monte. Geometry, Mystery, and Silence

Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath. Art, Biography, and the Introspection

The first time I saw this painting was over ten years ago during my first visit to Rome’s Galleria Borghese. Our guide told us that the severed head, dangling lifelessly, was in fact a self-portrait of the artist himself. At the time, I couldn’t quite fathom what must have been going through the painter’s mind to make such a choice. Since then, I’ve grown a bit wiser, partly because I’ve been jotting down notes on this blog – not just recording what I observed or learned on-site but also diving into online research. In the meantime, I also completed a degree in psychology, so fewer things surprise me now. (No, this won’t be a psychology post!)

Anyway, when I returned to the Galleria Borghese last year, I remembered to take a photo of that painting. This time, I was also accompanied by a guide who briefly explained the context of the piece. The painting, titled David with the Head of Goliath, was created by the Italian master Caravaggio. Below is a bit more of an expanded version of what I was told by the guide.

The story of David and Goliath, one of the most iconic tales from the Old Testament. Goliath was a towering warrior from the Philistine army, an enemy of the Israelites, who intimidated the Israelite soldiers daily with his sheer size and strength. For forty days, he taunted them, challenging any one of their men to single combat to decide the battle. But none dared to face him, as he seemed utterly undefeatable. David, a young shepherd and the youngest son in his family, came to the Israelite camp to deliver provisions to his older brothers. Hearing Goliath’s challenge, David was outraged by the giant’s mockery of his people and of their God. Despite his youth and lack of experience in battle, he volunteered to fight Goliath. He was driven by his deep belief that he could succeed with God’s help. Rejecting conventional armour and weapons, which were too heavy for him, David took his shepherd’s sling and selected five smooth stones from a nearby stream. Approaching Goliath with nothing more than his sling and his faith, he struck the giant on the forehead with a single stone. The impact was so precise and forceful that Goliath fell. David approached Goliath and, using the giant’s own sword, severed his head.

Now let us look at Caravaggio’s life and what could have brought him to make this self-portrait. Caravaggio, born Michelangelo Merisi (1571-1610), was an Italian painter renowned for his revolutionary contributions to Baroque art. He was born either in Milan or in the nearby town of Caravaggio, from which his name is derived. At just six years old, Caravaggio faced tragedy when both his father and grandfather died during a plague outbreak, leading to a childhood marked by poverty and hardship. In his teenage years, he was apprenticed to Simone Peterzano, a relatively unknown artist in Milan, where he learned the fundamental techniques of painting. However, at the age of 21, Caravaggio left Milan for Rome, where he quickly gained a reputation not only for his exceptional talent but also for his volatile personality.

Caravaggio’s painting style, characterised by intense realism and the dramatic use of light and shadow soon established him as one of the most sought-after artists of his time. Uniquely, unlike other artists who typically began with preparatory sketches, Caravaggio painted directly onto the canvas, creating his compositions straight from his imagination. But even without formal training in art history, one can easily observe, based on the paintings displayed at the Borghese Gallery (an impressive six out of the 68 recognised paintings), that his works vary significantly in style and subject matter. To understand Caravaggio’s art and the stylistic changes in his work, we must examine his tumultuous life rather than just a change of style due to new artistic inspirations.

Caravaggio’s existence was marked by numerous brawls and frequent run-ins with the law. He was arrested multiple times for various offences, including carrying weapons illegally and assaulting others. In 1606, he killed a man named Ranuccio Tomassoni in a duel. There are several theories regarding the cause of the altercation, ranging from a gambling dispute to a disagreement over a tennis match or a conflict concerning a woman. The confrontation escalated into a violent encounter that ended with Caravaggio fatally wounding Tomassoni by striking his femoral artery. This incident had severe repercussions, as Caravaggio was sentenced to death for murder, forcing him to flee Rome and spend the remaining years of his life as a fugitive. A bounty was placed on his head, effectively allowing anyone to kill him with impunity. Over the following years, he moved between Naples, Malta, and Sicily in an attempt to rebuild his life. He briefly joined the Knights of Malta, but his unruly behaviour continued, leading to his expulsion from the order after he assaulted a senior knight. Caravaggio died in 1610 under mysterious circumstances, possibly due to fever or lead poisoning, while on his way back to Rome seeking a papal pardon.

Caravaggio’s paintings created before his flight from Rome were predominantly commissioned for the city’s churches and private collectors, such as Cardinal Scipione Borghese, who initiated the collection now largely housed at the Galleria Borghese. His works from this period are characterised by clear, dramatic lighting, which he used to enhance the emotional impact and dramatic tension of his scenes. The subjects varied from biblical narratives to portraits and allegorical representations. His paintings were rich in detail and highly realistic, with figures portrayed in strong, direct light. Just, compare the painting of Saint Jerome, I wrote about a few weeks ago that was commissioned by Cardinal Borghese just before Caravaggio fled Rome.

After his flight from Rome, Caravaggio’s art became increasingly sombre. He began to focus more on themes of suffering, death, and penitence. The compositions from this period are characterised by a more restrained use of colour, with darker tones. A prime example is David with the Head of Goliath, in which the face of Goliath bears the features of Caravaggio himself. It’s not only the tones. Also the entire setting is unusually desperate.

The classic symbolism of the story of David and Goliath – good triumphing over evil, faith over brute strength – in fact doesn’t quite align with Caravaggio’s own situation. In his case, portraying his own face as the defeated Goliath suggests a more personal introspection. It is not a celebration of victory over an enemy, but rather an expression of inner conflict, remorse, and reflection on his turbulent life.

Caravaggio’s works fell out of favour in the 18th century, as his aesthetic and style were considered too brutal and lacking in elegance when compared to more classical artists. As a result, his paintings lost popularity, and the artist himself faded into obscurity for many years. It was not until the 20th century, when his technique of chiaroscuro (the contrast of light and shadow) and realistic portrayal of figures drew renewed interest, that his oeuvre was re-evaluated and appreciated once again. Consequently, Caravaggio came to be regarded as one of the most significant precursors of modern painting, influencing many later artists, such as Rembrandt. (I will write soon on twists in his life as well after the recent visit in Rijksmueseum in Amsterdam). Although Rembrandt likely never saw Caravaggio’s paintings in person, he was indirectly influenced by the Italian master’s style through Dutch painters belonging to the Utrecht Caravaggisti school. These artists travelled to Italy, where they drew inspiration from Caravaggio’s dramatic use of light and shadow, incorporating it into their own works and thus transmitting it back to the Netherlands.

The number of paintings attributed to Caravaggio varies widely depending on the source, ranging from 68 to as many as 105. However, this higher figure likely includes not only confirmed authentic works but also pieces attributed to him or copies created by his followers and students. The majority of verified Caravaggio paintings are housed in museums and galleries, and his works are a rarity on the auction market, which further elevates their value. One of the most high-profile recent cases involved the sale of a painting discovered in an attic in France in 2014. Initially, it was set to be auctioned with an estimated price of between €100 million and €150 million. However, it was eventually sold in a private transaction before reaching the auction block. The largest collection of Caravaggio’s paintings is held by the Galleria Borghese in Rome, which owns six of his works, including Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Sick Bacchus, Saint Jerome Writing, and David with the Head of Goliath. In Rome, other notable collections of his works can be found at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica in Palazzo Barberini and the Galleria Corsini. Significant examples of his paintings are also located in Roman churches such as San Luigi dei Francesi, which hosts the cycle of paintings dedicated to Saint Matthew, and Santa Maria del Popolo. Outside Rome, major collections of Caravaggio’s works can be found in Florence (at the Uffizi Gallery and Palazzo Pitti) and Naples (at the Capodimonte Museum), where his later works can be admired. Although most of his paintings are concentrated in Italy, several are housed in museums outside the country, such as the Prado Museum in Madrid (unfortunately there is a strict ban on making photos there) and the National Gallery in London.

Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath. Art, Biography, and the Introspection