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A painting of a miracle that's nothing less than a miracle

Great Works, In Focus • #189 A painting of a miracle that's nothing less than a miracle In its raw artistic power, Duccio's 'The Raising of Lazarus' connects to Aretha Franklin's own storytelling masterpiece six centuries later. Expand the image Click to zoom in Column by Sebastian Smee March 27, 2025 4 min Duccio di Buoninsegna was the radical, poetic artist who guided a group of other artists working in Siena, Italy, in the 14th century. As the recent Siena exhibition in New York so beautifully demonstrated, these artists helped redefine Western painting for centuries to come. None of these Sienese artists survived the Black Death. But Duccio had meanwhile breathed new life into painting. He 'opened up a door through which others could pass,' as Hisham Matar wrote in 'A Month in Siena.' 'The Raising of Lazarus,' one of the great treasures at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, was painted — patiently, and with unmatched delicacy and fluidity — in egg tempera and gold in 1310-1311. Originally, it formed part of a giant altarpiece known as the Maestà for the high altar of Siena Cathedral. This small panel was positioned near the base, or predella, the last in a sequence of images showing scenes from the Passion before Christ's entry into Jerusalem. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement A born storyteller, Duccio was acutely alert to nuances of emotion. He wanted to depict biblical history as though it were a contemporary event. That may be why, when I see 'The Raising of Lazarus,' I can't help but think of another artist who told this story — not in paint but in song. In 1972, Aretha Franklin performed 'Mary, Don't You Weep' with a gospel choir at the New Temple Missionary Baptist Church in Los Angeles. 'We're going to review the story of two sisters called Mary and Martha,' she sang, her matter-of-factness oddly reminiscent of Duccio's. 'They had a brother named Lazarus.' Franklin sings of how Lazarus, a follower of Jesus, had died while Jesus was away. Drowning in grief, Mary ran to Jesus, saying: ''Master. My sweet Lord.'' In the song, Franklin repeats the word 'my' 10 times, oscillating back and forth between two gasping notes. ''If you had've been here,'' she sings, ''my brother wouldn't have died.'' Sobered up by this terrible accusation, the song briefly reverts to a quieter mode: 'Jesus said: 'Come on and show me. Show me where you buried him. Show me where you laid him down.'' But the high drama returns when Jesus is brought before the tomb of Lazarus. (This is the part of the story Duccio painted.) Ventriloquizing Jesus, Franklin sings 'Lazarus' three times. Before the second, she launches into a high-pitched hum: ''Mm-mm, Lazarus!'' For the third, she hits an astonishing high note, almost a scream — 'LA-ZARUS!' What follows is one of the most powerful musical moments I know. The choir pursues this third 'Lazarus' with two undulating, sirenlike notes that echo Mary's earlier anguish ('My my, my my …') and that instantly conjure the moment's spookiness, the sheer unlikely power of what Jesus has just done. You may consider it a stretch, but what Franklin and her church choir did in 1972 is exactly what Duccio was doing 660 years earlier. Notice the man removing the lid of the upright sarcophagus. (Underpainting suggests Duccio originally painted it horizontal.) Then look at the man in the yellow cloak, covering his nose and mouth. Is it a simple gesture of shock? Or is he protecting himself from the foul smell of Lazarus, who has been dead four days? Unlike the rest of the gathered crowd, Mary and Martha are focused not on Lazarus but on Jesus. This unites them with their brother, who has just opened his uncomprehending eyes. The moment is too fraught and uncanny for anything so saccharine as happiness. Lazarus's body is still tightly wrapped in its shroud. A moment ago — gah! — he was dead. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Like Franklin, Duccio used color, gesture, composition, character and a crowded chorus of concerned onlookers to bring the story, and Lazarus, to life. I use that phrase deliberately, because I suspect its implications go to the heart of why we have art. We are mortal. Vulnerable in our mortality, we love. For the same reason, we are always losing what we love. Helplessly, we accuse the world — as Mary accused Jesus — of being complicit in our mounting losses. Art is there to do, in a sense, what Jesus did to Lazarus, and what Duccio and Franklin did to their art forms: to open up a door, to recoup the losses, with stories, song and images. To bring what we love back to life.