She sees her in the final room of the hall – a space few visitors reach, overwhelmed, by then, by the flamboyant colours, the impatient elbows, by the spectacle. The painting hangs in the corner. The lighting is dim, as if the organizers had become weary of the whole panoply… or were deliberately trying to hide it. And the work is not big… not like the Rubens or the Lippi, who shout ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ (Size matters to some men, in paintings, as in everything). But there is no doubt. A woman.
Of course, there has been the Madonna – what else would there be in this exhibition devoted to the Adoration? Madonna and child, haloed, illuminated, drawing the eye and the gasps of the onlookers. Mother, after mother, after mother. And an occasional nun. A procession of female martyrs, once… some of the eleven thousand, depicted in Lochner’s altarpiece. All seeming to say ‘this is ‘woman’, this is what a woman must be’. All a woman can be.
But, otherwise, it has been all men. Until now.
This, too, is a conventional scene, from medieval and Renaissance art. Joseph, on the left, then Mary, with baby Jesus on her lap, while the three magi gather round, bearing their gifts.
There is some activity in the background, but it is hard to tell what – riders, soldiers, perhaps? It is irrelevant. It is the tableau that matters, the youngest of the three ‘kings’ who matters… to her.
For here, finally, is a female magus; a sage, a seer. One who covets knowledge, surveying the heavens, the earth; who travels the lands, in the pursuit of that learning; one who belongs to a superior caste…while belonging to no-one.
Staring up at the picture, she studies the youthful face, noting the delicate bone structure, the cupid’s lips, set in rounded cheeks; the pallor and smoothness of the skin. She sees the way the combed hair curls under, at the shoulder, the arched eyebrows, the length of the neck. Such feminine features… Yes, she is sure, and is glad.
No!
The voice starts up again – the voice that accompanied her, as she trailed from room to room, telling her the story of those three kings, of their depiction in art, of the inherent symbolism.
So much symbolism in it all! ‘The visual art of each age reflects the dynamics of the society prevalent at that specific time’. Explaining how there were few ‘facts’ to work from… how it was not even certain that there were three wise men. But ‘three gifts were mentioned in Matthew, and there were three established continents in the world, Europe, Asia and Africa, with their three root races. Hence, the appearance of a Black Magus from early on. And life-span is often divided into three – the old, the middle-aged, the young…’
… the young.
The voice whispering in her ear tells her about this youngest magus, now. The voice, inserting itself into her head, trying to twist her thoughts in another direction from where they want to go, away from her own conviction. A male voice, speaking in even tones, as he has done all morning. On and on and on. Blah, blah, blah. Speaking with total confidence, with authority – well, he is gallery’s expert on the subject, according to the catalogue – not a hint of uncertainty in what he pronounces. And ‘pronouncements’ are what they always are. Declarations. Not possibilities. No ‘maybe it could be this’ or ‘perhaps we can see it another way’. Declaring that the third king, the youngest king, is just that – a young man, personifying the early stage of adult life, as opposed to the old magus, and the middle-aged. ‘A familiar grouping, similar to many we have encountered in previous paintings. A typical representation, with the oldest, closest to Jesus, with his grey hair, long grey beard and wrinkled brow. Above him stands the magus in the prime of life – shorter beard, thicker brown locks. And, on the right of the group, the youngest. We can tell he is young, because he has no facial hair…’ And here he – it, the voice – laughs, actually laughs, a strange noise to jump from the headphones into her ears, making her jump, before continuing his proclaiming. ‘And yes, he has feminine traits about him, which causes some to think that he is a woman, but that is incorrect. All the magi were men – could have been no other, in biblical, historical or artistic interpretation.’
This, again. She has heard it before. She has been told it by her professor, in the same kind of voice as the expert who is speaking to her, through cushioned, plastic discs. The speech of another who believes he knows it all (he is the Professor of Art and Art History in a top university! He has published papers and books on the subject!). Words that resonated from the front of the lecture hall, or across the table in tutorials – or from his notes on her phone, that she has scrolled through all morning. There has never been any room for debate in his classes – there was no debate the day they studied the Lorenzo Monaco painting. As soon as it was put up on the screen, all the girls in the class starting whispering to each other, all saying the same thing – that the youngest magus was a woman. On that occasion, it wasn’t just the face, circled by her braided hair – it was everything about her. The shape of her body, echoed by her dress, the smock gathered beneath her breasts, then flowing down. The style and colour of her garments. Her hands… the delicacy of those hands…
…their hands, going up, then, all waiting, wanting to voice their thoughts – she among them, keen, as ever. Keen, particularly, because she had done some research into the subject, and had learnt that there was compelling evidence for the existence of female magi, from several reputable sources.
There was a laugh, then, too. Another man’s laugh. Professor Cole’s laugh, knowing what they were thinking, ready to deliver his punch line… actually saying those words: ‘I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong. Monaco was a monk, and a monk would never include a female magus. He could never entertain the idea of one – because, of course, there were none!’
A muffled buzz on her phone. A message, flashing across the professor’s notes. James. Another man breaking into her thoughts, demanding her attention, as he always does. They are supposed to be meeting for lunch. He wants her to come NOW. He has found the perfect place to eat. ‘See you in 10!’ Again, there is to be no discussion. He assumes she will do as he says.
And, of course, she should be grateful to him. She wouldn’t be in Cologne, if it wasn’t for him. She had told him about the exhibition in the Cathedral, celebrating the Magi. (How strange, she thinks, that the relics, the remains of the three kings ended up here! Or so they believe… the believers believe). And she had told him how relevant these paintings were to her course, how they were studying the Adoration at the moment; it is a subject she wants to pursue. It wasn’t a hint; it had just been conversation. But she hadn’t been surprised when he suggested they flew here for the weekend. It was the sort of thing he did. Kindness, she should think. Except… more and more, she feels these gestures are meant as a display of his wealth, of his … power. A way of telling her ‘this is how your life could be if you marry me’. Because, lately, he has mentioned marriage several times. And children. Another more important conversation they should have… Perhaps she shouldn’t have said ‘yes’ to his invitation. But here she is.
And it is her turn to laugh, now, as the voice in her ears drones on, and James texts again. And again (because she has not replied straight away. He always likes her to reply straight away). And her professor’s notes reel onto another page. She laughs, because, at this moment, it is as if she has three ‘wise’ men in her life. Or, at least, men who think they are wise – certainly more knowledgeable than her. And she laughs, because they, by some strange chance, share the iconography of the magi. Her professor, the older man, with his grey hair and beard; James, close to middle-age; and the voice… he is a young man, from the way he speaks and from the photo in the catalogue.
Yet if he is young, surely he knows ‘youth’ doesn’t look like the third magus. And she thinks, again, ‘this is a woman’… just as all the female students thought it that day, looking at the Monaco picture.
She pushes her phone deep into her bag and removes the headphones from her ears.
She is still the only one in this room, and she is glad. She wants to look at the painting in more detail, without interruptions from wise men, or crowds.
She sees what she had seen, before – the face of the youngest, with its maidenly features. But there is another anomaly attracting her attention – all the figures are looking at the Christ child, except for this one. His mother, Mary, his father, Joseph, the middle king – these are gazing down, in Adoration, while the oldest king, who is on his knees, fixes his eyes above him, also in Adoration. For that is what it is about.
Yet the woman magus (yes, she will call her that!) is looking… where? Upward… where? At the roof of the building (the stable)? Beyond that… the sky, the star in it? Perhaps.
True, this is not unique (in a few paintings, one of the magi may be interacting with something else happening in the scene). But it is unusual. And it is curious that the woman seems to be averting her gaze, away from the Madonna and babe… as if she simply doesn’t want to see them.
Why would this young woman not want to look? What has happened to her
Adoration? They are the reason for her journey… why she has travelled so far, in difficult circumstances, while bearing such a valuable gift… to pay homage, to honour them. She is supposed to be filled with wonder at the sight of the mother and child… and yet she stares at the sky.
Could it be that she doesn’t want to accept the glory of this maternity, because she doesn’t want to allow it in any maternity? In her society, this is all a woman is supposed to be – a mother. This is what she should be, like her own mother before her, like her sisters, like all her female relatives, her friends. And she has worked so hard to be ‘other’. She has left her family, she has spent so many, many hours in study, she has had to disguise herself in a man’s clothing to travel freely – indeed, she has had to pretend she is a man! And yet here it is again, paraded before her again – the miracle of motherhood, the baby to be worshipped. Before she set out, she had failed to understand how confronting this image would be… how the power of it would not be denied or ignored. But, for a moment, at least, she has to look away.
Is this what the painter was trying to say? But how could a painter of that time imagine this, and want to express it in that distant gaze?
It is then that she realises she doesn’t know who the artist is. The ‘voice’ hasn’t mentioned a name, neither has her professor in his notes. Who painted this strange ‘Adoration’?
She looks at the card on the wall, at the side of the work. Anonymous. Or… a Master of Glasgow, because that is where the work is usually held. Or… possibly… Johannes Hispanus … or… maybe not. An artist who could be anyone…
‘If they call me anything, they will call me ‘Johannes’. An easy change – Johanna to Johannes – because they cannot believe that I may be a woman. And my surname will be the country I come from, or have lived in… where I painted most. But, yes, perhaps, they will not go that far. Perhaps I shall be nameless, anonymous. ‘Anonymous’, yes! They will pick according to their reckoning, their scholarship, their ‘wisdom’. All of which will state that ‘it cannot be a woman who painted this… who painted any picture. Women cannot do that. They cannot study, they cannot travel to learn from the masters. More to the point, they cannot create. They do not have the imagination nor the discipline for that’.
It is the same with the magi. The magi must be men. Wise men. Learned, rich, well-travelled men. Kings, even. But not a woman, never that.
And so I put her in there. I put ‘me’ in there. Yes! I painted her, to mirror me… or like enough. The same hair, the same eyes, the same lips. A gesture, I thought. A nod to my sex. True, I dressed her in clothing suited to the times, similar to the garb of the second magus, but that was not so different from what I myself did, as I travelled about. It was easier – easier, as in more practical; easier, to avoid … to avoid many things. Complications…
Still, I knew how it would be, when they saw my painting. ‘They’ being those who judged these things, the masters, the rich patrons, who wanted such works to hang on their walls… who – some among them – would require their own faces to feature in the artist’s impression! The Church elders. The Patriarchy. All wise men, who thought they knew everything, who decided what should feature in a painting of the Adoration. Deciding on three kings, though the Bible does not say so. Choosing the names of those kings – Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar. Deciding on their age – old, middle-aged, young. Deciding where they came from… so that, at some point, a Black magus should be including, as befitting those distant lands.
But not a female magus. No. The woman can only be the mother, the Madonna. The only one of any significance. Gaze upon her and her child, and worship at her feet!
Perhaps that was why my magus looks away. Perhaps that is why I painted her staring upwards, and not at Mary and the babe. Strange, but it happened almost without my knowledge. It was only after I had put my brush down, and stood back, that I realised what I had done, by which time it was too late to change it. And, indeed, I found I had no desire to do so. For it was ‘me’, again, – more symbolism, depicting how I was… quite different from the symbolism of the arbiters of art. It stood for how I had been, since I was grown. Never wanting to dangle the babes of my older sisters on my knee, and ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at them. With no desire to marry young, and have children of my own. Always looking away from the domestic scene, constantly paraded in front of me. I wanted to do nothing other than go out into the world and paint. Art was the only thing I wanted to worship. My own Adoration.
What will the wise men of art say about the young magus’s unorthodox gaze… if they notice, which they surely will? It is their purpose to scrutinise each piece, for both merit and meaning – and for its adherence to their conventions. They will not allow it to be a look of evasion, of that I am certain… to ignore the Madonna and child cannot be permitted! So, instead, ‘he’ will be looking at something else. The star, perhaps, thanking it silently for leading them here. Or… God? Perhaps ‘he’ is praising God in his Heaven for allowing this wondrous event to come to pass. And yes, ‘the artist has chosen to capture this look – a momentary look, before he turns his gaze back to the only subject worthy of veneration on this Earth’.
Perhaps… or not. It is not always easy to predict what such men will decide.
Yet I could imagine their comments about my third magus, my youngest, the semblance of my ‘self’, a portrait of ‘me’! They would say that some young men could have such an appearance – indeed, this was a way to portray them… what an artist must do. The clear skin, the lack of facial hair signified youth – together with shorter hair, because hair grew with the years, until the opposite, its loss, took place. And fine features, before the sun and the flesh took their toll. The bloom of youth! Here it was! Nothing else!
Yes, this is what they will assert about my Adoration – a declaration, brooking no denial, in the same manner as their assertions that the artist is a man. And they will say it about any other work, where the young magus has the countenance of a woman. Down, on, through the years. Until… maybe… maybe… sometime in the future, a far future, a wise woman will look at my painting, and know.’
… or no-one. Anonymous. Still… perhaps. Just as she is sure the young magus is a woman, couldn’t the artist be a woman, too – copying her own face, her own perspective on life, in the picture?
A position that reflects her own.
For she realises she hasn’t enjoyed this exhibition, where there have been no female artists represented (well, her ‘wise men’ would say, there were none at that time, which, again, is not strictly true.) And she hasn’t enjoyed looking at painting after painting full of men, except for a mother and baby, stealing the show. Endlessly adored. Like her imagined Johanna, it is not what she wants in her art or her life.
With one last look at the painting, she heads back into the other rooms of the exhibition hall, through the crowds who continue to gaze in awe at the Adoration. As she leaves, she tosses the headphones back into their basket, and the catalogue into the bin. And she deletes her professor’s notes from her phone.
James has messaged again, and again, because she didn’t go to meet him, at the time he suggested. She’s not going to go. She’s going to walk along the Rhine, instead. And think.
She wants to think about changing her course, to another university, another professor – there is one she knows of, with a woman chair. And she must plan that conversation with James, which won’t be easy, but it has to be done.
And, most of all, she wants to think about a painting. Not the Adoration that she has just seen – Johanna’s, she has decided – but one that is taking shape in her mind. A painting with not just one female magi, but three. One she will paint herself. Will sign for herself, in bold letters. So there will be no doubt.
About the author
Diana Powell is an award-winning writer of short fiction. Her stories have featured in a number of competitions, including the 2022 Bristol Prize (winner), the 2020 Society of Authors ALCS Tom-Gallon Award (runner-up) and the 2019 ChipLit Prize (winner). Her work has also appeared in a number of anthologies and journals, such as ‘Best (British) Short Stories 2020’.
Longer work includes, most recently, a novel, ‘things found on the mountain’, (Seren Books) and a novella, ‘The Sisters of Cynvael’, which won the 2022 Cinnamon Literature Award, and was published by the Press, last year.
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