LIVING WITH CARAVAGGIO

I walked with some hesitation into number 621 of the Old Masters rooms at The Met. Then suddenly, over the teeming crowd, I saw it. Not unlike Proust and his madeleines, I was instantly taken back to my childhood. Would anyone have believed me if I’d announced that I had grown up with this famous painting, created by the most maddening and controversial of artists?

As I finally made my way to the museum’s imposing wall, there it was, close enough to touch: “The Denial of Saint Peter,” by Caravaggio. Some 50 years evaporated as I saw myself and my two younger sisters scampering around our home in Milan, where this very painting hung over our fireplace. We knew it meant something important to others, but for little girls, the dark depiction of Peter denying Jesus, the woman denouncing him, the Roman soldier in his elaborate dark armor ready to arrest him, was something that nightmares are made of.

It belonged to my mother’s eldest sister, Elena, who left Naples to live with us. A beauty who greatly resembled Ava Gardner, this generous, passionate woman was a collector of Neapolitan Caravaggeschi from the seventeenth century. But when she moved to Milan, she took with her only “The Denial,” painted in 1610 by Caravaggio, whose real name was Michaelangeo Merisi. At least she believed it was painted by him.

Many of the art historians in those days were not so sure. My sisters and I were often sternly invited to “disappear,” as our home became the stage of multiple appearances of experts from around the world. This drama, of sorts, went on for years, with different actors taking on the roles of those who supposedly knew a work of genius from a fake.

But my aunt was as stubborn as she was beautiful, and finally found the courage to take a train to Florence to meet with il professore, Roberto Longhi, considered the ultimate Caravaggio scholar. “Professore,” she demanded, “until you write, black on white, that my painting is by Caravaggio, I won’t leave your house.” The following day, she returned to Milan, her face transformed. Not only was it determined that “The Denial of Saint Peter” was indeed painted by Caravaggio, it was said to be one of his last two works.

In her later years, my aunt did finally part with the masterwork, selling it to a Dutch and a German dealer. Eventually, it was purchased by American collectors and found its final resting place at the Met. That is where, right now, “Peter” and the other final work, “The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula,” have been placed together in a show curated by Keith Christiansen, chairman of the Department of European Paintings. As with every exhibit with the name Caravaggio attached, the lines are long.

So little is known of the man who was rebellious at best, a murderer at worst. Also, his sexuality has been debated for centuries, so observers are always seeking clues. What I do know is that the presence of even only two works allows us to appreciate an artist who so powerfully brought the people from the streets into the canvas.

For me, I expect nothing. (Though I wouldn’t mind if Helen Mirren offered to play my role.) No, as I stand in front of this masterpiece, which was so much a part of my upbringing, I feel inordinately grateful to once again remember living with Caravaggio.

Fiamma Arditi has written on the art scene for Italy’s La Stampa for 20 years.