The Ghent Altarpiece A Reassessment of the Original Work and its Meaning James David Audlin From the upcoming third edition of The Gospel of John Restored and Translated, to be published in seven or eight volumes by Editores Volcán Barú. The author is grateful to “Lasting Support, An Interdisciplinary Research Project to Assess the Structural Condition of the Ghent Altarpiece” which, at its website (legacy.closertovaneyck.be/#home), kindly allows the use of images in scholarly publications. T he justly renowned Ghent altarpiece completed by Jan van Eyck in 1432 has been the eye of the storm in several scholarly debates. One is its authorship, the traditional answer, based on a controversial quatrain that was appended to the lower wooden frame of the work’s exterior, sees Jan’s elder brother Huybrecht as beginning the work, which was then continued after Huybrecht died by his less-talented sibling Jan. But Lotte Brand Philip (The Ghent Altarpiece and the Art of Jan van Eyck) convinces me that the Latin quatrain describes Huybrecht as not the pictor (painter) of the work but rather its factor, its sculptor, in that he prepared the architectural setting in which the altarpiece was to be displayed, and that Jan prepared the painted altarpiece entirely by himself. Another major argument is the identity of the central figure in the upper register, generally considered to be either God the Father, the trinity, or Jesus. I will come to that question, but first I wish to focus on the woman to the viewer’s left, who it is generally agreed is the Virgin Mary. She is reading from a book, perhaps the gospel that she inspired; if this were the Virgin, she would be posed identically but holding the infant Christ instead. This Mary is young, with long flowing red hair with waves in it that suggest it had been braided, a color of hair that is a sure indication of the younger Mary. On the other hand, she is in the final painting clad almost entirely in blue, both her outer mantle and the tunic beneath it, and this color of garment most often associated with Mary the mother. But note that though her right sleeve is bright red, nothing else shows of whatever red garment she was wearing. Adding to the oddity, it appears that the mantle is draped over this sleeve, but the bit of patterned hem cannot be rationally connected with the rest of the mantle: it is obviously an addition to try to explain the red garment as under all of the blue. However a look at the underpainting, especially in the blackand-white reflectographic image, makes it clear that the tunic was a very different color from the mantle, and since the greyscale shade of the tunic is identical to that of the sleeve it seems a reasonable conclusion that it was red. And whatever color the mantle was at first, it could not have been the deep rich blue of the final painting, since its greyscale tone is far too light; I would guess that it was another shade of red. If I am right, then clothing in these hues would again point to the wife Mary as the identity of the subject. In addition I note that these vestments constitute a richly ornate bridal gown, evoking associations with the wedding in Cana and the marriage of the Lamb and the Bride in the conclusion of the Revelation. Her head is adorned with a sumptuous crown. The Master of Flemalle, a contemporary of van Eyck now generally identified as Robert Campin, painted just such a crown in his Betrothal of the Virgin, displayed in the Prado. A number of artistic works show the younger Mary in just such a crown as this, though without the flowers and stars. The design seems quite a lot like one style of Jewish wedding crown, and that may have been intentional, perhaps imagining the crown that Jesus’s bride wears in John 2. Indeed the artist could well have seen such bridal crowns during his probable sojourn in the Holy Land. This crown is adorned with: First, roses and lilies, calling to mind the only Biblical verse to mention both, Song 2:1, in which Solomon’s beloved exclaims Ego flos campi et lilium convallium (“I am the rose of the fields and the lily of the valleys”). There are also columbines, whose name comes from the Latin word for “dove”, because the flower is thought to resemble a group of doves; the dove of course also brings Mary the wife to mind, because of the dove at the immersion. Specifically these columbines are the winecolored aquilegia atrata species, the second word of which refers to someone clothed in black for mourning. I am certain that these flowers were carefully chosen to give identity clues to those who knew how to look for them. Second, twelve precious stones of which seven are visible (both numbers being sacred), evoking the ‫( חשן‬ḥšn), the breastplate of the high priest that Mary-and-Jesus wears when meeting with the disciples after the resurrection and again in Revelation 1:13 (see page Rv1_13t16affD), but most of all of the heavenly city that descends from the skies/heavens in Revelation 21:1-3 “like a bride adorned for her husband”: note that this city-bride is said in Revelation 21:18-21 to be surrounded by a wall which has the same twelve stones in its foundation and pearls for its gates, an account that also describes this crown. Note too that there are rays painted around her head, as there are around the two other portraits in this register. Such rays hearken back to Moses being in the presence of God (Exodus 34:29 and 35; see page ###D for the proper translation), and indeed God is often described as emitting rays of light Numbers 6:24-26 and several Psalms, including 4:6, 31:16, 67:12, and 80:3), and also Jesus at the transfiguration (Mark 9:2-8 and cognates) and as he walked through the storm at night (John 6:19 and cognates), and the resurrected messiah, Jesus-and-Mary, as, together with God, the lamp of the new Jerusalem (Revelation 21:23b). With such connotations we must assume that Mary here is being in some way associated with God; I will return to this matter, but my view is that she and Jesus, in the outer panels in this register, unite in the central panel to recreate the first human being made by Elohim in Elohim’s image and likeness. And third, twelve stars whose irregular configuration is obviously a star chart. There was not yet a good star chart available in Europe, the first one being the 1440 Vienna Manuscript (MS 5415), so either van Eyck records here his own observations or else he saw an Arabic or Greek planisphere during his travels in behalf of Philip the Good. In any case, this arrangement instantly reminds me of the lower half of the Corona Berenices, the cluster of stars that surmounts the head of Virgo, whose appearance in Revelation 12:1 puts Mary in the glory of the sun as does van Eyck; this verse is associated with the resurrection (see page ###), and the rest of the chapter goes on to recount much of Mary the wife’s life thereafter. In an arc of gold over her head this inscription appears: ̅R ̅ SPECIOSIOR SOLE + SVP OE ̅M STELLARV ̅ DISPOSICOE ̅ LVCI OPATA IV ̅ EIT ̅ V PO HEC E ̅ DOR E ̅E ̅IM LVCIS ETERNE + SPEC̅LM ̅ SN ̅ MACL̅A DI MA[IESTATIS]. CA She is more beautiful than the sun; + she surpasses all of the constellations of the stars, she is more radiant than eternal light; + the unblemished mirror of God’s ma[jesty]. Taken from Sirach 7:29 and 26a, these lines describe Wisdom, the wisdom with which Elohim brought the universe into being in Genesis 1, God’s companion and co-creator according to Proverbs 8. And Mary, as the Paraclete, sent to remind the disciples of everything Jesus had taught them, is in effect Jesus’s wisdom, and his companion and co-creator. The reference to light is reminiscent of how the androgynous first human was made from the light that Elohim made in Genesis 1:3, and the mirroring of God’s majesty of course evokes the fact that that individual was made in the image and likeness of Elohim. In addition, if this figure is indeed the older Mary, then it is for the second time that she appears – since when the wings of this gigantic altarpiece are closed upon its interior another set of portraits appears, one of which is without doubt the mother, since she is shown in the moment that the angel Gabriel is announcing to her that she is pregnant with Jesus (Luke 1:26-38). Though the two figures have the same long wavy red hair and more or less the same facial features (evidently the same model served for both), the artist has given the exterior Mary green eyes and brows in high thin curves, unlike the interior Mary’s brown eyes and lower and more pronounced brows; she also appears plumper with a more pronounced chin, and is pronouncedly stoop-shouldered, all quite unlike the broad-shouldered interior Mary; and she is wearing a simple tiara and a virgin’s white cape rather than the ornate crown and elegant wedding gown of the interior Mary. While the same model probably posed for both, the artist has evidently taken pains to portray differently two women who happen to have the same name, Mary. These clues are intensified in a slightly later painting by Jan van Eyck of the annunciation to Mary, from between 1434 and 1436, thought to be part of another triptych altarpiece the rest of which has been since lost. Jesus’s prospective mother is rather plain-looking, with a long face wearing an unsmiling expression, and dressed entirely in the traditional blue. On the other hand, Gabriel is dressed in exquisitely rendered brocades and rainbow-hued wings, with a bright smile illuminating a very pretty face. Art historians say it was traditional to make the mother rather plain in appearance to avoid making her sexually attractive to the viewer, but Gabriel, they add, being a sexless angel, did not require such treatment. Still, there is no question that this Gabriel not only is beautiful but seems to be overtly female – and that requires a closer look. Gabriel’s rich vestments are predominately red, the color traditionally worn by Mary Magdalene in Mediæval works. The hair is auburn red, styled with lovely long curls, quite like the hair of the Mary in the Ghent altarpiece interior triptych (whom I believe to be Jesus’s wife); the mother Mary has thin locks of uncombed brown hair. The angel’s eyes are brown, as with those of the Ghent interior Mary, while the betrothed wife of Joseph has the green eyes of the exterior Mary, who is unquestionably Jesus’s mother. And Gabriel wears a sumptuous jewelstudded golden crown, surely fit for a king or queen, while Mary has but a simple circlet not even made of gold – this is strange because angels rarely if ever were painted with crowns at all, let alone such an obviously royal tiara, while in the Ghent Mary the wife and the united androgyne Christ in its center panel do have comparably ornate crowns. These matters raise the question whether the same woman was chosen to model for Gabriel who had posed for that interior Mary in the Ghent – as I compare the two sets of features I conclude that they are identical. That raises another question, whether van Eyck intended the viewer who was wise to the truth about Jesus’s wife occluded by organized Christianity to realize that this angel Gabriel is being closely associated with Mary Jesus’s bride. ̅̅̅̅ PLENA, which abbreviates the Gabriel’s greeting to Mary is written AVE G𝑅𝐴 angel’s salutation in Luke 1:28, Ave gratia plena, “Hail, full of grace!” And Mary’s reply, also provided, is ECCE ANCILLA D𝑁̅I, Ecce ancilla Domini, “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord”, in verse 38. This Mary’s response is universally assumed to be selfreferential – “Behold in me the handmaiden of the Lord” – but I see no reason to discount the possibility that van Eyck, as always loading up his canvases with an abundance of symbol pointing to the original faith in Jesus-and-Mary, is instead suggesting that each figure is speaking of the other: that just as Gabriel speaks of Mary as “full of grace”, Mary calls Gabriel, or perhaps really the Magdalene, “the handmaiden of the Lord”. The outermost wings of the main register of the Ghent altarpiece, past a pair of images of virgins playing instruments and singing, are occupied by Adam and Eve, the forerunners of Jesus and Mary. The physical appearances of Eve and Mary are quite the same – the same cloud of long red hair, the same facial features, and no attempt that I can see to differentiate the two as was done with the two Marys – and I cannot help but think that this was intended. I believe that the viewer was meant to see Mary as the “new Eve”; and while in the much later dogma this was transferred either to the mother or to “the Church”, the “new Eve” in the Apostolic tradition was indeed the younger Mary. One could argue that in van Eyck’s time and place he would have had to adhere to the dogma and present this Mary as the older woman or else “the Church” but, with everything about this image pointing to the Magdalene, I cannot agree. Danny Praet notes in The Ghent Altarpiece (ed. by Praet and Maximiliaan P. J. Martens; footnote 64 on page 347), that this altarpiece was unveiled for the birth of Joos, second son of Philip the Good, duke of Burgundy, which is significant because an ancestor, Girart comte de Roussillon, was unable to produce a child, but according to the Legenda Aurea Mary Magdalene miraculously intervened to save the Burgundian line, and he managed to produce an heir in 771. In gratitude Girart founded the basilica of Sainte-Madeleine at Vézelay, which claimed to hold some of Mary’s remains until it was supplanted by its rival at Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume. If I am right, despite the lack in this work of the customary identifying detail of the alabaster jar of ointment, that this is Mary the wife rather than Mary the mother, then whence would Jan van Eyck have derived such a radical notion? Duke Philip the Good sent him abroad on some kind of secret mission between 1426 and 1429, and Till-Holger Borchert (Van Eyck) and Lotte Brand Philip (op. cit.) theorize that it was to the Holy Land, given the obsession of Philip the Good, van Eyck’s patron, with managing a crusade to the Holy Land, and also the accurate depictions of Jerusalem in van Eyck’s paintings thereafter, including the center panel of this altarpiece, the entire work being formally presented just three years after his return. I surmise that van Eyck could have learned about Mary the wife in Jerusalem but, given the frowningly censorious attitude of his Flemish Protestant overlords, he put the information into subtle visual clues of the kind that I am summarizing. Yet another such clue is found in the realistically depicted wallpaper (the technical term for art historians being “diaper”) behind Mary: here and there in its design of flowers and leaves a banderole (an unrolled scroll used to present a title, a description, or the words being spoken by a depicted individual) appears bearing the word premitæ, Latin for “the one sought”, perhaps a misspelling of premitiæ, “the first of its kind” or “the first-fruits”. Jesus did indeed seek her, in order to unite with her as the redivivus of the first of humankind. Yet where the word appears above and to the right of Mary’s book there are hints that the letter e was repainted and originally was an o; this o is more clearly seen where the word appears below and to the right of the book. This would make the word promitæ, “the promised one”, either in the sense of “the one foretold/prophesied” or “the one betrothed”. Nor is this the only apparent instance of word-change in these three portraits. The diaper in the central panel, the one that features the figure whose identity is the focus of the lustiest scholarly debates, features a repeated image based on the ancient belief that a mother pelican would strike her breast with her beak until it bled, thereby feeding her starving children, even at the cost of her own life; this belief often became a metaphor for the resurrected messiah. Above the pelican is a banderole with, the diaper has the phrase IHEꞚVS X𝑃̅S. Scholars assure us that this means “Jesus Christ”, the second word being a nomen sacrem, a sacred word abbreviated out of respect, meaning “Christ”. Antoon Vanherpe, who specializes in study of this altarpiece, tells me in private communication that it was not uncommon for artists in this time and region to mix Greek and Latin letters in the same texts. While I agree that the phrase was intended to mean “Jesus Christ”, I see some serious issues which are not as simple as the mixing of Greek and Latin letters and which, unfortunately, I fail to find mentioned in any scholarly writing that I have consulted: Jesus’s name in Greek is actually written ΙΗΣΟΥS, which would be IĒSOUS in Latin letters. However the name as painted here is IHEꞚVS is nonsensical: in Latin letters it would be IĒESUS. assuming the fourth letter is meant to represent a sigma. It looks like the artist responsible was unfamiliar with Greek, and so he took the Latin form of Jesus’s name, IESVS, and did his best to try to imitate its Greek form. That the script used is rather different from what was first written, and from what appears in the panels to either side, suggests that this was written in a later time. First, he inexplicably put both the Latin E and the Greek eta, H, instead of just one or the other, depending on what language in which he meant to write the word. Second, he tried to imitate an epsilon, Σ, with Ꞛ, which seems to be a minuscule epsilon, ε with a vertical line affixed to it. Third, he retained the Latin spelling of the end of the name, -US, failing to add the omikron, O, and painted a Latin S rather than the proper Greek form of a final sigma, C (which is more familiar today in a similar form, ς). All of these clues tell us clearly that the painter was familiar with the Latin IESUS, but only barely acquainted with the Greek, ΙΗΣΟΥS, so in his mind he started with IESUS and did his best to adapt it, making it look something like the Greek form. It is hard for me to believe that such ignorant sloppiness could have been possible in the van Eyck workshop, which strove hard and well for accuracy and realism, and which elsewhere manages Greek acceptably well. By contemporary reports Jan was reasonably good with Greek. These issues, then, urge a careful look into the possibility that another word originally was painted here, that someone after Jan van Eyck’s time changed the original text to what we see today, no doubt in order to bring it into line with dogmatic conformity. Such a close analysis of the two words is borne out by studying the superb analytical images taken with X-radiography, as well as those done by macrophotography and reflectography in infrared light, which are serving as a guide for a major restoration of the altarpiece “Lasting Support, An Interdisciplinary Research Project to Assess the Structural Condition of the Ghent Altarpiece” (closertovaneyck.kikirpa.be). The X-radiographic image shows clearly that another set of words was painted first. This source reveals the first word to have originally been УHC, a perfectly correct nomen sacrum (sacred abbreviation) in Greek letters that stands for Jesus’s name. After that word, at the apex of the arch-shaped inscription, is +, either representing the crucifixion or a conjunction meaning “and”, or both. Then comes a second word: but while the УHC is reasonably clear in nearly every instance, the second word is always obliterated, even to the point of round gouges dug into the material beneath the paint, and not always in the same exact spot, proving that this is aggressive erasure and not the remains of an original letter. This suggests to me that somebody wanted to make it absolutely certain that no one would ever know what that original word was; the individual must have been aware that sometimes in art works the first version can show through later revisions, if the new paintwork is not thick enough, or if over time it abrades away. There are in fact examples of both here and there in this altarpiece. My suspicion is that such a vigorous eradication was to avoid giving offense to dogmatic orthodoxy, and such a motivation would necessarily have been that of a later revisionist painter, not Jan van Eyck himself. After effecting this brutal erasure, this artist replaced УHC + with the misspelled IHEꞚVS, and added X𝑃̅S in place of the mysterious final word, giving us the badly misspelled but doctrinally safe “Jesus Christ”. Nothing is certain about the original second word, but the way it appears in the X-radiographic image beside the figure’s right hand raised in blessing shows what looks to me like a mu, Μ, with an erasure so ruthless that it has apparently left a gouge in the substrate, dug in from above since the gouge is shaped like a teardrop. This gouge takes out the “v” in the middle of the M, but leaves visible the two verticals on either side. The У can also be made out beneath the final sigma, S, of the word painted over. The same words as they appear to the right of the figure’s left shoulder clearly show the M, but with the “v” utilized as the upper half of the X (chi) in the revised word, and it much more clearly shows the iota, У, under the S. In both cases, the second letter of the second word seems to be the same P, the Greek letter rho, that was retained in the middle of the replacement word, X𝑃̅S, or else possibly its Latin equivalent, R. This hypothetical analysis would give us a complete original inscription of УHC + ΜΡУ, no doubt with overlines in both words, as required by the standard way of indicating nomina sacra. These sacred abbreviations would represent УΗΣΟΥC and ΜΑΡУΑ. Put into English, the two words are of course “Jesus” and “Mary”, and the + between them is not merely to indicate a separation of words; it is the symbol of the cross on which Jesus died, Mary affixed to a post by his side, after which they lived again and became one. It may even have been used to represent the word “and” (et in Latin, και [kai] in Greek), since the + symbol was just beginning to become popular for this purpose in the fifteenth century. Since the artist who reworked this inscription could theoretically have left УHC in place and simply changed the ΜΡУ to X𝑃̅S if he thought of the + as representing the cross, for in that manner the phrase would stand for Jesus Christ with the adornment of a cross. But it seems he understood the symbol as meaning “and”, and sin e “Jesus and Christ” would certainly not do, he filled the space left by the + by converting УHC into his nonsensical IHEꞚVS. If the above argument has any merit, then the figure in the central portrait is that of the risen messiah, the conjoined Jesus-and-Mary, about whom van Eyck could well have learned during his travels on behalf of Philip the Good. But there is yet more in support of this conclusion. The central figure’s mantle has a lower border at the feet with these words ̅ ΑΝΧIΝ Y ΡΕΧ ΡΕΓ𝜈̅ Δ ΓΙ ΡΕΓΙΝΕ Δ painted as if embroidered and set with pearls – 𝛪𝛪 M ΡΕΓΙΝΙ ΔΝaNX ΔΝΟ – which is hard to read because of the folds in the mantle, the abbreviations, the odd spellings, and the mix of Greek and Latin letters. I take the Δ as a way of repeating a previous letter-combination and Y as standing for ET (“and”), and reconstruct the text in strictly Latin words and letters as [CO]N[IUN]XIN ET REX REGINA DE REGUM REGINÆ CONIUNXIN (“Spouses and King-Queen of KingsQueens Spouses”). The first phrase refers to a king and queen (singular) who are spouses (plural) of each other. The second phrase refers to their subjects, who are likewise also pairs of spouses (plural) who are likewise kings and queens (plural). Needless to say this brings to mind the “Lord of Lords and King of Kings” phrase in Revelation 17:14 and 19:16 (the order is reversed in the latter). A textual issue is that in classical times, when the Revelation was first composed, “king” and “lord” were essentially the same thing, and the result is that in Aramaic, the tongue in which the work was written, this phrase is mildly redundant. I suggest that the Urtext of these verses said, rather than ‫( ܡܪܐ ܕܡܪܘܬܐ‬mrā d’mrwtā), “Lord of Lords”, the orthographically similar ‫( ܡܠܟܬ ܕܡܠܟܬܐ‬mlkt d’mlktā), “Queen of Queens”. While some of my reading of these words in the painting is tentative, still the certain reference to ΡΕΓ𝜈̅ (“Queen”) and ΡΕΓΙΝΙ (“Queens”) certifies that the phrase suggests a unity of male and female. Indeed, not only this inscription at the bottom of the mantle, but also the blood-red garments and the “diadem of many” imaged in Revelation 19:1213 assure me that van Eyck used this description of the messiah, the “Word of God” as verse 13 says, as his source. And this image is of course of the united messiah who is also described in Revelation 1:13-16. (A discussion of these verses is found on pages ###ff.) On the floor between this figure’s feet lies a crown, whose meaning in the painting is another subject of scholarly controversy. I note that it is similar to the crown on Mary’s head in the portrait to the viewer’s left – not identical, certainly, but likewise embossed with square and diamond-shaped jewels circled by pearls, and the living lilies and roses now turned to beautiful goldwork. It is quite as if Mary has put down this her first crown as superseded by a new crown representing her new larger nature, no more an individual but a united being in the image and likeness of Elohim. This seated figure bears instead a tripartite crown that shortsighted scholars assume symbolizes the trinity of dogma, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. That it does not. This crown is instantly recognizable as the traditional triple crown worn by the popes from the fourteenth century (though it had simpler antecedents) until 1963; it is usually said to represent the pope’s offices as universal pastor, universal ecclesiastical judicator, and temporal potentate. But it is also, even more possible, that this figure is meant to portray the original Apostolic teaching of the Father and, in his image and likeness, the Son and the Daughter (the Paraclete, Mary), before the Daughter was replaced with a vaguely male Holy Spirit. Indeed it is very possible that Jan van Eyck learned during his travels of the Apostolic origins of the organized religion’s eventual dogma in the Father, and the Son, the latter two joined together in the image and likeness of the first. However very interestingly the same crown is sometimes associated with Mary, either the mother or the wife, such as in the central panel of a triptych in the church of Saint-André de Cologne, illustrating the Virgin of Mercy, often referred to as the Confrérie du Rosaire (Confraternity of the Rosary), painted between 1510 and 1515. This lovely work by a talented artist known today only as the Master of Saint-Séverin has so many similarities to the Ghent altarpiece made a century earlier that I think they are deliberate. Two angels lower the same triple crown down onto Mary’s head in three not-yet-conjoined rings, while on either side of her the triptych shows groups of adoring faithful similar to the choirs of musicians in the Ghent, while behind her torso is a “diaper” styled just like those in the altarpiece. But which Mary is this, shown just as in the final form of van Eyck’s work in a blue gown with the long curling red hair of the Magdalene? By blending the triple crown of the Ghent central figure with the beautiful young bride of the left-hand panel the Master seems to me to imply that he sees the central figure of the Ghent as in some way intimately connected to Mary. There may also be in this central figure’s headgear a suggestion of the white turban of the high priest that first Jesus wore (beginning in John 19:2), and then Mary (beginning in the restored verses that replace 20:18), though I see no sign of the tiara of gold that was affixed to it, which had engraved on it ‫קדש ליהוה‬, “Holy to YHWH”. Whether or not this crown or mitre is the high priest’s turban, there can be little doubt that its placement evokes the opening visions in the Revelation: this is the united messiah who appears to John in 1:13-15 (see the discussion of its identity on page ###), who is seated in majesty in 4:9 when the twenty-four elders cast at its feet their own crowns, the only Biblical reference to crowns at the feet of a royal person. The imagery is not specific to that of the Revelation because I think van Eyck wanted also to embrace what I say in the last paragraph about Mary’s new crown. But still the mitre and the vestments bring to mind the visionary figure dressed in ephod and turban with tiara. But Revelation 1:13’s reference in the Greek version to a garment that reaches to the feet and a golden sash at the breasts is answered in this portrait. The sash as depicted bears the word SABAωTH, which again emphasizes this male-female unity. The altarpiece’s spelling, mixing Latin and Greek letters, reflects how the word is written in Greek, σαβαωθ (sabaōth) in Greek, which transliterates the Hebrew ‫( צבאות‬ṣbāwt). It is commonly found in the Tanakh in conjunction with the name ‫( יהוה‬YHWH), and is usually translated into English as “Lord of Hosts” or “Lord of Armies”. However the lexeme (root) ‫( צבא‬ṣbā) has the root meaning of combining, integrating, unifying, and growing as a unit. From this lexeme come words that unsurprisingly mean bundles of grain (‫ )צבת‬and an aggregation of a certain article (‫)צבר‬, but also a verb meaning to dip into water or to be wet (‫)צבע‬, a verb meaning to share something with someone else (‫)צבט‬, a verb meaning to wish or desire something (‫)צבא‬, a noun that indicates beauty or honor (‫)צבי‬, or something that is desired or desirable (‫)צבו‬. By further application it refers to the gazelle (‫ )צבי‬for its beauty and its tendency to herd together in close-knit groups. In sum, scholars are wrong to focus only on the meaning of soldiers coming together into an army acting in a unified manner as a single entity, especially in regard to this painting, in which no sign of a military application of this word is to be found, and which in any case does not have the name ‫ יהוה‬joined with it – which it would if this figure were indeed God. Therefore I think that the appearance of the word on the altarpiece evokes its root concept of joining together into unity as a composite single entity – in other words, of Jesus and Mary coming together as the redivivus of the original human being of Genesis 1:26-27 in the image and likeness of God – and thus, in these last words, its Biblical application to ‫ יהוה‬is invoked. The use of this word, correctly but oddly spelled, suggests to me that Jan van Eyck heard about it (rather than reading about it) during his apparent visit to the Holy Land mentioned above. [NOTE: This matter of Jesus and Mary becoming the redivivus of the androgyne created in Genesis 1:26-27 is the main theme of the Gospel of John as reconstructed in the book from which this passage is taken. –Ed.] The descriptive phrases in three arcs of gold over this central figure’s head are as follows, first as they appear line by line, then with the many abbreviations written out in full, then with a careful translation into English. Note a: that the first line in the painting extends to a second indented line in my transcription; b: that the second line originally with a red cross-shape (+) as does the first but that it only clearly appears in the X-radiographic image and only faintly in the final painting, and c: that the word INMENSAM is broken between the second and third lines. ̅̅ OPTl9 PP ̅ DEVS POT E ̅ TISSIM9 PP DIVIN A ̅ MAIESTAT E ̅ + SV ̅ 9 O ̅̅ + HIC E IM ̅ ITATE ̅ DVXCEDIS̅ BO (+) REMVNERATOR LIBERALISSIMVS PROPTER INME NSAM LARGITATEM + Hic est Deus potentissimus propter divinam maiestatem + summus omnium optimus propter dulcedinis bonitatem (+) Remunerator liberalissimus propter inme nsam largitatem. + This is God most powerful by means of the divine majesty + the highest (and) the best of all humanity by means of the agency of the sweetness of his [God’s] goodness. (+) The most liberal recompenser by means of the imme nse generosity. Notes for the Latinist reader: I assume that the small sign which looks like the raised numeral 9 and that ends three words in the first line represents the conjugation ending -us. The abbreviation PP in the first line likely stands for propter, which appears in the third clause, but it might also be the standard abbreviation for per procurationem; either way, the meaning is the same. And I assume that omnium, as in all standard Latin dictionaries, refers here to “all humanity” because otherwise this adjective, as merely meaning “all”, would be entirely unclear as to what or whom it applies to. This inscription includes three clauses with an identical structure. The first two clauses appear in the first line, and the third clause is divided between the second and third lines, in fact splitting the word inmensam between them. The identical structure of these three clauses includes first an affirmation about the figure in the portrait, then the abbreviation PP or the word propter for which it apparently stands, and then an affirmation about God, the author of the benefit to humanity that this figure represents: The Figure: Conjunction: This is God most powerful by means of The highest and best of humanity by means of The most liberal recompenser by means of God: the divine majesty the sweetness of his goodness the immense generosity The first clause in the first line makes no sense if it is understood as saying that this is God through the agency of God (of “the divine majesty”); I read it as referring to the image and likeness of God made by the agency of God in Genesis 1:26-27 and/or to its redivivus, the united messiah Jesus-and-Mary. The second clause in the first line refers quite clearly to the “highest and best of all”; if one insists on reading this inscription as referring specifically and only to God, then here it would have to be taken as saying in effect that God is the highest and best of all gods, which certainly would have been entirely unacceptable. As mentioned in the notes for the Latinist reader, I see this word with its common sense in the language of referring to all humanity. And in that case this clause is again clearly referring to that first human being in the Genesis creation story and/or the resurrected messiah Mary-and-Jesus. The third clause, which appears in the second and third lines of this arc, is a third description of this human being in the image and likeness of God, this time as a recompenser in the sense of Isaiah 40:1-2, that the faithful are recompensed by Jesusand-Mary through “the immense generosity” of God, by means of this united messiah in the image and likeness of God, humanity is rewarded with the gift of eternal life. I see here no hint of the doctrine of penal substitutionary atonement enshrined in mainstream Christianity, which says that Jesus died in order to absolve humanity from the inevitable punishment of its roster of sins; since these three portraits seem to show the Apostolic theology, which has nothing like that dogma, it does not appear here – though I suppose conservative religious autocrats might have assumed that it was implied and nodded with pleasure. What is more, this interpretation refers not to the central dogma of mainstream Christianity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit but rather to the personæ of Elohim and of Jesus and Mary, in which the latter two are joined together in the image and likeness of the first. Still, this text seems carefully composed such that this message, which could well have been deemed heretical, would be less likely to offend. And, though my interpretation goes against the mainstream interpretation of art historians, I find it supported by the many clues I analyze in these three portraits. One clue is found in this central painting’s other inscription, found on the riser of the dais beneath this figure: ̅T SN ̅ SENECTVTE I̅ FRONTE * GAVDIV ̅ SN ̅ MERORE VITA SINE MORTE IN CAPITE * IVVE ̅ TIO ̅ RE A SINISTIS A DEXTRIS * SECVRITAS SN Life without death in the head/beginning, was found without sad old age in the brow, joy without sorrow to the right, security without fear to the left. Again, a cursory reading by the ecclesiastical dogmaticians and censors would not find anything specifically objectionable in this phrase, but to anyone who recognized and understood the gnosis, the secret wisdom that Jan van Eyck was illustrating, would apprehend the very specific message in these ostensibly vague words. The first phrase speaks of eternal life, the life in the Æon Jesus said could be reëntered through uniting with the other by means of love: Jesus’s spirit entered into Mary’s head (in capite) after his resurrection, such that together they were the redivivus of that androgyne made by Elohim in the beginning (in capite). And note that the “to the right” and “to the left” phrases are to be taken quite literally: the portrait of Mary to the right (from the viewpoint of this central image) promises “joy without sorrow”, and the image that I think was originally of Jesus to its left guaranteed “security without fear”, which is not an attribute associated with the Immerser, thus certifying that that image was at first of Jesus, a matter to which I will turn after one last matter. Indeed, joy seems to be often associated by the gospels with Mary. Matthew 28:8 has the women who saw Mary-as-angel in the tomb feel “fear and great joy” as they go to the male disciples. In John 16:20-24 Jesus uses the analogy to the pregnant woman there with them, who is Mary, to say the grief they will feel at Jesus’s death will be replaced by unmitigated joy. But most interesting, and probably the text the artist had in mind, is Hebrews 12:2, which says Jesus αντι της προκειμενης αυτω χαρας υπεμεινεν σταυρον αισχυνης καταφρονησας εν δεξια, “endured a cross and disregarded the shame” of it – and the word αντι (anti) is usually translated “for the sake of”, but it really carries a core sense of something that is beside or opposite the subject, and thus by extension “instead of” or “in exchange for”, while the verb προκειμενης (prokeimenēs) means “set before” in the visual sense, “put in position before his eyes”; these two words clearly refer to how Mary was tied to a stake beside Jesus so she would be forced to watch his slow suffering execution. If then “the joy” in this verse refers to Mary, then the verse says that he braved the incredible agony of this death by fixing his gaze on the joy of his beloved wife, that also he accepted that death “instead of” her, “in exchange for” her. And then the verse adds τε του θρονου του θεου κεκαθικεν – the first word, τε (te), is an enclitic conjunction usually translated here as “and”, but which really means either “both” or “and both”; this I think is the sense here: that both Jesus and Mary “took a seat at the right hand of the throne of God”. The verb in this clause, κεκαθικεν (kekathiken), is of course taken by all translators as conjugated in the third person singular of the perfect, but I see it here as in the third person plural of the extensive pluperfect, which is best put into English with the simple past tense. With all this in mind I translate the entire verse thus: “… as we look to the one who founded and completed the faith, Jesus, who endured a cross and disregarded the shame (of it) being across from the joy set before his eyes, and that both of them took a seat at the right hand of the throne of God.” If my thinking is reasonable, then we should expect that at least in the early stages of this work’s creation there might have been some indications of a feminine or androgynous nature to this person. That brings me to a careful study of the images published so far by the aforementioned project to study the older layers beneath the surface painting in order to guide restoration of the altarpiece. Infrared photography shows but few differences, while the X-radiographic results provide evidence of a number of minor alterations that were made between the first rendition of this portrait and the final painting that we see today. However there is one major difference that needs consideration here is that the earlier version of the central figure has no beard or at the very least it has much less of a beard. The underlip, chin, neck, and left cheek are without a beard or very nearly so, and the mass just below the middle of the chin is gone or reduced, and the left jawline is visible, though these are all obscured by the beard in the surface painting. In the radiographic image the entire right side of the face, including forehead, eye, and cheek, is dark, which could suggest a beard, though it seems unlikely that a beard would be painted in on one side of the face but not the other. When with computer programs I intensify the contrast and the lightness of the radiographic image there is little to nothing that suggests a beard on the face’s right side either. Both the finished painting and this underpainting show highlights on the figure’s left side, by which the painter indicates that the face was illuminated by a light source coming from the figure’s left, such that the right side of the face is relatively shadowed. In both versions, at the top of the left ear, above the left eyebrow and cheekbone, along the ridge of the nose, on the lower lip, on the left side of the chin and throat there are clear painted highlights. The right side of these features are shaded for contrast. The clothing is shaded on the right shoulder (also darkened by the long hair draped on the shoulder) and the head casts a shadow on the golden arc behind it. In this context, the darkness on the right side of the face is not that of a beard but rather the typical shading technique used by portraitists to give contour and depth to an image. The mouth is fuller and may be slightly open, as in the images of Mary and the supposed John on either side of this central panel. And the upper lids of the eyes are half-closed, the eyes directed downward, quite as a woman in earlier times was trained to keep her gaze lowered. The nose is narrower and more delicate, again all just like those of Mary. The effect of these latter gives the face something of an Eastern Mediterranean or even an Ethiopian look, a realism of cultural heritage that the West would not see until Rembrandt, who strove to make his Biblical subjects look like Mizrahi Jews, probably using as models Jewish and Muslim friends who had escaped the pogroms in Spain. If Jan van Eyck did indeed travel through the East he would have familiarized his artist’s eye with the look of such people. While I cannot be certain, this X-radiographic image does suggest that the face as van Eyck originally painted it was decidedly more Eastern and more feminine in nature, but that it was revised to make it more like a typical Western European male. In addition, the ornate high neckline of the tunic in the surface image is absent, and in its place is a simple curved black line, possibly representing a choker such as a woman would wear. And, by the coloration and similar tonal highlights painted below this line, identical to what is above the line, it seems to be bare skin below just as it is above, and presumably continuing down to where the V of the ends of the amice come together at about the sternum, and it seems more feminine for this much of the figure’s chest to be revealed. An equivalent to the ornate high neckline in the surface image is found instead bordering the edge-trims of the amice in the V, coming together directly beneath the huge medallion that also appears in the surface image, technically an epigonation, serving in both inner and outer designs like a brooch to hold the amice in place. These differences also imply a relatively more feminine original design. The frame to the viewer’s right is confidently identified by all scholars as John the Baptist; his traditional cognomen in English; I prefer John the Immerser because “Baptist” only transliterates the Greek rather than translating it, and implies a later Christian ritual and a much later Protestant denomination that lay far in his future. This identification seems obvious since the words in the arcs of gold over his head confirm that this is the Baptist. And yes, the ikonic motif called Deësis, which presented a “trinity” of Virgo, Christus Pantocrator, and Baptista could be seen in the East, and it is possible that van Eyck saw one in Greece or Anatolia, though I know of no evidence that he was in those regions. But since other than this supposed Deësis the motif does not otherwise appear in the West, which makes it hard to believe that those who had commissioned this altarpiece desired it, or that in this group of three there was a theological statement that meant anything in the West. One should wonder why Mary and the Immerser are given equally high status on either side of (supposedly) Jesus. I suppose that one could argue that they were both forerunners: Mary gave birth to him – for the standard belief is that this is the mother – and John immersed him to begin his year of ministry and teaching. One could also emphasize the fact that the predecessors to the present-day Saint Bavo Cathedral in which the altarpiece is displayed had a traditional association with John the Immerser. Yet if I am right that this Mary is the wife, she who became wholly united with her husband in the image and likeness of Elohim, then that elevates her in importance far beyond the Immerser. My suspicion is that underneath some massive work to cover him up with an enormous amount of hair and beard there lurks the original presence of Jesus, he who was likewise united with Mary to bring that image and likeness into being. And indeed the images taken as part of the restoration project suggest that in the underpainting there was considerably less hair and beard, since the lips, forehead, and cheeks are more visible, as well as the last letter in MUNDI and the [D]N̅I that precedes TESTIS to the right of the figure’s head, partly obscured by the abundant hair in the painting as we see it today. The descriptor in three arcs over this portrait is likewise quite problematic. It appears verbatim thus: ̅ BAPTISTA IOHE ̅S ∙ MAIOR HOĪE ∙ PAR ANGL̅IS ∙ LEGIS + HIC E ̅MA ∙ EWĀGELİİ SACIO ∙ APL̅OR VOX ∙ SILĒCIV ̅ PRHETAR SV ̅ I TESTIS LVCERNA MVNDI [D]N The Latin is not hard to reconstruct from the abundant abbreviations, with two exceptions. First, the word SACIO seems to lack the usual overline to indicate an abbreviation, and I am persuaded by E. H. L. Aerts (“Het lam Gods der gebroeders Van Eyck”, Verslagen en Mededeelingen, January 1920) that it stands for SANCTIO, “sanctification”. Second, only two and a half letters of the penultimate word appear in the radiographic image if not beneath the massive hair of the final portrait. The letters 𝑁̅ I are clearly seen in the underpainting, and before it what must be the upper part of an R P, or D, but not an O, because what we see is much too horizontally elliptical. Still, this is enough to confirm the usual reconstruction of [D] N̅ I, DOMINI (“the Lord”); the overline on the N represents the missing letters. With these hypotheses in place, I expand and translate the descriptor thus: HIC EST BAPTISTA IOHANNES, MAIOR HOMINE, PAR ANGELIS, LEGIS SUMMA, EWANGELII SA[N]C[T]IO, APOSTOLORUM VOX, SILENCIUM PROPHETARUM, LUCERNA MUNDI, D[OMI]NI TESTIS. This is John the Baptist, greater than human, equal to the angels, of the law its summation, of the gospels their sa[n]c[tific]ation, of the apostles their voice, of the prophets their silence, of the world its lamp, of the L[or]d his witness. All of the analyses by art critics I have consulted are so satisfied with the first phrase, and assume without question that this is John the Immerser. They fail, however, to consider carefully the implications of the rest of this descriptor – yet it should be obvious to anyone with the feeblest grasp of the Christian scriptures and the standard doctrines that never is John said to be greater than humanity or equal to the angels; though, yes, Jesus calls him the greatest of humanity, he quickly adds that the least of those in heaven, including angels presumably, are greater than John (Matthew 11:11). Nor is the Immerser ever the summation of the law, though Paul many times declares this of Jesus. Jesus calls John “a burning and shining lamp … for a season” (John 5:35), but only the united messiah of Mary-and-himself is named by Jesus as “the light of the world” (John 8:12). The same is true with the rest of these attestations, other than the last. I am sure that, minus the first phrase, HIC EST ̅ I TESTIS, most people would BAPTISTA, and perhaps also the last phrase, D[OMI] N assume that these phrases describe Jesus. More on these two in a moment. This text was plainly adapted from a sermon about John the Baptist given by a fifth century bishop in Ravenna, Petrus Chrysologus, which van Eyck may have read during his foreign traves. This sermon characterizes John only as a worthy exponent of the nature and teachings of Jesus imparted by dogma. I have underlined the elements that appear in the altarpiece: Iohannes[,] uirtutum scola, magisterium uite, sanctitatis forma, norma iusticie, uirginitatis speculum, pudicicie titulus, castitatis exemplum, penitencie uia, peccatorum uenia, fidei disciplina, legis summa, ewangelii sa[n]c[t]io, apostolorum uox, silencium prophetarum, lucerna mundi, officium preconsis, preco iudicis, Domini testis, tocius medius trinitatis. John[,] the school of his (Jesus’s) virtues, the authoritative teaching of life (which is) the model of his sanctity, the norm of his justice, the mirror of his virginity, the title of his modesty, the example of his chastity, the way of his penance (which is) the forgiveness of sins, the discipline of his faith (which is) the summation of the law, the sanctification of the gospel, the voice of the apostles, the silence of the prophets, the lamp of the world, the duty of his proclamation, the heralding of his justice, the witness of his Lord, (who is) the middle of the whole trinity. Note the liberal use of the genitive in this series of qualities, noted by “his” in the translation; by the context, the “his” refers to Jesus. Phrases in which the genitive does not appear are essentially parenthetical, explaining what precedes. So “the authoritative teaching of his (Jesus’s) life” is illustrated by “the model of his (Jesus’s) sanctity”. So the manner of “the way of his (Jesus’s) penance” is said to be “the forgiveness of sins”. Likewise, the five contiguous underlined phrases that follow “the discipline of his faith” characterize that discipline, and “the middle of the whole trinity” further identifies “his Lord” as the son of God. In the translation I have replaced commas with a parenthetical “(which is)” to make this clearer to the reader. With two exceptions, van Eyck has taken from Petrus only the phrases that characterize Jesus, adding “John the Baptist” to them. These must have been selected and at least sketched in position into the arcs overhead while still the portrait was of Jesus. In addition, the identification of BAPTISTA IOHANNES was added to the work after that change of identity from Jesus to John, and the phrase And also at some time the very brief phrase [D]𝑁̅I TESTIS (“the witness of his Lord”) was also borrowed from Petrus, rather than officium preconsis, preco iudicis, or tocius medius trinitatis, simply because only it was short enough to fit into the limited space left once Jesus’s hair had been enlarged to the wild coif of the Immerser. It also strikes me as very odd that the Immerser is identified as BAPTISTA IOHANNES (“the Baptist John”), an inversion of the usual order that may appear thus somewhere in the relevant literature but, if it does, I have never encountered it. The reversal serves no purpose and I think must be an error – especially if the painter – van Eyck or the later editor – were preparing this text in a hurry and/or if he were focused more on covering up evidence of earlier wording that now must be obliterated, such as that the portrait was originally of Jesus. I see no evidence in the images of the underpainting of such, but of course a first pencil sketching would not necessarily show even in X-radiography. In sum, then, I conclude that this portrait was originally of Jesus, flanked by an image of Mary to the viewer’s left, and between them the resurrected messiah who is Jesus and Mary united. I also must conclude again that it is sad to see how often academics care not to call upon the contents of their cranial cavities. The underpainting of the alleged John the Baptist portrait, as revealed by Xradiography, shows the garment beneath the outer cloak with edges much more sharply defined than the rough borders of the camelhair in the surface image. This garment also has more and narrower folds, again with the shadows within the folds in crisper definition, which suggests that it is woven cloth, not fur. If that is so, then the figure loses the only certain trope associated with the Immerser, raising the option that it is Jesus instead. Had these portraits been contrived with the typical Western tropes of that time, and had these figures been Mary (either Mary) and John the Immerser, they would have been shown with haloes, but God (if the individual in the central frame were meant as God) would of course not wear a halo. But instead we have here all three depicted radiating rays of light, which indicates not just an intimate connection but an equality or a common identity among all three of them. If the central figure is assumed to be God, then we have a resulting concept that is found nowhere else, one that probably would have been rejected as heretical: that the outer two figures are in some way on the same level as God. If however the right-hand figure were Jesus and the central figure were the risen messiah, with the spirit of Jesus within Mary, then the sun-rays would make sense, since – according to the original faith of the Apostolic (non-Pauline) communities that followed Jesus’s teachings in the first centuries C.E., especially in the East that Jan van Eyck apparently visited – Mary and Jesus united at the resurrection into a composite, thus becoming in the image and likeness of Elohim, and it, the resulting androgyne, would be shown here emitting light because according to the Talmud that first human being was made from the light created in Genesis 1:3. But I cannot think of any reason why the Immerser would be given such a singular honor. Rarely if ever is the Baptist portrayed in art reading from a book, but this individual has a book in his lap. All too often it is said to be the Bible, open to Isaiah 40, presumably because verses 3-5 are paraphrased during the opening scene with the Immerser in John 1:23. This identification is probably because the only legible word in this painted book is the first, CONSOLAM𝑇̅, and scholars lazily make the assumption – apparently not bothering to confirm it – that this is the first word in Isaiah 40:1. That it is not; rather, the Latin says: Consolamini consolamini populus meus dicit Deus vester (“‘Be comforted, be comforted, my people!’ says your God”). Worse yet, many modern sources even declare that the book shows Isaiah 40:3-5, even though as I said nothing is actually legible other than the one word. In fact, nowhere in the Latin Bible is there a word that could by any stretch be abbreviated as CONSOLAM𝑇̅, let alone at the beginning of a verse, even less at the head of a chapter. Other than this single word what appears on this page of the book is painted only to resemble words, but nothing can be read, so the only clue that van Eyck provides us is this word. But it is, in my view, clue enough: it brings to mind the consolament, as it was called in Occitan, the ultimate sacrament of the Cathars, who would have still been recent memory in the early fifteenth century – a sad memory in van Eyck’s Protestant world, one that remembered how they had been genocided out of existence by their rival Roman Catholics. By the consolament the recipient received and united with the Holy Spirit, the paraclete (in fact, the word consolament is derived from the Occitan word by which “paraclete” or “comforter” was translated), becoming a called boni chrétien (“good Christian”), boni homine (or bonhomme, “good man” and woman), or ami de Dieu (“friend of God”), or a parfait or parfaite, a word which doesn’t mean “perfect” in the modern sense, but rather “complete”, “whole” or “united”. Also contributing to my unwillingness to accept this identification is the fact that just as Mary’s face is identical to that of Eve in one of the outermost panels, so too underneath all the hair John’s facial features closely resemble those of Adam – the eyes are identical other than the easily changed color of the irises, the brows are identical, the same creases appear between the brows, the bridge of the nose has the same outward curve halfway down, and the mouth is shaped the same, slightly open in the same way, revealing identical teeth. What is more, if this figure is indeed John, then it is for the second time that he appears, but just as the Mary in the outer panels of the closed wings does not appear on close inspection to be the younger Mary within but rather Jesus’s mother, so too the John on the outside, presented en grisaille in imitation of a sculpture and helpfully labelled as JO𝐻̅ES BAP, at a glance obviously has a different identity – the clothing is completely different, including how the camel’s hair of his inner garment is depicted, and the outer John has his hair and beard in artful helixes rather than the rough mass of the man’s hair and beard in the interior portrait – a rough mass that I think serves more to hide than to indicate character. This portrait said to be of the Immerser, but which I think originally was of Jesus, also has a clue-word in the diaper, the wallpaper behind him. This word appears twice, the first half to the figure’s right (prim …) and the second half to his left (… us), hence primus (“the first”), which complements the word behind Mary, premitæ (“the one sought”, or possibly premitiæ (“the first of its kind”) or promitæ (“the promised one”). And indeed Jesus-and-Mary restore to existence the primus, the first of humanity. There is also the matter of placement – on either side of these three central panels this register includes a paired set showing angels singing and playing instruments, and on either side of them are Adam and Eve. Since the lower register of paintings has an overall unity in the “story” it tells – which I do not discuss herein – we should, I think, expect the upper register likewise to have an obvious overall theme to draw it together, but by the standard interpretations it does not. I will now suggest one that does. My contention is that these three panels originally showed, Mary the wife on the left, Jesus the husband on the right, and the united messiah who comprised both of them in the middle. Adam and Eve are shown on the far ends, outside heaven or the Æon, indicated by the two panels of musical angels, since they are no longer united into one being. Next within, and so within paradise, are Mary and Jesus, united in the central figure. After studying carefully the eyes of the three portraits between the angel panels, I conclude that Mary’s eyes are obviously deep brown, distinguishing them from the blue eyes of Mary the mother and suggesting that these are two different Marys; and that the eyes of Jesus in the right-hand portrait (he who was revised after the life of van Eyck into John the Immerser) are just as certainly bright blue-hazel. But the eye-color is not certain in the figure in the middle, whose identity is so much debated by the academics, who I believe is the united messiah Mary-and-Jesus. I have studied the image magnified as high as I can manage, and used a number of methods in my image editing programs, and my conclusion is that the left eye has an undercoat of brown with blue-hazel highlights added (especially to the viewer’s left) and the right eye was given an undercoat of blue-hazel with brown highlights added (especially at 3:00, 7:00, and 10:00). Of course this is just what I see, and other viewers likely will see these eyes differently. But the certain facts are these: Mary’s eyes are inarguably deep brown, and Jesus’s eyes are just as certainly bright blue-hazel, yet the eyes of this central figure are not distinctly one color or the other. And I conclude that that is precisely what van Eyck intended: that they appear to be a blend of the two colors, and since of course he could not have gotten what I believe he wanted by mixing brown and blue-hazel oil paints (the result would be a lighter brown), he chose, as I see it, to paint the eyes one bluehazel and one brown and then apply to each touches of the color of the other. Another topic to consider in reference to my contention that these three panels originally showed, from left to right, Mary, the united messiah, and Jesus, is that of skin color. As established herein, Mary, being on her father’s side of Amazigh ancestry, was evidently very dark-skinned, even black, but with red hair and very probably blue eyes. I should begin consideration of this matter by emphasizing that there would have been nothing strange about the first two with African coloration at that time in Europe. As I have previously discussed, there had long been a tradition of black madonnas in the subcontinent long from before van Eyck’s birth, which continued to flourish for a few centuries more. Though many were destroyed by misguided Protestant reformers, hundreds still exist today. In his native Belgium alone, not far from Ghent, there are no fewer than nine black madonnas. When he travelled through France, Spain, and Italy on behalf of Philip the Good he surely visited many churches and must have seen countless more black madonnas. So, in that context, van Eyck may have decided to represent the left and the central figures likewise with Ethiopian skin tones, without fear of ecclesiastical anger given these many Black Messiahs. However given the established fact that some later painter, no doubt under orders from the ecclesium, repainted many aspects of the Ghent altarpiece clearly to tone down some of the more obvious hints of the standard dogma flouted in the images. Among these, I think, the skin colors of the left and central figures likely were whitened to match that of Northern Europeans. Such artistic censorship has gone on forever – elsewhere herein I discuss how Mary beside the crucified Jesus was in one of the Rabula Gospels miniatures turned into a bearded thief, and the intensely offensive whitening of the Black Madonna of Chartres. Another obvious example is that of the flying doilies added to some paintings to cover the genitalia of the painted figures. And the occasion of this Caucasian invasion would be a generation or two after van Eyck, when the black madonnas were less of a “thing” and when dogma was again moving into hard and judgemental conservatism – the time of the Protestant Reformation and the Roman Catholic Counter-Reformation. The question to ask, then, is whether the aforementioned subsurface studies of the Ghent altarpiece bear out this possibility. The answer, mine at least, is that it is hard to say. I converted the surface images of the three to black-and-white and balanced the albedo of the clothing such that it was equal in each case to its equivalent in X-radiography (to the right in the nearby images), and the faces and hands of all three figures appear to be darker in the latter set of images. This could be ascribed to a common painterly technique of sketching in a dark underpainting first and then adding the lighter skin color on top, making this layer thinner where shadows are required, and then adding the smaller details, such as hair and eyelashes. But this cannot be the reason in this case, because the latter details are all visibly in place, and besides this underpainting technique became common after van Eyck’s life, in the Baroque period. Mary’s neck and upper chest appear somewhat lighter than the very dark blue tunic beneath, which would be about the case with someone of African complexion, and her neck is especially dark even though there are no shadows on it in the final work. Her right hand is about the same tone as the red sleeve past it, which is also as we might expect. Jesus’s right hand, in the right-hand panel, is lighter than the supposed camel fur, and about the same as the green cloak, which seems to be a lighter color of skin. And the central figure’s face and hands are certainly darker than the deep red robe. In sum, while I cannot be sure, the indications at least to my eyes could point to the proposal above. I hope that further study – such as, if future technology ever makes it possible, studying the original images in full color – will inform this matter. As an aside, this comparative study of the originals and the final forms of the paintings made even to me clearer the androgynous or even feminine characteristics of the central figure. While La Fuente de Gracia, the so-called Fountain of Grace (sometimes “Fountain of Life”) painting also produced by the Jan van Eyck workshop resembles the Ghent altarpiece in some ways, the significant factor related to discussion of the latter is that every single one of its clues to help us identify the three figures are gone in this later work – there are no arcs of gold over their heads but rather the westwork of a grand cathedral; there is no SABAωTH sash, no reference to “Queen of Queens”, no УHC + ΜΡУ. Mary, whichever Mary she is meant to be, is dressed in plain blue rather than a bridal gown; the triple crown on the head of the middle figure is now unitary and the crown at its feet is replaced with the lamb said to share the throne of God (Revelation 5:6); and the third portrait, which I think started as Jesus and became John the Immerser, is in La Fuente John the Evangelist. The lower register shows a group of orderly, pious Christians with the pope in front (wearing the tripartite crown missing above) confronting the high priest at the head of a group of unruly Jews, drawn as ugly caricatures, clearly about to flee in terror, on either side of the titular fountain of the waters of life (Revelation 22:1). Everything always depends upon the person or institution commissioning the work; while in this case it is not certain, it is surely not the relatively liberal-minded Philip the Good but likely Enrique IV of Castile and León for the Monastery of Santa María del Parral in Segovia which he founded; it would be a reasonable hypothesis that the conservative Roman Catholic king understood these clues enough to disapprove of them, in that the evidence suggests that he demanded a copy be made without them – indeed, their noticeable complete disappearance from La Fuente helps to confirm their meaning as discussed above. The visual arts can often be truly revolutionary in nature precisely because their emotional impact can be so great, and also because clues can be hidden that escape the attention of the censors but register in the minds of those who look for them. So it amazes me and yet it does not amaze me how art has helped keep alive the truth about Mary-and-Jesus through the centuries, from the earliest catacomb and sarcophagus art through wall paintings in churches, through Leonardo and van Eyck and Bosch, and even to recent times, especially in the brilliance of William Blake.