There’s a painting I often think about—Madonna del Parto, a 1460 masterpiece by Piero della Francesca, displayed in a small museum in Monterchi, Tuscany. It shows the Virgin Mary, heavily pregnant, with two angels at her sides. For generations, local women have revered it as a protector of fertility and childbirth. During World War II, they even confronted men they believed were Nazis trying to steal it. Later, in 1954, they protested its planned move to Florence by lying in the street to block its removal.
I remembered those women yesterday while walking through Jenny Saville’s exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, seeing how Renaissance art shaped her work. Saville’s fascination with the old masters began in childhood, thanks to an art historian uncle who took her to Venice. That influence is clearest in her motherhood paintings—raw, powerful images of her with her children, echoing the work of Leonardo and Michelangelo. You can almost see their Madonnas in the swirling sketches around her figures. One of her most striking pieces, Pietà I, a charcoal and pastel study, grew from her deep engagement with Michelangelo’s The Deposition.
I worry I might lose you in art-history talk, so let’s return to those protesting women in Monterchi. In my early twenties, I couldn’t fathom caring so much about a Renaissance painting that you’d lie in the street for it. Back then, religious art left me cold—probably because I wasn’t raised with faith. To me, it was all stiff baby Jesuses and people kneeling in reverence. I understood its historical importance—the birth of perspective!—and dutifully studied Titian and Michelangelo, even passing an oral exam on Leonardo’s work. But given the choice, I always preferred abstract and contemporary art. A Rothko or Joan Mitchell spoke to me in ways Renaissance paintings never did.
I knew the problem was me—I just didn’t get it. That mysterious spark some art has, the way it resonates, eluded me. Standing in Saville’s exhibition years later, surrounded by her mother-and-child works, I realized my disconnect wasn’t just about religion—it was about life experience. At 23, after surviving an attempt on my life, my taste shifted toward the baroque (pretentious, maybe, but trauma shapes us, often through art—think of this as my death-metal phase). I dragged my then-boyfriend through Rome’s churches to see Caravaggios; I stood before Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes at the Uffizi and felt her fury.
I didn’t cry at Saville’s show, but I came close in front of Aleppo, her Pietà for the children of Syria.
When I was younger, earnestness felt unbearably vulnerable, so like many in their twenties, I hid my naivety behind cynical detachment. But life happens—sometimes terrible things—and growing older makes it easier to care deeply without embarrassment. Back then, I avoided the emotional weight of certain experiences—not just death, but anything to do with motherhood. I didn’t want to go there.
Then, around the time I started thinking about having a child, I found myself drawn to paintings of the Annunciation—that moment when the angel Gabriel tells Mary she’ll bear a child. Setting aside belief in the virgin birth, the art itself began to move me in ways I hadn’t expected.The idea of capturing that feeling—the moment when you realize life is about to change completely—suddenly fascinated me. It became even more compelling when I found out I was pregnant.
As a child, I had copied the angel from Fra Angelico’s Annunciation from one of my mother’s books, completely ignoring Mary. But years later, standing in front of the painting in Florence as an adult, all I could see was the expression on her face. Seeing art in person makes a difference, but I suspect hormones do too.
This summer, a close friend discovered she was pregnant—so quickly that she was just as shocked as I had been. I sent her an image of that painting, joking that Mary “looks like she’s about to throw up.” Maybe I still have a ways to go in shedding my resistance to sincerity, but I wouldn’t trade my current self for my younger, more cynical version. I’d rather be the person who, fresh from childbirth, cried in front of a Raphael Madonna—no matter how embarrassing it was.
I didn’t cry at Jenny Saville’s exhibition, but I nearly did in front of Aleppo, her Pietà for the children of Syria. The painting seemed to hold all the grief and agony of the mothers in Gaza who have lost children to Israel’s violence. It made me realize that the women of Monterchi weren’t just protecting a masterpiece—they were protecting each other, and their children, as they saw it.
Allowing yourself to be moved by art also means opening yourself to the pain of others—even being willing to take risks for them. To lie down in the street, in other words.
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist. Her novel Female, Nude, about art, the body, and female sexuality, will be published in 2026.
FAQS
### **FAQs About “I Never Thought Renaissance Art Mattered to Me. Then Life Changed—and I Understood Its True Power.”**
#### **Beginner Questions**
**1. What is the main point of Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett’s article?**
The article explores how Renaissance art, which initially seemed irrelevant, became deeply meaningful to the author during a personal crisis, revealing its emotional and psychological power.
**2. Why didn’t the author care about Renaissance art before?**
She saw it as distant, old, and disconnected from modern life—until personal struggles made her see its timeless themes of suffering, beauty, and resilience.
**3. How did Renaissance art help the author?**
It provided comfort, perspective, and a sense of connection to human experiences across time, helping her cope with difficult emotions.
**4. What’s an example of Renaissance art mentioned in the article?**
The author references works like Michelangelo’s *Pietà*, which depicts Mary holding the dead Christ, symbolizing grief and compassion.
**5. Do I need to be an art expert to appreciate Renaissance art?**
No—the author shows that personal connection matters more than technical knowledge.
#### **Intermediate Questions**
**6. How does Renaissance art relate to modern struggles?**
It deals with universal themes—love, loss, faith, suffering—making it relevant even today.
**7. Can art really help with emotional healing?**
Yes, as the author found, art can offer solace, reflection, and a way to process emotions.
**8. What makes Renaissance art different from other styles?**
It emphasizes realism, human emotion, and religious/mythological storytelling, often with deep symbolic meaning.
**9. How can I start appreciating Renaissance art if it feels boring or outdated?**
Look for pieces that resonate with your own experiences, read their stories, or visit a museum.
**10. Did the author’s perspective on art change permanently?**
Yes—she now sees it as a source of strength and connection rather than just historical artifacts.
#### **Advanced Questions**
**11. How does the article connect Renaissance art to mental health?**
It suggests that engaging with art can be therapeutic, offering a way to process pain and find meaning.
