Taking advantage of a walk in Piacenza with my daughter Zoe, I managed—thanks mostly to her Capricorn determination, I would say—to fulfill a small dream: for years I had wanted to see a painting kept in the Collegio Alberoni on the outskirts of the city, Ecce Homo by Antonello da Messina.
Since we have a country house in one of the valleys surrounding the city, we often go to Piacenza, but for one reason or another—between restorations, loans, and uncooperative opening hours—we had never managed to see it.
Zoe, who rarely gives up, called the college’s office and succeeded in securing a practically private visit for that very afternoon.
I mention this because, if any of you happens to be Antonello da Messina fans, it’s good to know that the extremely limited official visiting hours (basically only a guided tour at 4 p.m. on Sundays) can be worked around by showing genuine interest in the site.
The college, as I was saying, is not located in the city center but on Via Emilia Parmense east of town, practically in front of the Catholic University campus, and it has quite a singular history.
Founded by Cardinal Giulio Alberoni, the college’s mission from the start was to educate priests drawn from the lower classes: it was in fact the only ecclesiastical training institution where students did not have to pay tuition.
The cardinal, born into a poor and numerous family, lost his father at the age of ten. His brilliant political and ecclesiastical career never made him forget his humble origins, and for this reason he dedicated part of his life and considerable personal resources to bringing his ambitious project to life.
In 1740 cardinal Alberoni was entrusted with the administration of a former medieval lazaretto that had fallen out of use, and thanks to his relationship with Pope Clement XII he obtained permission to suppress the now obsolete hospital structure and to build a new college on the same grounds.
After various complications, in November 1751 the first 18 seminarians—personally selected by the cardinal—were admitted, the institution was officially opened, and its administration entrusted to the Fathers of the Congregation of the Mission of Saint Vincent de Paul.
Upon the cardinal’s death in June 1752, the complex inherited all his belongings, ensuring that his wish to keep the seminary active and free of charge would be respected even after his passing.
Admission to the college was limited to a maximum of 60 seminarians. To be accepted into the program, young candidates had to pass a very strict examination, and once admitted they could not withdraw unless they reimbursed all expenses incurred by the college up to that point.
Only two alternative educational paths were permitted without consequences in case of a change of heart: law and medicine, because the cardinal considered these—what we would now call—socially useful professions.
Once accepted, seminarians spent nine years inside the college (today the program lasts six), during which they were completely cut off from their families. They were not allowed to go home even for religious holidays. Their only contact was a few rare visits in the college parlor.
There were no dormitories: each student always had a small room (strictly unheated until the 1950s).
Currently, if I remember correctly, the college houses 27 seminarians, and in the past twenty years it has welcomed students from all over the world—from Eastern Europe to Lebanon, from Africa to Latin America. I asked: once their studies are completed, the new priests may return to their home countries to carry out their mission.
The college, almost unchanged today, has prospered for nearly 300 years, and although it was founded for the specific purpose of training priests, it has counted among its alumni scientists, engineers, jurists, doctors, philosophers, scholars, politicians, as well as numerous cardinals. The curriculum was not limited to traditionally religious subjects such as theology, philosophy, and Latin but also included scientific disciplines, as the cardinal believed deeply in offering a well-rounded education which would elevate students’ cultural level. It must not be forgotten that the college was founded in the heart of the Enlightenment.
The institution includes a rich library full of rare texts, an astronomical observatory—built in 1882 and one of the oldest in Italy—and a seismic observatory whose regular activity began in December 1922.
The college also houses a physics laboratory: the preserved instruments provide precious evidence of the development of science from the 18th to the mid-20th century. Its equipment was more suitable for a university than for a secondary school.
On the first floor is the Museum of Natural History with its collection of fossils and minerals.
During the visit one can grasp the structure of the complex: it forms a large three-story quadrangle surrounding a beautiful wide inner courtyard. The main façade, the one through which you enter, is practically undecorated except for the rococo window frames—no matter how austere the intended message, it was still the 18th century!
For me, however, the most interesting part is the Alberoni Gallery, which includes 18 large ancient tapestries, including two highly valuable early 16th-century Flemish ones, and the museum containing about a hundred paintings, among them the Ecce Homo by Antonello da Messina, the very reason for our visit.
The room where the tapestries are displayed is a beautiful hall designed by architect Vittorio Gandolfi, one of the most important second-generation rationalist architects, who also designed Milan’s Linate and Malpensa airports between the 1950s and 1960s.
Today, used mostly for events and concerts, the hall is a stunning space lined on all four sides with these magnificent works of art, and though connected to the seminary’s activities, it stands as a distinct architectural entity.
On the upper floor of the old building, in the area that once served as the cardinal’s residence until his death (although we were told he much preferred staying in his palace in the city center, where he probably enjoyed some form of heating), lies the museum containing a hundred paintings, the last of which is indeed Antonello’s Ecce Homo.
Access to the gallery requires unlocking a large 18th-century door and deactivating alarm systems; everything contributes to creating a sense of suspense!
There exist five or six versions of this same theme, dated between 1465 and 1475. In Genoa’s Palazzo Spinola you can find the only other version kept in Italy, but we will devote a separate article to the Genoese palaces—the so-called Rolli—because they truly deserve it.
You may be wondering why I was so intrigued by this painting, which finally appeared before me after so many attempts and after the visit to the entire institution (they will show it to you last!!!).
First of all, there is the law of desire at play: nothing fuels longing better than anticipation, as we all know well. And then, a few years ago in Palermo, at Palazzo Abatellis,
I had seen the Annunciata, another small painting, a portrait of the Virgin in which, unlike any other Annunciation in the history of art, Mary is alone.
The Archangel Gabriel—who should be present as a messenger—is the great absentee.
The young woman portrayed is the true protagonist of the scene; her face, her expression, the transparency of her skin, her age are the focus, not her function as the Mother of the Messiah nor the destiny imposed upon her.
It is she whom we are looking at, not what she represents.
Likewise, the young man in the Piacenza painting shows us his immense sadness: he must give up his life, he must cause pain to those who love him, he must break his mother’s heart, he must abandon his body and his disciples. This Ecce Homo is neither a saint nor a god; he is a man abandoned to his fate, suffering its absolute inevitability. His sadness is almost childlike—without remedy, without consolation—and goes beyond the injuries inflicted on his flesh.
Here too, Jesus is alone; Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, has pronounced the famous phrase Ecce Homo to show the people and the priests who want him dead his humiliation and suffering.
We know what is happening to him only because we know his story; the painting does not recount it. What it conveys is solely his state of mind. Its purpose is not didactic.
Antonello da Messina is an extremely original painter, even if not as widely known as the great masters of his time, but in my opinion he possesses something very distinctive, thanks also to the influences that shaped his training and that are clearly visible in his work.
A native Sicilian, he already had a workshop in Messina before traveling to Naples, where he absorbed Flemish, Spanish, and Provençal influences. His journey through Italy took him from south to north, where he encountered the work of Piero della Francesca, from whom he learned the lesson of perspective, and eventually reached Venice, where he stayed for two years. There he learned to combine the realistic, meticulously detailed Flemish vision with the more emotive Italian style and the new spatial perspective.
Furthermore, as Vasari tells us, Antonello was the first to use and spread oil painting in Italy, a technique he learned directly from the Flemish, becoming so skilled in rendering detail that he could compete with them.
The control over detail afforded by this technique, in Antonello’s work, is not just about virtuosity; it gives the painter the ability to express the emotional subtleties of his characters. Painting becomes introspection: not only is man at the center of the narrative, but the character’s inner life becomes the vehicle of communication.
After spending an hour and a half with our guide, I dared to ask whether it might be possible to visit one of the unoccupied seminarians’ rooms, but unfortunately this curiosity was not satisfied. We had to make do with a brief description of a typical room and, perhaps because by then we had become somewhat likable, he agreed to open a double classroom with the same layout as the rooms used by the students.
We were very pleased with the visit; our guide was extremely kind and thorough. However, in his opinion, the specialized guide who accompanies visitors on Sunday afternoons is particularly well-prepared.
So if you are planning a trip to Piacenza and the Ecce Homo has piqued your interest, make sure to book your visit in advance, because this is a functioning private institution and you may not be as lucky as we were…
Or have Zoe make the call!
Betti
How to get there:
Official Web Site : Collegio Alberoni