Entering Madrid's Prado Museum some years ago, I was stopped after a few paces by an artist whose name I didn't know, but who's paintings cut through the veneer of ignorance that clouds we plebs, as we struggle-and-strain to exercise our low and untutored eyes in places of highest art.

'The Little Spaniard' Jose (or Jusepe) de Ribera (1591-1652) has all the hallmarks of well-polished and prodigious talent, which raises individual greatness above contemporary styles and collective labels, and vouchsafes them a place on the walls of history. But to be able to rise above skilled rendering and art curricula, and grapple with the best and deepest in humanity, the artist needs to draw on more than personal experience. He needs to draw on the spirit at the very heart of the story.

The Martyrdom of Saint Philip was one of a series of Ribera's paintings in The Prado which refused to let me pass. Although The Martyrdom of Saint Philip is considered noteworthy for its depiction of cruelty, the shock value of Ribera's efforts has diminished down the centuries and it would struggle to pierce a viewer reared on soulless CGI gore. The true heart of the work beats within the central figure and the greater story lies not in what is inflicted from without, but what is transfigured from within. The all-conquering humility, which gives life to many of Ribera's religious paintings, including a superb version of The Lamentation in Madrid's Thyssen Bornemiszia Museum, is a difficult concept to grasp for a proud world. But it nevertheless suggests an artist who knows how to be risen by a higher subject.

Generally—certainly for me—it is easier to spot a fake in literature than in a painting, because (apart from the fact that impostors in written works are everywhere, and great writers stand out by their absence) technically gifted painters can counterfeit the heights and depths, or simply borrow weightier strokes from those who knew them better, and many works by recognised Masters leave me cold.
However, my overriding feeling when viewing Ribera's Saint Philip (and many of his other works) is that this is not another ego basking in the oiled event. By tapping into the essence of the story, instead of trampling it under a driven brush, Ribera brings more than talent and oils to the canvas: the result is a near-perfect harmony of elements, which are truly worthy of the substance.

Anyway, if you're going to Madrid—and it's worth it for the famous art triangle alone—you should test this formative theory for yourself. Leave your books at the hotel and clear your head of hagiography and history. Then go to stand before two pictures, which live a few hundred metres apart: Picasso's 'Guernica' at The Reina Sofia and Ribera's 'Martyrdom of Saint Philip' at The Museo del Prado.
In full view of each work, ask the artist these questions, which I believe have universal relevance for artists tackling subjects they cannot humanly contain.'Do you have the measure of the substance which lies before you?
Do you have the talent and skills to do it justice?
Do you have the art to (sur)render it anew?
Do you have the soul to subordinate your ego to the heart of the beating matter, for as long as it takes and for no greater profit than the good birth and life of the outcome?'
If you look to where the canvas takes you and listen with more than your ears, I reckon there's a chance you'll get one honest answer.

Entering Madrid's Prado Museum some years ago, I was stopped after a few paces by an artist whose name I didn't know, but who's paintings cut through the veneer of ignorance that clouds we plebs, as we struggle-and-strain to exercise our low and untutored eyes in places of highest art.

'The Little Spaniard' Jose (or Jusepe) de Ribera (1591-1652) has all the hallmarks of well-polished and prodigious talent, which raises individual greatness above contemporary styles and collective labels, and vouchsafes them a place on the walls of history. But to be able to rise above skilled rendering and art curricula, and grapple with the best and deepest in humanity, the artist needs to draw on more than personal experience. He needs to draw on the spirit at the very heart of the story.

The Martyrdom of Saint Philip was one of a series of Ribera's paintings in The Prado which refused to let me pass. Although The Martyrdom of Saint Philip is considered noteworthy for its depiction of cruelty, the shock value of Ribera's efforts has diminished down the centuries and it would struggle to pierce a viewer reared on soulless CGI gore. The true heart of the work beats within the central figure and the greater story lies not in what is inflicted from without, but what is transfigured from within. The all-conquering humility, which gives life to many of Ribera's religious paintings, including a superb version of The Lamentation in Madrid's Thyssen Bornemiszia Museum, is a difficult concept to grasp for a proud world. But it nevertheless suggests an artist who knows how to be risen by a higher subject.

Generally—certainly for me—it is easier to spot a fake in literature than in a painting, because (apart from the fact that impostors in written works are everywhere, and great writers stand out by their absence) technically gifted painters can counterfeit the heights and depths, or simply borrow weightier strokes from those who knew them better, and many works by recognised Masters leave me cold.
However, my overriding feeling when viewing Ribera's Saint Philip (and many of his other works) is that this is not another ego basking in the oiled event. By tapping into the essence of the story, instead of trampling it under a driven brush, Ribera brings more than talent and oils to the canvas: the result is a near-perfect harmony of elements, which are truly worthy of the substance.

Anyway, if you're going to Madrid—and it's worth it for the famous art triangle alone—you should test this formative theory for yourself. Leave your books at the hotel and clear your head of hagiography and history. Then go to stand before two pictures, which live a few hundred metres apart: Picasso's 'Guernica' at The Reina Sofia and Ribera's 'Martyrdom of Saint Philip' at The Museo del Prado.
In full view of each work, ask the artist these questions, which I believe have universal relevance for artists tackling subjects they cannot humanly contain.'Do you have the measure of the substance which lies before you?
Do you have the talent and skills to do it justice?
Do you have the art to (sur)render it anew?
Do you have the soul to subordinate your ego to the heart of the beating matter, for as long as it takes and for no greater profit than the good birth and life of the outcome?'
If you look to where the canvas takes you and listen with more than your ears, I reckon there's a chance you'll get one honest answer.