Raphael did not hang around. The first two paintings here – a peachy -skinned, boyish St Sebastian, and an altarpiece showing the crucifixion – were both painted when the artist was about 19 years old. You could spend hours geeking out over the impeccably flexed feet and eloquently posed fingers in that Crucifixion, as well as the too-clever-for-his-own-good details, like the pair of scudding clouds provided in the otherwise blue sky for two angels to balance on as they gather blood from Jesus’s wounds in their outstretched goblets.
As it turned out, Raphael’s sense of urgency was well founded. He died of a fever, quite unexpectedly, at the age of 37. What he achieved in that short career was not simply remarkable: it was transformational.
His paintings of the human body were informed by his continuing practice of drawing from life, as well as close attention to the work of older artists, notably Leonardo, a sketch of who’s (lost) Leda and the Swan appears in one of Raphael’s notebooks.
For huge and complex compositions he made detailed studies of the figures positioned nude: the anatomy would be correct even when concealed by cloth in the finished painting. (As a throwaway note: this show contains a sketch that indicates Raphael was the first artist since classical antiquity to study the female nude.)
While the early paintings were poised, lushly coloured and meticulous in their fingersy-toesy detail, they also felt static: bodies faced forward and figures were arranged according to orderly geometry. Quickly, as Raphael progresses, things in his paintings start to twist – bodies shift their weight onto one foot, heads turn to glance at us over a shoulder, flurries of coloured fabric billow on the wind – giving each scene drama, movement and passion.
A life-sized drawing of Moses Before the Burning Bush (1514), made in preparation for a fresco in the Vatican, catches the young Moses in a crouching position as he turns to shield his eyes from divine light. Placing his figures in dynamic positions, Raphael allows stories to emerge from the energy coursing through a scene.
In the luscious Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John The Baptist (The Alba Madonna, 1509-11) the holy child’s naked body is contained within the safe realm of his mother’s pink and blue garments, but all eyes are turned towards a reed cross proffered by John and grabbed by his baby cousin. Jesus grasps his destiny, moving from the safety of the maternal realm to plant one foot on the ground as he does so. At the same time Mary reaches her arm round, her protective sleeve enfolding both children: yes, all this is to come, but not yet.
There is a room of Raphael’s Madonnas here, all human and all very different. He captures maternal affection and playfulness in the interaction between mother and child. In The Virgin and Child (The Madonna of the Pinks 1506-7) her lips are even parted as though caught in a moment of chatter with her son as he takes a flower in his hand.
Raphael died in 1520 and this show was timed to coincide with the 500th anniversary of his death. While it is broadly chronological, the curatorial conceit is to celebrate his achievements in all fields: as a draftsman, as a champion of printmaking, in designs for the Vatican frescos and tapestries, and his forays into architecture and even archaeology. It may be a dismaying experience for anyone who worries they are underachieving.
Raphael balances the drama that keeps ramping up in his compositions with a keen eye for naturalistic detail: delicate shade thrown by gauzy veils, locks of hair escaping from a scarf, tiny details of cordage in a young woman’s necklace.
This guy really knows how to go to town on a sleeve: in Portrait of a Woman (La Donna Velata, 1513-14) the sitter’s face plays second fiddle to an extravagant bouffy confection of creamy silk and gold embroidery that takes up the lower right section of the painting. Her little hand peeps out behind it, clutching her bodice as though all this voluptuous fabric were just hinting at the flesh that might spill out behind it.
The portrait of Pope Julius II (1511) – from the gallery’s permanent collection – is simply extraordinary. The Pope’s chair seems to have been driven backwards into a corner, so he sits nestled in the angle between emerald-green damasked walls, the ruby velvet of his skullcap and cape pouring over his fine white silk robes. He is captured as a man, not as a symbol: downcast, hollow-cheeked, gripping anxiously at his robes. Raphael’s eyes are drawn to the tiniest peculiar details, such as the way some of the fine white fur lining his cloak has accidentally pulled through the buttonholes to rest on the blood-red velvet.
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The show ends with a room of portraits – and frankly who wouldn’t want a portrait by Raphael because he’s such a fool for beauty that everyone looks gorgeous. Bindo Altoviti (1516-18), a strikingly handsome young man, turns to look at us over his shoulder, as though captured in a private moment. Golden curls tumble down over the exposed nape of his neck, and long sideburns frame his face: the one cool, blue eye that has turned fully into the light becomes the focal point of the painting as we are caught in his gaze.
We are often pulled into the business of Raphael’s paintings in this way. Many sitters are shown as self-aware: in Portrait of a Woman (La Muta, 1506-7) the titular figure rests a finger on the edge of the painting as though her arm were leaning along the frame. In the later, more dynamic, Self Portrait with Giulio Romano (1519-20) the younger man points toward us while turning his face to look at the artist. Have they been gossiping about us? Sharing a joke?
The final two works are among the most personal, one showing a friend, and the other, perhaps, a lover of Raphael’s. Baldassare Castiglione was a diplomat and author of The Book of the Courtier: he also supported Raphael’s campaign to preserve ancient Roman structures as the city was modernised.
His portrait shows a wise and gentle face from which blue eyes shine out among the muted colours of his grey fur and black wool garb. It is a strikingly affection and human portrait.
The other is the anonymous Portrait of a Woman (La Fornarina, 1519-20) who has let her gauzy robe drop to reveal her breasts, while gazing at us eye to nut-brown eye, a faint smile playing across her lips. The intimacy between artist and sitter is indicated by his name woven into a blue and gold ribbon encircling her upper arm: he is signing not only to the painting, but also the sitter.
The influence of all that beauty and drama has been felt for centuries. Raphael set the standard (though many artists have felt inspired to push back with stillness, and earthier, unadorned subjects.)
Presenting detailed preparatory sketches as well as finished works, and allowing us to chart Raphael’s development over his short but prolific career, this is a jewel box of a show, seducing with gem after gem.
To 31 July, The National Gallery
