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Raphael at the Met

     3780 words   17 minutes 

(Translated from the Chinese version with the help of ChatGPT. The Chinese version also contains the OCR English label texts for exibition objects.)

Earlier this year, I started seeing promotional material from the Met about a major Raphael exhibition, which started in late March. I finally decided to go on Sunday, May 3rd. That gave me about a week to cram for it, so I spent my evenings reading articles and watching videos1 about Raphael and the Renaissance.

After seeing the exhibition, I ended up with a few thoughts worth sharing.

The curator, Carmen Bambach, previously organized the Met’s Leonardo da Vinci exhibition in 2003 and the Michelangelo exhibition in 2017. This new Raphael exhibition in 2026 completes her trilogy on the three giants of the High Renaissance.

The exhibition reportedly took eight years to prepare. I assume most of that time went into persuading museums around the world to lend their masterpieces. Eight years in the making—was it worth it?

The line started outside the museum entrance. The white tent in the background was being set up for the Met Gala the next day, May 4th.
The queue continued outside the exhibition hall itself. People were genuinely excited for this show.
Raphael’s life journey: born in Urbino in 1483, trained in Perugia as a teenager, arrived in Florence at age 21 in 1504, moved to Rome at age 25 in 1508, and died there in 1520 at only 37 years old.
The first thing visitors see upon entering the exhibition is this self-portrait drawn at around age seventeen. The lines look effortless, but the technical skill is already astonishing.

Following the exhibition’s official structure, we begin at the beginning.

Raphael was born in 1483 in the small Italian city of Urbino. He remained proud of his hometown throughout his life and often signed his works “Raphael of Urbino.”

Urbino itself may have been small, but culturally it punched far above its weight. Its duke—famous today for the celebrated double portrait in the Uffizi—had risen from the world of mercenary warfare to become one of the great Renaissance patrons of the arts.

Raphael’s father was both a painter and a poet, closely connected to the ducal court. As a child, Raphael grew up surrounded by courtly manners, humanist culture, and artistic ambition. In modern internet terms, he was basically raised in an unusually refined small-town elite circle.2

An epic poem written by Raphael’s father celebrating the achievements of the Duke of Urbino.

Raphael showed extraordinary talent from a young age, and his father sent him to train in Perugia under Perugino.

Perugino was no minor painter. His fresco The Delivery of the Keys in the Sistine Chapel remains one of the defining works of the Italian Renaissance.

Raphael was ambitious, studious, and disciplined. He climbed the workshop hierarchy quickly—from pupil, to apprentice, to collaborator, and eventually to independent master. Comparing Perugino’s Marriage of the Virgin with Raphael’s later version, you can already see the student surpassing the teacher.

At Perugino’s workshop, Raphael learned not only how to paint, but also how to systematize artistic production. Renaissance workshops functioned almost like highly organized studios: assistants, reusable designs, scaling methods, and efficient workflows allowed masters to fulfill large numbers of commissions quickly. This experience would later shape Raphael’s own enormous studio in Rome.

This cartoon drawing is covered with tiny pinholes around the contours of the figure. The holes were used to transfer the image onto another surface by dusting charcoal powder through them. The grid lines helped with scaling. Cut-and-paste compositional methods like this allowed workshops to recombine figures into new paintings efficiently. Two different paintings are related to this study: the next image below, and Perugino’s Lamentation over the Dead Christ. Try spotting the figure yourself.
The figure on the right side of this painting was created using the study shown above.

Between 1500 and 1507, the young Raphael traveled across the Marche, Umbria, and Tuscany regions producing altarpieces and small devotional paintings.

The Colonna Altarpiece—finally, one of the Met’s own Raphael holdings. Notice the perspective construction of the Virgin’s throne, the rhythm created by gestures and eye contact between the figures, and the careful color balance. Saint Peter’s yellow robe in the lower left echoes the yellow worn by the angel in the upper right. Reds and greens are paired in similar ways throughout the composition. Even the wall color chosen for the exhibition space seems carefully matched to the painting’s rare patches of blue.
A close-up of the Virgin’s left leg. Raphael used tiny white highlights to simulate the sheen of black fabric. The damage to the painting is also clearly visible.
The predella panels below the main altarpiece are incredibly detailed. The exhibition reunited them in their original arrangement for the first time since they were separated in 1663—clearly no small feat of negotiation and money. The central panel, The Procession to Calvary, comes from the National Gallery in London. The horses feel unmistakably influenced by Leonardo.
Angel fragment from the Baronci Altarpiece. The original work was largely destroyed in an earthquake. Raphael, still very young at the time, collaborated with an older painter on the commission. The angel’s bright blond hair and luminous colors strongly suggest Raphael’s hand.
Study for the head of Saint Thomas from the Oddi Altarpiece.
Study for the head and hands of Saint Thomas from the Oddi Altarpiece.

This young man is witnessing the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, moving from doubt to belief in a single instant. I completely agree with the exhibition text that the drawings possess an ethereal quality missing from the finished painting.

The Oddi Altarpiece, photographed years ago at the Vatican Museums. The figure at the bottom center is Saint Thomas.

In 1504, twenty-one-year-old Raphael arrived in Florence.

There, he studied Michelangelo’s sculpture and Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings and drawings, especially Leonardo’s sketching techniques. Florence at the time was brutally competitive. Raphael struggled to win major public commissions or large altarpiece projects.

But eventually he found his breakthrough in a different genre.

Raphael became famous for paintings of the Madonna and Child, especially the so-called Madonna of Tenderness: intimate images of mother and infant touching cheek to cheek.

These works were usually relatively small and intended for wealthy private homes rather than churches. The healthy child and loving mother carried emotional as well as religious meaning. Childbirth in Renaissance Europe was dangerous, and maternal mortality rates were high.

Raphael’s own mother likely died from childbirth complications when he was only eight years old.

Suddenly these serene, beautiful Madonnas begin to feel less sentimental and more personal.

A church ledger from Urbino recording the expenses of Raphael’s mother’s funeral. She died from childbirth complications when Raphael was eight years old. His father died three years later. This oddly reminded me of Bach, who lost his mother at nine and father at ten. Both were gifted children shaped by early loss. Raphael’s parents had three children in total; only Raphael survived into adulthood.

Raphael inherited the tradition of depicting the Virgin Mary as an elegant blond aristocratic beauty, but he pushed the genre further. His Madonnas became more natural, more emotionally convincing, and above all, more human.

Out of all the Madonnas in the exhibition, curator Carmen Bambach reportedly considers the Alba Madonna the masterpiece of the group. It also became the exhibition’s poster image.
The Alba Madonna, painted around 1510 and now in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Mary sits on a tree stump in an ordinary landscape—not on a heavenly throne. The halos are so faint they almost disappear. Compared with earlier works like the Colonna Altarpiece, the painting feels far more human and intimate. Mary, Christ, and the infant John the Baptist are connected through glances and gentle touches. The Virgin’s expression is especially moving: loving, but with a hint of sadness, as if she already foresees Christ’s future suffering through the cross held by John. The misty background landscape and circular composition create an overwhelming sense of calm beauty.
Detail of the landscape on the right side. The contrast between light and shadow on the nearby tree is subtle but effective, while the distant buildings dissolve gradually into haze. Tiny riders on horseback emerge from just a few brushstrokes. Raphael’s technical control is unbelievable. I honestly never noticed these details in person or in my own photographs—I only discovered them later while zooming into the Wikipedia image.
Preparatory study for the Alba Madonna. A male model poses for the Virgin. Raphael barely sketches the right hand because it will later be covered by the two infants. The dark blotch near the head comes from a drawing on the reverse side of the paper bleeding through.
Another preparatory sheet. Even Raphael economized with paper: both sides are used, and small blank areas are filled with unrelated sketches.

Nearby were several other Madonna paintings, all beautiful, but personally none affected me as strongly as the Alba Madonna.

Continuing forward, the exhibition moved into its second major highlight:

Portrait painting was still a relatively new genre in Raphael’s time. Many of the sitters shown here were not only patrons, but also Raphael’s personal friends.

The classic Mona Lisa pose: half-turned body, face angled slightly left, upright posture, hands resting elegantly together. The sitter is believed to be the daughter of the Duke of Urbino mentioned earlier, who once wrote a letter to the Florentine government praising Raphael’s talent and character. Her left hand presses strangely hard against the lower edge of the frame, creating a subtle tension in the composition.
Portrait of a Young Woman with Unicorn—again using the Mona Lisa-style composition. The fabrics and jewelry are luxuriously rendered. The painting is now in Rome’s Borghese Gallery.
A remarkably stylish over-the-shoulder portrait of the banker Bindo Altoviti, now in the National Gallery of Art in Washington.
The sitter, Baldassarre Castiglione (1478–1529), was one of Raphael’s closest friends. Together they drafted a letter to the pope advocating for the preservation of ancient Roman monuments. The painting is now in the Louvre, which explains why I somehow missed it during my last visit there. Discussions of Raphael often invoke the Italian word sprezzatura—the art of making difficult things appear effortless. Castiglione himself coined the term in The Book of the Courtier, where it described the ideal aristocratic manner: elegance without visible strain. This portrait captures exactly that feeling. The hat conveniently hides his balding head, while the clothing appears simple but quietly luxurious.
One of Raphael’s late portraits, traditionally believed to depict his lover. Semi-nude female portraits were still unusual at the time. The painting is now in Rome’s Palazzo Barberini. Ironically, Raphael seems to have painted his own lover together with his student Giulio Romano. The ring on her left hand and the armband bearing Raphael’s signature are often interpreted as signs of their relationship. The same woman supposedly modeled for several of Raphael’s other works, including La Velata—though honestly, I’m not entirely convinced they look like the same person. Ingres later painted an imagined scene of Raphael and La Fornarina.
A distinctive small circular portrait of a gem engraver. Raphael designed the composition to resemble the sitter’s own artistic medium, almost as a tribute to his profession.

Raphael arrived in Rome in 1508.

The three great Renaissance masters each had dramatically different personalities. Leonardo was notorious for abandoning unfinished projects. Michelangelo fought obsessively with both patrons and marble blocks. Raphael, by contrast, was diplomatic, efficient, technically brilliant, and easy to work with. Patrons loved him.

As commissions poured in, Raphael gradually built a large workshop capable of executing his ideas at enormous scale—something Michelangelo famously mocked him for. Raphael would produce compositional drawings, while assistants and printmakers helped transform them into paintings and engravings that circulated across Europe.

Without reading the label, I initially thought this was a woman dancing. Something about her expression felt strangely tense, though. Only afterward did I notice the dagger in her right hand: she is about to stab herself. The image depicts the dramatic moment when the noblewoman Lucretia chooses suicide after being raped.
Print of The Death of Lucretia.
The Massacre of the Innocents, illustrating the Gospel story in which King Herod orders the killing of all infant boys in Bethlehem. This sequence of studies reveals the full evolution of a composition, from early sketches to finished work. The four related pieces came from four different museums. Organizing and categorizing dispersed preparatory drawings like this must have been an enormous curatorial challenge.
The Madonna of the Fish, now in Madrid’s Prado Museum. The Virgin sits enthroned with the Christ Child. On the left stands the archangel Raphael, patron saint of healing, travelers, and the blind. Tobias, below him, carries a fish referencing the Book of Tobit: after Tobias catches a miraculous fish under Raphael’s guidance, the fish’s gall is later used to cure his father’s blindness. The biblical story contains no Madonna and Child scene at all—Raphael invents the entire gathering. On the right stands Saint Jerome, translator of the Latin Bible, accompanied by his lion. The lion is unexpectedly adorable, almost cat-like. Throughout the composition, figures connect gracefully through gestures and eye contact. Napoleon took the painting to the Louvre during the occupation of Spain, though it was eventually returned after his downfall.
Preparatory composition study for The Madonna of the Fish. Raphael’s assistants served as models.
A modello for The Madonna of the Fish. By this stage, the composition is already extremely close to the final painting.
The Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia, a monumental altarpiece. Napoleon’s armies also carried this work to Paris before it was eventually returned to Italy. In its original church setting, the painting hung high above the altar, naturally directing viewers to look upward in imitation of Saint Cecilia herself. The exhibition intentionally recreated this elevated viewing angle.
The five central figures, from left to right: Saint Paul (with sword and epistles), Saint John (with eagle), Saint Cecilia, Saint Augustine (with bishop’s staff), and Mary Magdalene (with ointment jar). Each figure gazes in a different direction: Paul looks downward, Cecilia upward, John and Augustine toward each other, while Mary Magdalene stares directly outward, almost inviting the viewer into the scene. Above them, the heavens open and angels sing—though I have to admit some of these angels may have been painted by less gifted workshop assistants. Cecilia, patron saint of music, is so absorbed by heavenly harmony that her instrument slips from her hands. Broken instruments lie scattered below, suggesting that earthly music pales beside divine music. The title promises ecstasy, but what struck me most was Cecilia’s calmness. Her expression is serene rather than theatrical.
Preparatory modello for The Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia. The angels are rendered more carefully here, but the five main figures feel somewhat stiff compared to the finished painting. Interestingly, the Met owns an engraving based on the same design, though it was not included in the exhibition.
Study for Saint Paul.

Recommended by his fellow Urbino native Bramante, chief architect of Saint Peter’s Basilica, Raphael began painting frescoes for the pope.

The pope was so pleased with the results that Raphael soon found himself responsible for more and more projects, eventually producing the vast decorative cycles now known as the Raphael Rooms. Their walls and ceilings contain some of the most famous frescoes of the Renaissance, including The School of Athens.

Naturally, the Vatican could not exactly ship entire frescoed rooms to New York. Instead, the exhibition created a dark projection chamber cycling through immersive reproductions of the four rooms.

Projected reproduction of The School of Athens. The colors looked much more natural in person than in photographs. Each room was shown for only about thirty seconds before the projections shifted to the next space, which felt almost cruel given the overwhelming density of detail. Compared with the original, the door in the lower left is larger in the projection.
The original School of Athens at the Vatican. When I visited years ago, the crowd moved through the room like rush-hour subway traffic. There was barely any chance to actually look at the fresco properly; most people were simply checking off a bucket-list destination.

Pope Leo X commissioned Raphael to design a series of monumental tapestries for special ceremonies in the Sistine Chapel.

Part of the project seems to have been an attempt to compete with the memory of Pope Julius II, who had commissioned Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling. Leo X was effectively setting Raphael and Michelangelo against each other on the grandest possible stage.

The tapestries were woven in Brussels using silk, gold, and silver threads so expensive that they nearly bankrupted the papacy. European rulers immediately wanted their own sets. The examples shown in the exhibition belonged to King Philip II of Spain.

Their subjects come from the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. After centuries, many colors have faded, but one can still sense how staggeringly luxurious they must once have appeared.

Christ Giving the Keys to Saint Peter.
Saint Paul and Saint Barnabas at Lystra.
The Miraculous Draught of Fishes.

The Transfiguration was Raphael’s final and largest altarpiece. His death interrupted the project, which was later completed by his workshop. The original painting did not travel to New York, but many preparatory drawings were included.

Studies for Saint John and Saint Peter. The facial expressions and hand gestures are incredible.
The Transfiguration at the Vatican Museums.
According to the text, Raphael sent this drawing to Dürer to demonstrate his technical skill. I suppose this is how geniuses communicated with each other in the Renaissance.

After Bramante died in 1514, Raphael succeeded him as chief architect of Saint Peter’s Basilica. He later became responsible for surveying and protecting the ancient monuments of Rome.

A drawing by Raphael of an ancient Roman marble horse sculpture.
The final work in the exhibition: The Vision of Ezekiel, now in Florence’s Palazzo Pitti. The painting is physically small, but visually overwhelming.

At the height of his career, Raphael was simultaneously directing a massive workshop, decorating the Vatican rooms, overseeing construction at Saint Peter’s Basilica, and managing preservation projects for the ancient ruins of Rome.

Then, on April 6, 1520, he suddenly died at the age of thirty-seven and was buried in the Pantheon.

The cause of death remains uncertain. Some blamed poisoning by rivals. Others blamed excessive romantic activity. Personally, I suspect it may have had something to do with sprezzatura itself—that cultivated elegance which hides all visible strain. Too many responsibilities, too many expectations, the string pulled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped.

In Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, Raphael is described as possessing an extraordinarily rare humility and kindness. Vasari writes that Raphael could make people of every social class feel welcomed and at ease in his presence.

That line unexpectedly reminded me of Qin Keqing from Dream of the Red Chamber, one of the great Chinese novels. After her early death, characters from every generation and social rank in the household mourn her sincerely: elders remember her respectfulness, peers her warmth, servants her kindness. Everyone loved her.

Part of that ability is probably natural temperament. But part of it must also come from immense emotional effort.

Before this exhibition, my understanding of Raphael was mostly limited to familiar keywords like The School of Athens and “one of the three great Renaissance masters.” Only afterward—especially while writing this essay—did I begin to feel I had some small understanding of the person behind the paintings.

My favorite works in the exhibition were clearly the Alba Madonna and The Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia.

The exhibition runs through June 28, and the Met has quietly continued adding material to the official website. The “Inside the Exhibition” texts appeared online after my visit, while the “Exhibition Objects” section was added even later, when I was nearly finished writing this post. Maybe they are gradually releasing more material to attract additional visitors.

If I had to criticize the exhibition slightly, I would say there were perhaps too many sketches and preparatory studies that felt, to a casual viewer like me, somewhat repetitive (the exhibition contains 33 paintings and 142 drawings by Raphael). Of course, Raphael paintings are major treasures wherever they reside, and borrowing them is incredibly difficult.

Structurally, the exhibition also felt somewhat front-heavy. The early sections followed a very clear narrative arc, while the later sections became more diffuse and sprawling. But perhaps that simply reflects Raphael’s own late career, when he was simultaneously operating across painting, architecture, archaeology, workshop management, and papal politics.

The exhibition also simplified certain historical complexities for the sake of storytelling. For example, the presentation strongly associated the Madonna paintings with Raphael’s Florentine period, even though the Alba Madonna was actually painted later in Rome. But honestly, these are details best left for readers to explore on their own. There’s no reason to overwhelm museum visitors with too many complications.

Besides the works mentioned above, here are several other Raphael paintings I had seen elsewhere before this exhibition.3

Madonna of the Goldfinch, at the Uffizi Gallery. The Uffizi also holds Raphael’s Portrait of Leo X and self-portrait, though somehow I barely noticed them during my visit.
Madonna of Foligno, Vatican Museums.
God the Father Blessing, at the Louvre.
Saint John the Baptist, at the Louvre.
Saint Michael Vanquishing Satan, at the Louvre.
Another version of Saint Michael Vanquishing Satan, also at the Louvre.
Portrait with a Friend, at the Louvre.
La Belle Jardinière, at the Louvre.

  1. Resources I found especially helpful included this anonymous review on 1point3acres, the exhibition walkthrough by David Weng and Keda on YouTube (probably the best discussion I found online), the Met’s official audio guide, the Met’s Inside the Exhibition materials, and the museum’s promotional video. Most amusingly, on the very morning of my visit, while doing some last-minute review, I discovered a newly uploaded exhibition vlog by Xelacroix and Casey. I don’t think it had even been online the night before. Then that afternoon, I unexpectedly ran into Casey at the exhibition itself. Some coincidences are difficult to explain. ↩︎

  2. I was genuinely curious how ChatGPT would translate certain Chinese internet slang and jokes into English. ↩︎

  3. There are still many Raphael works I have not seen in person, including the Portrait of Pope Julius II in London, the Madonna del Prato in Vienna, and the Sistine Madonna in Dresden. ↩︎

Updated on 2026-05-06
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