1992, Tea Party, 18x24 inches, oil on stretched canvas, by Kenney Mencher

This painting is part of my Fresh Finds project, where I’m revisiting older work from the 1990s. I painted Tea Party in 1992 while I was living in Davis and showing at John Natsoulas Gallery. The label from that show is still on the back.

At the time, I was heavily influenced by the Bay Area Figurative painters, and I was also thinking about how language worked in queer culture. “Tea party” was a term that, depending on context, could mean a gossipy get-together or something more coded—like a cruisy encounter in a place like a subway. This painting hints at that underground vibe without being explicit.

I based it on a reference image of three guys coming out of a subway, one of them grabbing his crotch. I really liked the dramatic lighting—sort of backlit with yellow and orange, like a blast of energy behind them. It’s painted in oil on canvas with loose brushwork and bold color.

I framed it at the time using some leftover molding from a friend’s framing shop. The reddish-brown frame is original to the piece.  https://www.kenneymencher.com/

2014, Los Angeles, 12x16 inches, oil on stretched canvas, by Kenney Mencher

Just added this piece to my Fresh Finds archive release. I painted it in 2014 after walking across a bridge in L.A.—recognized it later in La La Land, paused the movie, and sketched it out. Built it up with thick, visible brushstrokes in a Bay Area Figurative style.

12x16 inches, oil on canvas. Never shown before—now available.

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18th C History Painting

 

Benjamin West, Death of General Wolfe, 1770
oil on canvas, 5'x7' National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, British History Painting

We're moving into the late 1700s and heading into the 1800s, and there’s a lot happening during that time. Some historians call this the long nineteenth century because they think the big changes that shaped the 1800s got going in the 1780s. That idea kind of makes sense, especially when you look at the styles and cultural shifts starting to show up at the end of the 18th century. Styles start branching out more here—some become more formal, and some get more symbolic. This adds a layer of complexity when studying art from this period. You’ll notice that artists start becoming strongly associated with particular styles, so it helps to link their names to how their work looks.

Take Benjamin West as an example. He was born in America but worked in England and had patrons there. While it might be tempting to just call him an English painter, it’s more accurate to describe him as an American artist working under English patronage. His work often focused on English subjects, and one of the genres he worked in was called history painting. That term doesn’t mean it's about ancient history necessarily—it’s more like a staged scene of current or recent events. You can think of it kind of like a news photo that’s been retouched or set up for dramatic effect.

Looking at one of West’s well-known paintings, it helps to focus on how it’s built up visually. The arrangement of figures is sort of flat across the front, like a frieze—a design style that goes back to things like the Ara Pacis Augustae in Rome or the Panathenaic procession in ancient Greece. The figures are pushed toward the front of the painting, almost like a shallow relief sculpture. They’re posed with these exaggerated gestures meant to show emotion, but also a bit theatrical, almost like they’re posing or voguing for the viewer.

Behind them, there’s another set of figures in the background that are less clear. These are shown with sfumato or atmospheric perspective, where the haze makes things look more distant. As you look further back, the smoke and clouds blur the details even more, adding depth and mood to the scene.

The lighting in the painting helps shape the bodies. There’s a clear light source coming from the left, casting shadows, and creating a sense of volume through techniques known as chiaroscuro and tenebrism. These are terms for how light and shadow are used to model the figures, making them look three-dimensional. The brightest part of the light falls on a wounded figure in the middle, drawing your eye there. What makes that even more noticeable is the diagonal line running through the painting, created by a flag and the shapes of the clouds. That diagonal helps guide your eye and adds energy to the scene.

A lot of what West is doing here comes from what he learned from earlier artists like Caravaggio and Velázquez. He’s borrowing techniques like dramatic lighting and strong composition to heighten the storytelling. These were tools used in Baroque painting, and West is applying them to a modern historical subject, blending old methods with recent events.

One way to look at Benjamin West’s painting The Death of General Wolfe is by focusing on the iconography, which basically means the use of symbols and visual elements that carry meaning. This painting doesn’t just tell a story through how it looks—it also connects to historical context and some ideas that were going around in the 1700s.

During the 18th century, there were ongoing struggles between European powers over land in the Americas. England and France were especially active in trying to claim territory because they saw the Americas as a source of valuable natural resources. Controlling these resources was seen as a way to strengthen their economies, especially during the early phases of industrialization. The British and French both formed alliances with Native American groups during these conflicts. In Canada, for example, a series of battles known as the French and Indian Wars took place, where both sides relied on Native American support.

At the same time, Europeans were still trying to figure out how to categorize and understand Native American cultures. After Columbus arrived in the Americas, questions were raised in Europe about whether Indigenous people had souls or could be “saved.” Over time, this led to the idea that Native Americans were what European thinkers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau might call noble savages—people who lived outside of European civilization but were still seen as naturally moral or pure in some way. This idea was used to justify attempts to convert them to Christianity. It wasn’t just a personal belief system; it shaped how artists, writers, and governments talked about Indigenous people.

These ideas show up in West’s painting. He was an American-born painter working in England, and he often supported British perspectives in his work. In this painting, he shows General James Wolfe, a British officer, dying during the 1759 Battle of Quebec. Wolfe is placed in the center of the scene, surrounded by a group of men. His pose and the way he’s lit make him look a lot like traditional images of Christ, especially from scenes known as depositions, where Christ is taken down from the cross. The way Wolfe's body is shown—laid out and gently supported by those around him—closely matches the structure of those religious paintings.

West used this setup to make Wolfe appear as a kind of martyr, but instead of dying for religion, Wolfe is shown dying for his country. The British flag in the scene is positioned in a way that mirrors how a cross might appear in a Christian painting, reinforcing the connection. This kind of imagery wasn’t new—artists had used religious symbolism for centuries—but here, it’s being used to support national identity and politics rather than religion.

The painting reflects how visual art in the late 1700s began to play a role in shaping political ideas, not just spiritual ones. The symbols used—like Wolfe’s pose, the lighting, and the arrangement of figures—are pulled from earlier Christian imagery and adapted to tell a national story.

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Printmaking and the Renaissance

 

It makes sense to start a talk about the Renaissance and the Reformation by looking at a library. The library at San Lorenzo in Florence had books and functioned almost like a public library. In Florence, the Medici family supported humanistic education. They believed that the more educated a person was, the better they could participate in government and become a more moral person.

At the beginning of what became known as the Reformation, books and the way information was shared became especially important. A major innovation during this time was the invention of the movable type printing press. To us, that might not seem like a big deal, but it completely changed how information was spread. A helpful comparison is the way copy machines and the internet allowed people to create and share content without needing permission from a central authority. Just like social media helped spread ideas during events like the revolution in Egypt, printing allowed people in the 15th and 16th centuries to share new ideas more freely.

Johannes Gutenberg is usually credited with inventing the movable type printing press in the 1450s, though others were working on similar ideas around the same time. Movable type was actually invented earlier in China, but it wasn’t widely adopted there—possibly due to the complexity of the Chinese writing system, which includes thousands of characters.

Gutenberg’s key insight was that instead of carving a full page of text, you could make small, reusable letter blocks. These could be arranged to form words and lines, then reset and used again. The letters were organized alphabetically in boxes, and a typesetter would place them in a frame to form a page. They had to be set backward, like a mirror image, because printing reverses the layout.

This process was much faster and cheaper than carving each page by hand, which could take weeks. Typesetting a page might take only a day or two, and dozens of copies could be printed from a single setup. Once finished, the letters were sorted back into their boxes for reuse. This method lowered the cost of producing books dramatically and made printed material far more accessible.

After printing maybe 50 or 100 copies of a page, the printer could reuse all the letters again for a new page. This made printing way faster and much cheaper—cutting costs by about 95%. It was such a change that even the idea of children’s alphabet blocks comes from the way these letters were stored and used during printing.

One person who used this printing revolution was Erasmus of Rotterdam. He was a major thinker during the Reformation and wrote a book in 1503 called The Handbook of the Christian Knight. In it, Erasmus said people should read the Bible for themselves, think about its meaning, and try to live more like Jesus. This idea wasn’t totally new—people like Saint Francis had pushed similar ideas earlier—but Erasmus helped popularize it by publishing it in book form.

He also made a new translation of the Bible by going back to the original Hebrew, Greek, and Latin sources. That made his version of the Bible more accurate and readable for scholars of the time. Once people started reading it for themselves, they began to question the church’s teachings and how information had been controlled.

Most students are taught that the church didn’t allow regular people to read the Bible. While that’s partly true, it wasn’t just about control. Books, even printed ones, were expensive, and not everyone was literate. Still, Erasmus's ideas encouraged people to read for themselves and ask questions.

His work had a big impact on Martin Luther. Luther was born to a peasant family, though his father was fairly wealthy and wanted Martin to move up in the world. He sent Luther to study law. One day, while traveling home across a field, Luther got caught in a thunderstorm. A lightning strike hit nearby, and he panicked. He dove into the mud and made a vow to God that if he survived, he would dedicate his life to God and become a monk.

When he made it home safely, he remembered the promise and followed through, even though his father wasn’t happy about it. As a monk, Luther took his vows seriously—maybe too seriously. His superiors noticed and asked him to read more theological texts to help him balance his thinking.

Luther read works by Saint Augustine and other theologians. One idea stood out to him: that people could be saved through faith alone. This idea of salvation by faith—rather than by doing good deeds—helped him ease his own guilt and anxiety. It was also something he found in the Bible, which made it even more important to him. This idea eventually became a core part of his beliefs and actions later during the Reformation.

Martin Luther really thought deeply about these issues. He was educated and committed to his beliefs, and his thinking came from the humanistic tradition that had been developing since the 1300s in places like Florence and Rome. This tradition focused on critical thinking, and Luther became one of the people who took it seriously. He read Erasmus, thought about salvation, and found the idea of salvation by faith—the belief that one could be saved through belief in God rather than by doing good works—especially important.

This all came together for him when he saw what he believed to be corruption within the Catholic Church. Around that time, there was a Dominican friar named Johann Tetzel who worked with Pope Leo X, a member of the Medici family. Pope Leo had spent a lot of money and was looking for ways to refill the papal treasury. So, they increased the sale of indulgences—documents people could buy that supposedly reduced their time in purgatory. These were sold widely, and salesmen were sent out to promote them.

To Martin Luther, this idea seemed totally wrong. He didn’t think someone could buy their way into heaven. The sale of indulgences had been around before, but under Pope Leo X, they became a major source of income. Alongside this, Leo’s advisors also pushed the idea of papal infallibility, which was the claim that the pope could not be wrong when making decisions about doctrine. While the idea had been around before, it hadn’t been clearly stated in this way. Some of these declarations even suggested the pope had authority over the Bible itself.

Luther reacted by writing a list of 95 points of concern—what we call his 95 Theses. He didn’t actually nail them to a church door in Wittenberg, as many people believe. Instead, he sent a letter to the pope and to Tetzel, calling out what he saw as abuse and overreach in the church. He mostly focused on the sale of indulgences and didn’t even go into papal infallibility at first.

Tetzel and other church leaders were furious. They accused Luther of heresy and summoned him to defend his ideas. This led to a formal meeting called the Diet of Worms in 1521. The term diet here means a council or formal assembly, and Worms is a city in present-day Germany. This meeting was part of the Holy Roman Empire’s way of handling political and religious debates.

Luther was promised safe conduct—meaning they guaranteed his safety even if he was found guilty. He went, explained his views, and was asked to recant, or take back, what he had written. At first, the focus was on indulgences, but the discussion shifted to the idea of papal infallibility. According to historian Andrew Fix of Lafayette University, the church pressed Luther hard on this issue. Luther said no—he could not agree that the pope was infallible. That statement was a turning point.

After the meeting, Luther had 48 hours to leave town. His refusal to back down from his beliefs, especially his rejection of papal infallibility, marked a key moment in the conflict between reformers and church authorities.

After Martin Luther was found guilty of heresy, he was excommunicated by the Catholic Church. But one of the local nobles helped him escape and hid him for a while. Word of what Luther had done spread quickly, and many people supported him. Luther probably never intended to spark a large-scale rebellion, but that’s what happened. A lot of people, especially in the northern parts of Europe like Germany and the Netherlands, were frustrated with the Catholic Church—not just over indulgences, but also over taxes and other ways the Church had control over their lives. People didn’t want to keep sending money to Rome or have Italian Church leaders influencing their governments.

Luther ended up becoming a kind of symbol for resistance against Church control, even if he didn’t plan for that to happen.

This whole movement also affected art. For example, Lucas Cranach, a German artist who supported Luther’s ideas, made prints that were basically visual arguments for Reformation beliefs. One of his woodcuts uses a scene from Matthew, chapter 21, where Jesus enters the temple and throws out the merchants and money changers. According to the story, Jesus said, “My house shall be a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of thieves.” This was about stopping people from doing business inside a sacred space on the Sabbath, which was against Jewish law.

In Cranach’s woodcut, that story is updated. On the left panel, Jesus is shown in 1500s-style clothing, throwing out merchants dressed like German businessmen. The apostles are behind him. On the right panel, it shows the pope seated with a table in front of him, counting money and indulgences. The top of that panel is labeled A. Christie, short for Antichristus—meaning Antichrist. The idea here is that while Jesus acted to clean up religion, the pope was doing the opposite, focused on wealth. It’s set up as a diptych, or two-panel image, showing this contrast.

This kind of visual propaganda wasn’t limited to art. Pamphlets and broadsheets—single printed pages meant for wide distribution—were used to share Reformation ideas. By the 1540s, Martin Luther’s writings were published all over the Holy Roman Empire. One broadsheet published in Wittenberg was titled “Roman Devil” (Der Römer Teufel) and used bold imagery. It showed a Hellmouth, a popular image in medieval art, which was thought to be the entrance to Hell where the damned would be dragged during the Last Judgment.

In the print, there’s a figure sitting on a flaming stairway being crowned by demons. He’s got donkey ears and is wearing the papal tiara, the triple crown worn by popes. Though he looks like he’s praying, he’s shown being pulled into Hell. This is another example of how artists and writers during this period used familiar symbols and updated them to match their views about the Church. These images weren’t just illustrations—they were tools meant to convince people that the pope and the Church had lost their way.

This print ties into some of the ideas that were already being developed earlier in art and literature, like what we saw with Giotto in the 1300s. That work was still very much Catholic. Over time, ideas about the pope’s role began to shift, especially through the writing of figures like Dante and eventually Martin Luther, who believed the role of the pope had become corrupt.

In terms of art, the rise of printmaking really changed the game, especially in the north. Albrecht Dürer, a German artist, was the son of a goldsmith and trained in various techniques, including printmaking. He also traveled to Italy and was exposed to Renaissance ideas. As the Protestant Reformation spread, and the Catholic Church lost influence in parts of northern Europe, many churches were stripped of their artwork. Some art was even burned or removed. Stained glass windows were broken. Artists who used to rely on Church commissions were out of work, and many of them either went to Italy or had to figure out a new way to make a living—especially if they supported Protestant ideas.

Dürer found one way around that by making prints and selling subscriptions. It worked a lot like a magazine: you could subscribe and receive a series of printed images. Prints were cheaper than paintings and could be made in multiples, which let him reach more people and possibly even earn more money. Instead of making one painting for one buyer, he could make hundreds of copies and sell them individually.

But these prints also needed to line up with the beliefs of his audience. In Protestant areas, religious art was only acceptable if it clearly supported Christian teachings. Art couldn’t just be decorative or secular anymore. It had to be focused on religious instruction or moral ideas.

One of Dürer’s best-known prints from this period is called Knight, Death, and the Devil. While not directly quoting anyone, this piece lines up with the idea from Erasmus’s Handbook of the Christian Knight. That book talks about the idea that a Christian should be spiritually strong—like a knight—protected by faith the way a knight is protected by armor.

In the image, there’s a knight riding forward. Up in the background is a castle, which might be a symbolic reference to the City of God—a spiritual goal in Christian theology. The knight himself seems calm and focused. Right beside him is a skeletal figure holding an hourglass—this is a reference to memento mori, a Latin phrase meaning “remember that you will die.” Behind him is a creature representing the devil. The devil looks like he’s following, trying to distract or challenge the knight.

At the knight’s feet is a small dog, which could be a symbol of loyalty or faithfulness. There’s also a lizard or salamander near the ground, which might be meant to represent temptation or evil. At the very bottom is a skull, another memento mori symbol, reminding the viewer of mortality.

There’s also a little signature plaque worked into the image. It says 1513 and includes Dürer’s monogram—“AD”—which acted like his logo. The whole print was made with copperplate engraving, a technique that allowed for really fine detail and multiple reproductions. These prints would have been sold to individuals, especially those who supported the ideas of Martin Luther or were part of the Protestant movement.

Imagine having a print like Knight, Death, and the Devil in your home. If you were raising a kid and wanted to teach them to be a good Christian, you might pull out this image and use it to explain how to resist temptation, how to stay faithful, and what it means to live a moral life. These prints were copper engravings, and they were detailed and reusable. Later, we’ll look at how copper engraving differs from woodcut and intaglio printing.

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Angel, 1992, 18x24 inches, oil on stretched canvas, by Kenney Mencher (framed 19x25)

 

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This piece is part of my Fresh Finds project—a plan to release and reshare older works from my archive. I painted this in 1992 while I was in grad school at UC Davis, right after I met Valerie. I’d seen Annie Lennox on the cover of The Advocate with metal wings on her back, and that image stuck with me. It got me thinking about mixing materials and playing with texture in new ways.

At the time, I was working on my master’s in art history and experimenting with late 19th- and 20th-century techniques. I stretched the canvas myself, embedded lace into the second layer of gesso, and regessoed over it. I also found a little blue flower applique on an old piece of furniture and added that to the surface.

The angel figure—with red-orange wings and a pale blue dress—was painted with thick bristle brushes. There’s a lot of texture here, both from the lace and the paint application. The frame came from a roommate who ran a framing shop—he let me use molding in exchange for helping him cover rent, so a lot of my early work has handmade, ornate frames like this one.

Details

Title: Angel with Red Wings

Artist: Kenney Mencher

Year: 1992

Medium: Oil on canvas with embedded lace and found object (applique)

Size: 18 x 24 inches (painting), approx. 19 x 25 inches framed

Frame: Ornate gold frame from reclaimed molding

Condition: Excellent, original work, signed

Andrea Mantegna’s Lamentation over the Dead Christ

 

Andrea Mantegna’s Lamentation over the Dead Christ is a tempera painting on canvas, likely created in the late 15th century. Mantegna painted this work in Mantua, where he was a court artist for the ruling Gonzaga family.  The painting is now in the Pinacoteca di Brera in Milan, but where it was meant for is unknown. Unlike many religious paintings from this period, which were commissioned for churches or private chapels, there are no records confirming who commissioned this work or where it was first displayed. Some scholars have suggested it may have been intended for private devotion, while others believe it was part of a larger altarpiece that was later separated.

The painting follows the Christian tradition of depicting the Lamentation, a moment after Jesus’ crucifixion when his followers mourned his death. This scene was commonly painted during the Renaissance and was included in church decorations, altarpieces, and religious panels. The composition emphasizes Jesus' humanity by focusing on his body rather than surrounding narrative elements.

Andrea Mantegna’s painting shows Jesus reclining in a foreshortened pose, where his feet are closest to the viewer and project forward. His wounds from the stigmata are visible on his hands and feet. On the left side, Mary leans over him in mourning. Jesus has been removed from the cross and is about to be placed in the tomb.

The way Mantegna uses foreshortening makes Jesus look different from how the body would appear in real life. He probably does this out of respect to the viewer and Jesus.  (Who wants dirty feet in their face.)  A true foreshortened view would make the feet seem much larger compared to the rest of the body. A student drawing on the right side shows this effect—wherethe feet in the foreground are very big while the head and book in the background appear much smaller. Mantegna does not exaggerate the feet this way, likely because making them too large would shift attention to them rather than the rest of the scene. Adjusting the perspective this way makes the image more balanced for the viewer.

Jesus' drapery is also carefully arranged, outlining his body. Art historian Leo Steinberg discussed this in his book The Sexuality of Christ, arguing that some artists emphasized Jesus’ human form to show that he had a physical body like any other man but chose not to give in to earthly temptations. This follows ideas from Platonism, where physical beauty and spiritual purity are linked. Jesus’ muscular body resembles classical Greek sculptures, showing a connection to humanism and Renaissance interest in ancient art.

Foreshortening was a challenge for artists, and different techniques were used to get proportions right. Leon Battista Alberti, an early theorist on perspective, wrote a treatise explaining how artists could use mathematical systems to depict depth. Later, in the 1520s, Albrecht Dürer, a German artist, created diagrams showing how to measure foreshortened objects accurately. One method, called squaring up, used a grid on paper and a wire veil to help artists copy what they saw more accurately. By keeping their eye in the same position and drawing each section of the grid separately, they could create a more realistic sense of depth.

Another illustration shows an artist using a similar device to draw a lute in perspective. A recreation of this tool in the lower right corner demonstrates how it worked. These perspectivetools helped Renaissance artists experiment with linear perspective and create more convincing space in their paintings.

Mantegna and other artists of this time adjusted foreshortening and perspective to fit their artistic and religious goals. While they were interested in reviving classical techniques, they also made changes to ensure that their work fit with Christian ideas and respect for the viewer. Many of these techniques, like linear perspective and careful use of chiaroscuro, became standard in later Renaissance painting.

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Masaccio, The Tribute Money

     

            Masaccio’s The Holy Trinity with Donors creates an illusion of space using linear perspective, chiaroscuro (light and shadow), and shading techniques. These elements add depth and structure to the painting, making it appear more lifelike.

Another fresco by Masaccio, The Tribute Money, uses similar techniques to create volume and realism. In this fresco, Peter is shown paying the Roman tax collector. The use of chiaroscuro—an Italian term meaning "light and shadow"—helps define the forms, making them appear three-dimensional. A highlight, transitional tones, and cast shadows make objects, like Peter’s head and drapery, appear solid. The light source in The Tribute Money is consistent, coming from the upper right, which helps unify the figures and the background. The shadows fall naturally, similar to how light works in real life.

Masaccio builds on techniques developed by Giotto, who experimented with intuitive perspective. While Giotto used shading and overlapping figures to suggest depth, Masaccio takes it further by applying mathematical perspective. This makes his paintings appear more structured and spatially accurate.

In The Tribute Money, located in the Brancacci Chapel in Santa Maria del Carmine in Florence, Masaccio combines two biblical stories from the Gospel of Matthew, chapters 17 and 22. The scene shows Jesus and his disciples being questioned about paying taxes. Jesus tells Peter to catch a fish, which will have a coin in its mouth, enough to pay the tax. The story ispainted as a continuous narrative, meaning multiple moments from the story appear in a single image.

 

Above this fresco, another panel shows The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise. The Archangel Michael is pushing them out of the Garden of Eden. Their bodies are idealized with muscular forms, similar to ancient Greek sculptures. The lighting and shading in the fresco emphasize their expressions and gestures. Some scholars suggest Adam covers his face out of shame, while Eve hides her body in embarrassment.

In The Tribute Money, figures stand in contrapposto, a natural stance where weight shifts onto one leg. This technique, first used in ancient Greek sculptures, makes the figures appear balanced. The tax collector is positioned in the center, with his hand outstretched. Peter, on the right, gives him the coin, while on the left, Peter is also shown pulling the coin from the fish’s mouth. Jesus is in the center, surrounded by disciples, pointing toward Peter.

The perspective lines of the fresco lead to a single vanishing point located behind Jesus’s head. This technique directs attention to the central figure. The background also fades in color, using aerial perspective (or atmospheric perspective), where distant objects appear lighter and less detailed, similar to how landscapes look in real life.

The fresco also reflects theological ideas from Augustine of Hippo, who wrote about the City of God and the City of Man. The right side, where taxes are paid, represents the temporary world of men, while the left side, with mountains and open space, symbolizes the eternal world of God.  This is a “perspective” augmented by Masaccio’s use of linear perspective.   The placement of Jesus in the center, his head placed in front of the vanishing point, visually separates these two realms.

Masaccio’s The Tribute Money tells a biblical story using symbols that divide the painting into two parts, representing two different worlds. The right side, where Peter hands a coin to the tax collector, is set in front of a building. This part of the fresco represents the City of Man, the temporary world where people live, work, and follow earthly laws. The left side of the fresco, where Peter pulls the coin from the mouth of a fish near the water, is surrounded by mountains and open space. This represents the City of God, which is eternal and connected to faith and divine truth.

 

Matthew Chapter 17

24  When they came to Capernaum, the collectors of the temple tax approached Peter and said, "Doesn't your teacher pay the temple tax?"

25 "Yes," he said. When he came into the house, before he had time to speak, Jesus asked him, "What is your opinion, Simon? From whom do the kings of the earth take tolls or census tax? From their subjects or from foreigners?"

26 When he said, "From foreigners," Jesus said to him, "Then the subjects are exempt.

27 But that we may not offend them, go to the sea, drop in a hook, and take the first fish that comes up. Open its mouth and you will find a coin worth twice the temple tax. Give that to them for me and for you."

 

Matthew Chapter 22

15  Then the Pharisees went off and plotted how they might entrap him in speech.

16 They sent their disciples to him, with the Herodians, saying, "Teacher, we know that you are a truthful man and that you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth. And you are not concerned with anyone's opinion, for you do not regard a person's status.

17 Tell us, then, what is your opinion: Is it lawful to pay the census tax to Caesar or not?"

18 Knowing their malice, Jesus said, "Why are you testing me, you hypocrites?

19 Show me the coin that pays the census tax." Then they handed him the Roman coin.

20 He said to them, "Whose image is this and whose inscription?"

21 They replied, "Caesar's." At that he said to them, "Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God."

22 When they heard this they were amazed, and leaving him they went away.

The story in the painting comes from the Gospel of Matthew, where tax collectors ask Peter if Jesus pays the temple tax. Jesus tells Peter to catch a fish, and inside its mouth, he will find a coin to pay the tax. This story connects to another passage in Matthew, where the Pharisees try to trick Jesus by asking whether people should pay taxes to the Roman Emperor, Caesar. If Jesus says no, he could be accused of disobeying Roman rule. If he says yes, it could seem like he supports Roman occupation. Instead, Jesus asks them to show him a Roman coin and points out that it has Caesar’s image on it. He then says, “Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.”

The painting visually separates these two ideas. The right side, with the building, represents the world where people must follow human laws, like paying taxes. The architecture has carefully drawn perspective lines that lead toward the vanishing point behind Jesus’ head. This part of the painting is structured and orderly, symbolizing human civilization and the rules of society.

The left side, where Peter retrieves the coin from the fish, is open and natural. The mountains in the background fade into the distance using aerial perspective, a technique where distant objects appear lighter and blurrier. This side represents the City of God, which is eternal and not ruled by human governments. Nature stretches beyond what can be seen, symbolizing the endlessness of divine truth.

Jesus is placed at the center of the composition, dividing the two realms. He points toward Peter, directing him to get the coin, but he also acts as a bridge between the physical world and the spiritual one. His placement suggests that faith does not ignore worldly responsibilities, but it also points toward something greater than earthly life.

The tax collector stands in contrapposto, a natural pose where his weight shifts onto one leg. His bright red robe makes him stand out. In the right scene, he is reversed, mirroring his earlier stance as he receives the coin. Peter appears three times in the painting, first listening to Jesus, then getting the coin from the fish, and finally paying the tax. This use of continuous narrative—showing multiple moments of a story in one image—was common in Renaissance frescoes.

The halos above Jesus and the apostles are elliptical instead of flat circles, following the perspective lines of the painting. This was different from earlier religious art, where halos were usually drawn as floating disks. The soft shading on the figures, created with chiaroscuro, helps make them look more three-dimensional.

Masaccio’s composition reinforces the message of the story. Jesus acknowledges that people must participate in the City of Man, following earthly rules, but he also emphasizes that the City of God is separate and eternal. The painting visually divides these two ideas, using architecture to symbolize human law and nature to represent divine truth. The perspective lines lead the viewer’s eye toward Jesus, reinforcing his role as the one who connects both worlds.

Masaccio’s fresco techniques influenced later artists like Leonardo da Vinci, who used pyramidal composition to create balanced figures, and Mantegna, who experimented with foreshortening. These techniques continued to shape Renaissance painting, setting the foundation for realistic depictions of space and form.

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