Naples. Art at the Royal Palace of Capodimonte.
Dec 05, 2025
Capodimonte in late afternoon. The Palazzina dei Principi and palm trees, seen from the side of the Royal Palace. (A watercolor in my sketchbook, done the next day.)
Thursday November 6, 2025
After a truly terrible night in a too-hot apartment — fitful sleep, when sleeping at all, and bad dreams – we finally awoke at 11:15, figured out how to better ventilate the bedroom, had some breakfast at home, and eventually left on the metro for the Royal Palace of Capodimonte, one of the world’s major art museums, since it was far too late to try to go to Pompeii. It was a ten-stop metro ride, and then a fairly long bus ride. All the Italians on the bus were talking loudly to each other but we couldn’t tell about what. “Bologna” kept coming up, so maybe football? It wasn’t obvious; the only thing that was clear was that they didn’t know each other, but that was no barrier to lively conversation. When they realized we weren’t sure where to get off, two of the women started debating. Finally the younger one signaled to us to listen to her and follow her off the bus (this was after the older one had gotten off, pulling us with her, with the younger woman gesticulating wildly for us to get back on the bus). We did as she said, and soon found ourselves at the entrance to the park complex.
The former palace of the Bourbons is immense. It was built by Charles of Bourbon beginning in 1738, on a tall wooded hill that became the royal hunting park, with a commanding view of the bay of Naples, and Vesuvius beyond. Charles’ mother, Elizabeth Farnese, was married to Philip V of Spain, and had an enormous art collection that eventually came to Naples. Much of it is still exhibited here, though some 500 paintings were pillaged by Napoleon’s troops and went to France.
The palace is currently under renovation, but they’re doing it in such a way as to keep the museum open. (We saved nearly the entire price of the Campania ArteCard pass on this admission alone.) Then it was a climb up three flights of wide unlit stairs to the second floor galleries. In the very first room, dimly lit, I was stunned as my eyes adjusted to realize I was facing two larger-than-lifesize Michelangelo charcoal cartoons (preparatory drawings for frescoes). The drawings were protected by glass, but there were no guards or other barriers, so we were able to get very close to them.
Michelangelo Buonarroti. Group of Armigers. 1546-1550. Detail from 19 sheets of paper glued to canvas, pricked in preparation for pouncing with charcoal dust for transfer to plaster for fresco painting.
Even in the low light I could see the individual marks clearly, and follow his hand across the paper as he drew the strong forms. It would be an afternoon of one extraordinary work after another, but to me, these drawings remained the most moving. The full image is shown below.
Then, in the first room, shimmering Italian Renaissance paintings by Filippino Lippi, Mantegna, Botticelli.
Above, Detail of an Annunciation by Filippino Lippi.
Madonna and child with angels by Botticelli
In the next gallery, many Rafaels.
The hand of a cardinal, painted by Rafael.
Then, the first of many, many Titians.
Detail of a portrait of Philip II, by Titian (1553-4).
Further along, in rooms where the lights don’t even stay on but are motion-activated when you walk in, two very famous Breugels.
Pieter Breugel the Elder, The Misanthrope, (tempera).
Another room packed with ancient Greek vases and terracotta figurines; helmets; Roman glass; chinoiserie; Meissen porcelains.
Roman glass.
Long hallways filled with Dutch landscapes and still lives; wide doorways opening into large unlit galleries and parallel corridors: it was once a palace. Not a guard in sight, and perhaps twenty other visitors the entire time we were there, almost never in the same rooms where we were.
Finally we went upstairs to the third floor, where there were only two galleries open, first the entrance gallery with some stunning portraits by Francesco Maria Mazzola, known as “Parmigiano,” especially his Antea, in which the beautiful aristocratic Roman girl — a courtesan? the artist’s lover? — wears a mink fur, its head seeming to bite her gloved hand.
Parmigiano, Antea
And in the very large main gallery, many Titians. (I was glad to see a guard in this hall of priceless treasures — bored in his chair, but at least present!) At the far end, the famous Judith Beheading Holofernes by Artemisia Gentisleschi hangs on the right. Across from it is Titian’s gorgeous Danaë and the Shower of Gold.
Titian, Danaë and the Shower of Gold.
Originally commissioned to be a portrait of the mistress of Cardinal Alessandra Farnese, perhaps the artist or the cardinal had the idea of making her into the mythological figure of Danaë. Although the painting was intended for the cardinal’s private chambers, one couldn’t be too overt…
Flanked by these two paintings, and alone on the large far wall, hangs Carvaggio’s Flagellation of Christ.
I studied Titian’s Danaë forquite a while, holding back from my inevitable confrontation with the Caravaggio.* But finally I did turn and stand in front of this extraordinary painting for a long time, moved to be essentially alone with it, and astonished by the painter’s mastery of form and composition which give the painting tremendous concentrated tension and power. One of the reasons I wanted to make this trip was to see the Caravaggios that are in Naples and Syracuse, all from the final years of his short life. I plan to write an essay about these experiences, specifically, later this winter.
The Flagellation of Christ, by Caravaggio, 1607.
We looked at each other, wide-eyed, as we walked down the palace steps: physically tired from our jetlag and lack of sleep, and also emotionally and visually –- it had been a lot to take in and a lot of concentration. The sun had already set by the time we left the museum, so we walked briefly around the beautiful grounds, unable to see them very well, and then headed for the bus back to the city center below.
Napoli from Capodimonte, as painted by Dunouy Alexandre-Hyacinthe in 1813 — the view that we didn’t see. Apparently there is a belvedere below the palace. From where we were, the trees obstructed the view, and it was nearly dark.
At the bus stop, I asked if anyone could help us make sure we had the right bus, and after another animated discussion, one fellow escorted us across and down the street to a bus stop in the other direction, saying the direct bus downtown would be faster than returning the way we had come. We got off several blocks before Piazza Dante and made our way to Pizza Starita, in a narrow street full of careening motorbikes; they didn’t open for 45 minutes so we had a coffee at a cafe/bar up the street and came back for two truly stellar pizzas, plus a glass of thick, local Campanian red wine.