The Massacre of the Innocents: the biblical horror that art turned into an investment

The Massacre of the Innocents, a classic of bad taste and of the market

Art history is no refuge for the faint of heart. Between virgins and saints, churches and museums hang scenes of infanticide as casually as a still life. The Massacre of the Innocents, that episode of the New Testament so violent that the modern liturgy prefers to mention only in passing, was for centuries a routine commission. And today, on top of that, a tidy business.

From Giotto to Rubens, via Tintoretto, Poussin or Duccio, every era put its own spin on the commission. But the most expensive version to date came in 2002: Rubens's, sold at Sotheby's for £49.5 million. Not bad for a painting showing soldiers slitting babies' throats while mothers struggle in vain. Pavor as a financial asset.

Power watches from the tower

Giotto, in the Scrovegni Chapel, placed Herod up high, like a luxury voyeur while others get their hands dirty. That image of power observing without taking part recurs in almost every version. In Duccio's, Herod and his advisers look like a board of directors approving layoffs: the same old scheme, just with a smaller budget.

Some argue these works are a scathing critique of power; others believe they are mere spectacle. What is certain is that the artists knew how to sell the product: stylized violence, recognizable martyrs, grandiose executioners. Tintoretto's Mannerism, depending on how you look at it, is perfect for selling antiestéticar with class.

Cinema and censorship, before they existed

The curious thing is that some details of these paintings seem straight out of a modern news broadcast. In Cornelis van Haarlem's version, the soldiers appear naked, but a lock of hair supposedly covers the body parts that were not to be shown. As early as 1590, modesty was applied selectively: sensual decency mattered more than the massacre. A logic that, centuries later, still holds in media that pixelate a nipple and broadcast bombings in prime time.

The dog that smells the carrion

Rubens, in his Munich version, introduces a detail the guidebooks rarely mention: a black dog sniffing at corpses. That grim realism is what separates the great painter from mere sensationalism. The artist knew that after the massacre come the vultures, whether dogs or bankers. And the mother biting the executioner's sword sums up desperation taken to the absurd: biting the steel, impossible, but there is nothing else left.

An uncomfortable conclusion

The uncomfortable question is why these images still fascinate. If the art market keeps beautifying the massacre, it would be no surprise to see, within the next decade, a digital version fetching nine figures. But, as in the paintings, the angels always end up smiling from heaven while on earth the dog sniffs on.