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The Martyr of the Solway (About 1871)
A woman stands waist-deep in icy water, hands bound, face lifted toward the sky. The tide rises around her, but her gaze stays fixed—not on the coming waves, but something beyond them. The wind whips her hair, the light catches her last breath. Martyrdom wears no fear here.
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The repentance of Saint Peter (1874)
A slumped figure clutches his face, fingers digging into weathered skin. The weight of betrayal hangs heavy in the dim light, his rough robes pooling around him like a discarded shroud. Shadows swallow the edges of the room, leaving only the raw anguish at its center exposed.
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Yellow Christ (1889)
A stark yellow Christ hangs on the cross, his body merging with the flat, vibrant fields behind him. The scene pulses with unnatural color—more vision than reality, where suffering and landscape become one.
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A Young Saint
A young saint stands in quiet contemplation, bathed in soft light. The folds of her robe whisper devotion, while her distant gaze hints at visions unseen. There’s holiness here, not in grandeur, but in the stillness of a moment suspended between earth and something beyond.
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Misericordia
A woman cradles a wounded man, her cloak wrapping them both in warmth. Blood stains his feet, her hands steady against his pain. The folds of fabric seem to breathe—a quiet moment where suffering meets solace.
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The Three Marys (ca. 1906–1911)
Three women gather in hushed sorrow, their draped robes pooling around them like shadows. The weight of loss hangs between them, unspoken yet palpable in their bowed heads and clasped hands. A moment suspended—not in grief’s climax, but its quiet aftermath.
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The Calling of the Apostles Peter and Andrew (1308-1311)
Two fishermen wade through shallow water, their nets abandoned on the shore. A figure on the bank reaches toward them with an urgent gesture. The lake’s surface ripples faintly, catching the light as their lives pivot in an instant.
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The Tower of Babel (Rotterdam) (circa 1563-1565)
A half-built tower spirals into stormy clouds, dwarfing the ant-like workers scrambling across its scaffolding. Below, a king’s entourage arrives—too late. The structure already tilts, its ambition crumbling under divine wrath. Bricks lie scattered like fallen pride.
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