The Allure of Evil in Art

The victim, the witness and the perpetrator

Evil and art have a long history. For almost as long as we have existed, we have externalised the things we fear most. The Ancient Egyptians made reliefs of Apophis, the snake god of chaos and darkness continually trying to consume Ra, the Sun god. The Aztecs evoked the feared Tezcatlipoca, the ‘smoking mirror’ in their art. Christians for millennia have depicted the devil haunting the margins of numerous books and manuscripts.

Over the centuries though, the relationship between art and evil has remained in constant flux. Far from being a simple visceral reminder of our greatest fears, evil in art is often used to say more about the observer than the art itself, as I shall go on to demonstrate. I’ve broken evil down into three categories, which I believe broadly cover evil in art, the role it plays and its relation to the viewer.

We, as observers and consumers of art, are either its victims, witnesses, or perpetrators.


I’ll start with what I think is the rarest form of evil in art — that which makes the viewer the victim of evil. It takes a special confronting kind of art to achieve this effect. We must not only be addressed by the piece but overcome by it. For me, there is no greater example of this than Peter Paul Rubens ‘Two Satyrs’, 1619.

Peter Paul Rubens ‘Two Satyrs’, 1619

The first thing we are drawn to in the painting is the eyes. The satyr is staring directly at us, cheeks flushed, with a wicked grin. Presumably, he has been drinking like his fellow satyr in the background. Satyrs are half-men, half-beast in Greek and Roman mythology and are the attendants of Bacchus (Dionysus). They are distinct from similar creatures like fauns and centaurs and their primary focus is to entertain Bacchus and drink with their wild, indulgent god. They also have a reputation for debauchery, particularly sexual depravity, and are sometimes represented as being permanently erect. Combined with their wild lust, they make for an uncomfortable figure in mythology.

Rubens achieves something disturbing in this painting. Then as now, the context behind the art is important. Understanding this painting means understanding the nature of satyrs. To have one staring at you, grinning, with lust in his eyes is chilling to the core. We are victimised by the evil at play here, our own vulnerability seemingly reflected at us in the satyr’s ever-widening grin.


To be a witness to evil is to be a part of it. We are affected by the things we see and moved to action. Artists for millennia have played on our need to act and encouraged us to judge the subjects of their work. It’s no wonder then that being a witness to evil in art is the most common expression of the relationship between evil and art.

A great deal of religious art revolves around this premise. We are encouraged to judge the crucifiers and sympathise with Christ. It is a simple and sometimes passive relationship, meant to inspire contemplation of the suffering. But a huge amount of art play with us as witnesses on a different level.

A masterful example of this is William Bouguereau’s, ‘Dante and Virgil’, 1850. Deep in the bowels of Inferno, in a region known as the Malebolge (Rottenpockets), Dante, Virgil and a demon witness two men fighting with one another. Capocchio, a heretic, is bitten by the fraudster Gianni Schicchi. The violence here is visceral and shocking. To the bottom right a man lays crippled in pain and emerging from a glowing pit behind him are several other groups battling one another. Dante and Virgil are clearly sickened by what they see, but the demon revels in it. He is a creature of evil that delights in evil.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Dante and Virgil, 1850

Bouguereau has given us an interesting dynamic here, offering us two different choices. We know that these two men have been condemned to Hell for their crimes. We are not asked to judge whether they are guilty because we already know they are. What Bouguereau is subtly implying here has more to do with us as viewers of the art than the figures in it.

Put simply, he asks whether you are horrified by the animal barbarity of the men’s fate, or revel in it as the demon does. Bouguereau seems to suggest that you’re doing the latter. Of all the characters in the painting, the demon is the only one really looking out at you. His smile is almost conspiratorial, and his horrific features invite us to contemplate our own inner thoughts on how punishment and retribution must be exacted.

Caravaggio, Judith Beheading Holofernes, circa 1599

This kind of intimate relationship between subject and witness is different from what we find in many other paintings where we witness evil acts. For example, Caravaggio’s, ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’, 1558–1602, is powerful and shocking, but the focus is mostly on Judith. The brilliant light, her determined face and firm grip of the blade all seem to me to suggest a commitment and reassure the viewer that although this is a horrific, ‘evil’ act, it is right.

Picasso’s, ‘Guernica’, 1937, offers a different relationship too. We see the trauma of Nazi and Fascist Italy’s bombing campaign on the town of Guernica at the request of the Spanish nationalists. Surrealism here offers us nothing less than a world falling apart. Buildings burn, swords are broken, and men and animals lie in pieces. This is a painting of war on an industrial scale and Picasso overwhelms us with it. We are still witnesses here, but Picasso suggests that our judgement is meaningless. Our voices are drowned out by the falling of Fascist bombs, the lick of flames and the screams of the dying.


Finally, and perhaps most uniquely, we can be perpetrators of evil in art. This is where the true ‘allure of evil’ comes in. While Bouguereau’s demon asks us to think about ourselves, art where we take part in the evil, however subtly, asks no such thing of us.

In Europe, this type of art most commonly depicts Satan. The change from monstrous abomination to the complicated anti-hero Satan has become today is mostly the result of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton depicts a rebellious bad boy fighting against the establishment. His Satan is a far cry from the epitome of evil in we find in Christianity. Artists are quickly drawn to the idea. In fact, I would go so far as to say that our understanding of the devil/Satan/Lucifer should be considered in pre and post-Milton terms, especially where art is concerned.

William Blake, Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels, 1808

William Blake’s, ‘Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels’, 1808 is a testament to this. Here Satan is powerful and beautiful, a moving figure giving a rousing speech. We are encouraged to sympathise with him. Likewise, Thomas Stothard’s, ‘Satan Summoning His Legions,’ (c. 1790), presents us with a gilled figure, summoning an army. He appears almost imperial, a worthy challenger to the Almighty. We know that the figure in these paintings is meant to be emblematic of evil, and yet he is seductive and alluring. He seems passionate, a revolutionary and rebel, someone we could follow. The artists’ triumph here is to make us forget that evil is evil and draw us closer to darkness than we would ever have dared go ourselves.

These are the first steps toward where we are today with TV shows like Lucifer and Supernatural, where the devil is charming, and his diabolical nature extends no further than his wicked grinEvil is no longer evil. It is sexy, passionate and inviting. Our crime is being tempted by it. We are co-conspirators and would-be rebels. Our inner minds betray us as we feel the pull to figures like Satan.


As art continues to evolve so will our relationship with evil. New mediums, materials and artists will revolutionise the field, but their goals will remain the same. To bring forth the things that torment our nightmares and to reflect back at us those parts of ourselves we would rather remain hidden.

La Soffietta al Palazzo Vecchio

Sei mai stato nella Sala dei Cinquecento e hai alzato lo sguardo? Se questo è il caso, avresti assistito al magnifico soffitto della stanza. Tuttavia, potresti non essere consapevole che ciò che è sopra il soffitto è ancora più affascinante. Nel suo romanzo Inferno, Dan Brown descrive le travi di legno che sostengono il soffitto della Sala dei Cinquecento come tronchi d’albero interi tagliati e disposti orizzontalmente e che si estendono per 22 metri da una parete all’altra. Oggi, un ascensore riservato a dipendenti e collaboratori si trova all’ultimo piano dietro una porta blindata a protezione di una delle zone più incredibili e delicate dell’edificio. La porta si apre in uno spazio poco illuminato, rendendo l’atmosfera ancora più misteriosa. Ci sono bulloni, chiodi, gigantesche travi di abete e quercia, giunti, passerelle e odore di legno. Quest’area, situata tra il tetto di Palazzo Vecchio e il soffitto della Sala dei Cinquecento, è comunemente indicata come la soffitta. La soffitta della Sala dei Cinquecento è davvero suggestiva, si può assaporare l’odore del legno vecchio e si ha l’impressione di trovarsi in una foresta artificiale di alberi giganti, pur trovandosi sopra una delle più belle sale del mondo. Nel sottotetto sono presenti due tipi di travi di copertura: grandi capriate di tipo tradizionale, chiaramente deputate a sostenere il tetto, e quelle di disegno insolito, poste ad un livello inferiore rispetto alla prima tipologia, a sostegno evidente del soffitto che reggono. Giorgio Vasari fu certamente l’artefice (con documentati consigli di Michelangelo) dell’allestimento generale della mostra, coprendo grandi capriate di tipo tradizionale, in particolare il soffitto a cassettoni, che egli stesso dipinse durante la sua costruzione a partire dal 1563. La costruzione di una grande sala, voluta dal domenicano fra Girolamo Savonarola, che doveva ospitare le riunioni del Maggior Consiglio (organo supremo della città), iniziò nel 1495, con atto del 15 luglio. La paternità del primo progetto di il sottotetto della sala è attribuito dal Vasari a Simone del Pollaiolo detto il Cronaca nelle sue Vite. Circa settant’anni dopo, sotto la direzione del Vasari, nell’ambito del più vasto programma di ristrutturazione di Palazzo Vecchio avviato dal Granduca Cosimo I de’ Medici, si ebbe lo smantellamento della copertura da parte del Cronaca, l’innalzamento delle mura della grande androne e il rifacimento più in alto della copertura e del soffitto a cassettoni. I lavori condotti da Vasari si estendono sia agli aspetti strutturali che decorativi. Conosciamo i dettagli di queste opere grazie ad antichi documenti: Bernardo, nato da Antonio e Mona Mattea, muratore, e Baptista Botticelli, falegname, furono incaricati di alzare le pareti della sala, sollevare le capriate, murarle, ferrarle, armateli e saliteci sopra il tetto. Hanno anche accuratamente smontato il palco esistente per poter recuperare il legname, chiodi e altra ferramenta, e realizzare il palco con legno secco e stagionato, a seconda del modello e del disegno realizzato da Giorgio Vasari. I lavori sono stati eseguiti in meno di tre anni. Ritratto di Giorgio Vasari Le strutture sono oggi visibili sopra la Sala dei Cinquecento; non sono però tutte del Vasari: importanti lavori di manutenzione a sostegno del sottotetto furono intrapresi nel 1853. I fiorentini credono che nella soffitta si aggiri un fantasma: quello di Baldaccio d’Anghiari. Fu prima al servizio di Firenze, poi tentò di conquistare Piombino per creare uno stato indipendente. Temendo la sua ascesa, Cosimo I de’ Medici ordinò che il suo omicidio fosse eseguito in Palazzo Vecchio, poi ne fece gettare il corpo in Piazza della Signoria (1441).