I’m so used to seeing the traditionally posed Saint-George-slaying-a-dragon scene that it took me a good minute to figure out what this is even of.
It’s Briton Rivière’s 1808–1809 painting Saint George and the Dragon, of course. It should have been obvious what it’s of.
But I’m not kidding when I say there is a traditional pose. Saint George sits on a rearing horse, stabbing (or preparing to stab) a strangely undersized dragon below. In Medieval and Byzantine versions, in High Renaissance versions, in Baroque versions, in Symbolist versions, in Expressionist versions, it’s always the same.
I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that a painter famous for his paintings of “contemporary genre, classical, and biblical themes, invariably involving animals,” as the Dashesh Museum puts it, would pay a little more attention to the roles the animals play in such a scene.
But what makes this so stunning is its honesty. Suddenly, Saint George’s feat isn’t an easy triumph: it’s gratitude for even surviving in his heaven-turned eyes; it’s a battle so hard-won that his horse lies dead or dying beneath the dragon; it’s exhaustion so severe that he himself lies—almost companionably—in the curve of his slain enemy’s body, his helmet cast to the side.
