An Unexpected Journey into the Dark World of Matthias Stom
I recently rediscovered an underappreciated artist named Matthias Stom. It wasn’t exactly part of the initial plan—I had gone to Malta with my family, thinking we’d spend the week soaking up sun and history. Somewhere along the way, we found ourselves wandering into MUŻA - The National Community Art Museum, in Valletta. I wasn’t expecting much, to be honest. At first glance, the museum seemed a bit underwhelming. But then we made our way to the second floor, where the collection of Renaissance and Baroque art was displayed. And that’s when things changed. The paintings on this floor were incredible—rich with color, drama, and emotional intensity. Among the pieces in the Baroque galleries were several works by Matthias Stom, and suddenly, the day went from mildly interesting to absolutely captivating.
The museum’s Baroque collection was impressive, to say the least. I wandered through the galleries, surrounded by the trademark drama of the period—the intense chiaroscuro, the opulent displays of religious ecstasy, and the overwhelming doom and gloom. But amid all that grandeur, Stom’s paintings stood out.
The Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew
In typical Baroque fashion, Stom’s work is heavy with emotional weight and theatricality, but what sets him apart is how intimate and raw it feels. There’s an undercurrent of homosensuality mixed with suffering, a juxtaposition that’s both captivating and a little unnerving.
But let’s back up and talk about Stom himself. Matthias Stom, sometimes referred to as Matthias Stomer, was born around 1600 in the Netherlands. He belonged to a subcategory of artists known as the Caravaggisti—painters heavily influenced by Caravaggio’s style. Stom didn’t achieve Caravaggio’s level of fame, which is why his name isn’t often dropped in casual art conversations unless you’re an art historian or find yourself wandering through a Maltese museum, apparently.
Stom’s personal life, like that of many artists of his era, is shrouded in mystery. What we do know is that he spent much of his career in Italy, particularly in Naples and Sicily, where he painted religious scenes with an almost obsessive devotion. His figures are often bathed in stark, dramatic light, with deep shadows carving out their features—a technique borrowed from Caravaggio. But while Caravaggio’s figures often feel distant and untouchable, Stom’s subjects seem more human, their vulnerability laid bare.
His fascination with the human condition—the suffering, the longing, the physicality of it all—comes through in nearly every painting. In The Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew, for example, Stom depicts the saint moments before his execution, his flesh taut with tension, his expression a mixture of resignation and pain. The scene is brutal, but also strangely beautiful, like watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion. There’s a palpable eroticism in the way Stom handles the human body, an appreciation for its fragility and power all at once.
This brings us to a broader discussion of Baroque art, where Stom’s work fits in perfectly. The Baroque period, which flourished in Europe from the late 16th century to the early 18th century, was all about drama. If the Renaissance celebrated proportion, balance, and ideal beauty, the Baroque cranked up the intensity. It was an art form that thrived on contrast—between light and shadow, life and death, heaven and hell. The goal was to evoke emotion, to make you feelsomething, whether it was awe, fear, or devotion.
The Flagellation of Christ
Baroque artists weren’t afraid to get a little theatrical, either. Religious subjects were a favorite, and artists like Stom took full advantage of the Church’s need to communicate powerful, spiritual messages through visual storytelling. The Catholic Church, particularly after the Protestant Reformation, was keen on using art as a tool for emotional manipulation (some things never change). And if that meant painting saints in the throes of martyrdom, their bodies contorted and writhing in agony, so be it.
But there’s something else going on in Stom’s work that feels more subversive. While many of his contemporaries used dramatic lighting and emotional intensity to highlight themes of salvation and divine glory, Stom’s figures often seem trapped in their own suffering, with no clear path to redemption. There’s an existential weight to his paintings that speaks less to divine glory and more to the struggles of being human—and that’s what I love about them. His subjects—often male—are shown in moments of intense vulnerability, their expressions hinting at both physical and emotional pain. It’s hard not to read into the homoeroticism in these scenes, as bodies are laid bare, both literally and figuratively.
In one painting, The Flagellation of Christ, the tension between power and submission is almost palpable. Christ’s body, fragile yet resilient, is lit with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints in ecstasy, but here the ecstasy is replaced by suffering. It’s as if Stom is using the religious narrative as a vehicle for exploring deeper, more personal themes about the human experience.
And that’s what makes Matthias Stom so fascinating. His work, while undeniably rooted in the grand tradition of Baroque art, feels more personal, more intimate.