The National Gallery’s exhibition of Spanish sacred art from the ‘Golden Age’ has caused a stir. Its graphic depictions of Counter Reformation suffering overshadow the intended comparison of some well-known paintings with wooden polychrome sculpture. As far as the latter is concerned, gore, guilt and soul-searching are the order of the day. Gregorio Fernàndez’s broken, bloodied, bruised Dead Christ is the most obvious example of an obsession with violence that would satisfy even Mel Gibson’s passion. Fernandez’s Ecce Homo goes on to depict the consequences of a severe flogging. The paintings by Ribera and Velázquez that these sculptures are compared with depict similar imagery but with such classical restraint it is hard to see what point of influence is being made.

It’s not all ripped flesh. Juan Martínez Montañés’ tear-stained Saint Ignatius Loyola lacks only breath, but despite the almost miraculous detail, I was reminded of another religious manikin who comes alive in the video of Madonna’s Like a Prayer. In the context of an Easter Week parade, or surrounded by candles, these statues do their job: they are objects of veneration, iconic even. Taken from that context, there is a faint danger of Jeff Koons kitsch, mixed with a Tooley Street ghoulishness, spoiling the impression.

Despite this, or because of it, the collection is mesmerising. The artistry is breath-taking and the juxtaposition of sculpture and painting provocative. For me, the star of the exhibition is Zurbarán. He understood sculptural volume. His painting of Saint Francis in Meditation is as haunting an object of three-dimensional verisimilitude as anything you will see. The great Christ on the Cross, which dominates the central room of the exhibition, is so relief-like it was often mistaken for a sculpture. You can see why when you turn to look at Montañés’ sculptural version of the same subject nearby, although, once again, Zurbarán’s perfect, almost Michelangelesque Christ cannot have drawn any serious lessons from its bloodied and broken companion.

Until Jan 24

KEVIN CHILDS