Despite a certain amount of Church resistance, the dissection of human bodies gradually spread across Europe from the beginning of Fourteenth Century. By opening up their corpses, anatomists paved the way for the study of the depths of the human body, whilst at the same time imbuing this previously invisible world with a primordial aura. Long perceived as a hindrance to understanding the human body, death was now the condition of objective knowledge. But however meticulously conducted, any physician’s observations remain unsubstantiated when there are no documenting images to support them. In contrast with the imageless anatomical studies prevalent in medieval science, this new generation of physicians therefore dissected in close collaboration with artists. Furthermore, with the Renaissance came a revival in interest for a realistic representation of the human body, prompting painters and sculptors to study anatomy: “in order to faithfully render the exterior, it is necessary to imitate the interior”. The eye must capture, and render life-like, what the scalpel cuts on the corpse – seeing and knowledge overlap. Many artists, from Leonardo Da Vinci to Bandinelli, Michelangelo or Carracci, developed a keen interest in anatomical studies, in some cases carrying out dissections themselves.

The first descriptive anatomy treatise, De humani corporis fabrica, was written by Andreas Vesalius in Basel in 1543. It was the first text of its kind to be supplemented with some 300 illustrations, probably made by Titian’s pupil Jan van Calcar or in any case by someone from Titian’s workshop. The great anatomical texts published from this moment onwards, up until the mid-Nineteenth Century, all combined the work of physicians and artists, such as the piece on display here by anatomist Govard Bidloo and painter Gérard de Lairesse, or the one by physician Albinus and etcher Jan Wandelaar.

The first illustrations to appear in anatomical treatises offered a crude rendition of the horrors of dissection, often playing up the macabre aspect of the practice. Later on, illustrations attempted to sanitise anatomy with alluring images that omitted anything suggesting the crude reality of a human corpse. With all the skin conveniently removed, these smiling, well-groomed corpses were now shown in comely poses. The surroundings progressively vanished as anatomical illustrations became increasingly neutral, more reminiscent of a geographical map than a living being. This neutrality of the image has become even more pronounced in contemporary medical images, which use codified colours and reference plans.

If one of the great mysteries of mankind remains the depth of our bodies, this is without a doubt because the only way we have been able to grasp its complexity has been to grossly simplify it into flat surfaces. There lies the paradox of anatomical illustration – be it in a printed book or on a computer screen, we understand our depth only with two-dimensional images. “Ce qu’il y a de plus profond dans l’homme, c’est la peau” (“The skin is mankind’s greatest depth” Paul Valéry). (pc)