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Before there was capitalism, there was money. Think of Judas and his thirty pieces of silver. Matthew, before becoming an apostle, might have collected taxes on it.

It may have been a flimsy thing or awkwardly bulky and heavy, but a lot turned on it. Now the Morgan Library makes the case for just how much, in “Medieval Money, Merchants, and Morality,” through March 10. If it has a discomforting moral for an institution founded by a man of means to display priceless possessions, it may say more than the museum itself ever knew. Together with a report on “Morgan’s Bibles,” it is also the subject of a longer and fuller review in my latest upload.

The Morgan gives new meaning to “your money or your life,” the afterlife. When Hieronymus Bosch painted Death and the Miser, with sacks of money tempting a man on his deathbed, he was taking up a subject familiar from illuminated manuscripts and Sunday sermons. If a deathbed seems an unlikely place to accumulate wealth, it is only, after all, a parable. The show includes Petrarch and Geoffrey Chaucer, who wove the message into their poetry (although Chaucer also makes the case for merchant cunning). Bosch himself had an unmatched talent for bringing an older world view to the very height of the Renaissance. As his interior passes into depth, in proper perspective, it presents one temptation after another in cabinets, shelves, and doors.

More than half the show elaborates on that message. A still more lavish deathbed scene appears in The Hours of Catherine of Cleves from around 1440, across from the fire of Purgatory. Boys in another book of hours scramble for a shower of coins, ignoring the Visitation of Mary and her mother, Anne, on the facing page. A saint flees an entire golden mountain, by Fra Angelico, while gesturing toward an actual city on a hill. With Albrecht Dürer, the prodigal son at last comes home. If accumulating wealth is bad, spending is worse.

It was not too late for the prodigal son, and it is not too late for you. So at any rate goes the story, but has its moment already passed? Bosch’s painting teems with devils, and devils always put on the best show. Those boys scrambling for money could be your neighbors at play. One work on display is more lavish than the next, from the gold leaf of medieval painting to the subtler richness of the Renaissance. Saint Francis may have renounced worldly goods, but a High Renaissance collector possessed Giovanni Bellini’s Saint Francis in the Desert.

Those contradictions run happily through the show, right down to its title. Is this medieval money, merchants, and morality? Not just morals are changing. A show that opens with Bosch cannot be all that medieval, and sacks of gold are not yet money. (Wikipedia assigns a present-day equivalent for thirty pieces of silver, but I am not so certain.) Bosch hangs next to an imposing strongbox and actual coins from the late 1300s, so flimsy that one might mistake them for paper tokens in a child’s game.

The exhibition tells a different story as well. It is about the emergence of a new merchant class and the spirit of capitalism—for whom wealth was a mark of divine favor and charity is owed to only the “deserving” poor. By its end, money becomes more intricate and weightier. It had to do so, because coins at first established their value by their weight. And then mere paper takes on arbitrary value as well. If a medieval manuscript has its unmatched glories, a merchant’s register or a text on money management is a book, too.

The curators, Diane Wolfthal and Deirdre Jackson, add two paintings, for additional stages in a Renaissance economy. They are not just displays of wealth, like so much art in Tudor England, but portraits of getters and spenders. The first, by Hans Memling, a man in black holding a pink carnation, hesitates to speak of just what he does for a living—but the second, by Jan Gossart in 1530, glories in it. The tools of this man’s trade have the magic of still life, and his records hang like wallpaper. They foretell a time when wealth can go not to charity or the church, but to a library like Morgan’s, and the party of religious zealots can favor tax cuts to the wealthy. Fitting or chilling, a camel need no longer go through the eye of a needle for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.

Around 1730, Giambattista Tiepolo took up Punchinello. Halfway through his thirties, he knew all too well the follies of youth and age, much like the buffoon in Italian puppet shows. And his countrymen loved them all—the puppets, the show, and the follies.

His Punchinello catered happily to their taste for moral judgments and for comedy, and in no time he found himself their go-to artist. He painted the ceilings of palaces and churches not just in Venice, but across Italy and Europe. Still, his work is just half the story of “Spirit and Invention” at the Morgan Library. Drawings and occasional oil studies by Giambattista and Domenico Tiepolo trace the course of a dynasty. Can you tell father and son apart? That is the challenge and temptation, through January 28—and I work this together with a past review of Tiepolo as a longer review and my latest upload.

The older Tiepolo died in 1770, but his spirit lived on, and so did his projects. He was still a fairly new father in 1730, and his son joined his workshop as soon as the boy was able—and inherited it as well, with commissions and assistants to spare. Late in life, Domenico turned back to Punchinello as well, with new stories to tell. His clowns encounter an elephant, ride an ass in a comic ritual procession, and enter the ebb and flow of Venetian life. They go to the barbers and watch a carpenter and glass-blower in their busy workshops. At last, too, Punchinello is laid to rest. Had the son put his father’s legacy to rest at last as well?

Giambattista Tiepolo all but reversed the old aphorism nothing in excess. (He might have related to another line often attributed to Terence, the Roman playwright, nothing human is alien to me.) He could not stop with one Punchinello when he could cover a sheet with at least ten of them, united in folly and in their conical hats. He may not tell them apart or give them all that much to do, but they are only puppets, after all. For him, too, much the same cupids accompany Greek gods and heavenly angels. They are all, as the titles of many a ceiling work have it, caught up in a tale of triumph and ascent.

New York has had no shortage of Tiepolo, just as Tiepolo had no shortage of ceilings and clowns. It has seen Giambattista Tiepolo in retrospective, Tiepolo in Milan, Domenico Tiepolo, and late Baroque Italian drawings—and it hardly hurts that the Morgan Library owns hundreds of drawings by both father and son. Allow me then, to direct you to past reviews for more. As I wrote back then, Veronese and others in his native Venice composed a world of gods, beyond ordinary human perception. Tiepolo has taken his place wholly in this world, while ennobling it. The wealthy institutions that he served, the church and nobility, saw themselves as similarly fervid and triumphant.

This show adds the restriction to father and son, together and apart. It also has room that a retrospective did not for the years that got things going. Giambattista when young cared as much as any Renaissance model for anatomy, and the Morgan opens with heroic males nudes in parallel strokes of black chalk that define every muscle. Even as Tiepolo came to rely far more on ink washes, an undercurrent of classicism remains. He also cared as much as his predecessors for foreshortening, only directed to new ends. A sketch for a ceiling painting shows its framing walls as well, pointing perilously upward.

In another commission, the heavens take on greater motion as one ascends the stairs below. Yet times have changed, and architecture for figures in flight should make you think of something far lighter in weight, period rooms at the Frick Collection for François Boucher, a close contemporary. Times have changed, too, in bringing things back to earth for contemporary life and comedy. Neither Tiepolo can disentangle the two. For Giambattista, portraits and caricatures are much alike. For Domenico, a monkey looks like a friendly devil.

The son does bring changes. Sketches by the father close in on arms raised and legs thrust out. Figures gesticulate, at rest on a cloud, while the younger artist focuses on floating and flight. Washes intensify, poses look more solid, and stage sets, like those for his late Punchinello, have a clear ground. His belief in human folly looks ahead to the next century and Francisco de Goya. All the same, they crossed Europe together, and the finished ceilings were a product of both.

Domenico never could bury his father’s legacy, because he saw no reason to try. He just happened to have thirty-four more years to discover where that leads. Where he cannot, he just changes the subject. Their shared ceilings carry out Giambattista’s design—and then come only scenes from life, dancing dogs, and the puppet show. In Punchinello Carried Off by an Eagle, the actors ride a boat that the father had used for the Holy Family, but nothing lasts forever, not even the human comedy. With Punchinello’s burial, was Domenico anticipating his own death instead?

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.

Why did J. P. Morgan assemble the Morgan Library? It was not just because he liked to read—although the three-tiered shelves and walkways of his private library, still a highlight of the larger public institution today, could make anyone a reader without so much as opening a book.

He collected to show his humble deference to scholarship and art. He could show his piety as well in just what he collects. At the same time, he was boasting of his wealth—a wealth of knowledge, power, and cash. How appropriate that two shows now focus on Morgan’s Bibles and “Medieval Money.” They and a smaller show of “Early Modern Herbals,” or age-old guides to the healing properties of plants, also single out a century or two when all these things came to be. “Morgan’s Bibles” takes special pride in them all, with an emphasis on Morgan himself, through January 21.

Of course, the same questions arise with collectors today—all the more so when museums (yet again) exhibit a private collection. (Yes, that means a gift coming up.) How are collectors, even one as savvy and sensitive as Spike Lee, distorting the role of museums and the art scene? That includes the Morgan’s own turn to recent art. How refreshing, then, to return to a time when J. Morgan was just getting started and could not stop. “Morgan’s Bibles” sticks largely to what he himself collected and its role in the collection to this day.

Not exclusively, mind you, and the Morgan (which has previously displayed The Crusader Bible) does not make it obvious when his choices end and others begin, but close enough. It also has an expansive view of the Bible. It includes psalters, of course—not just the Psalms and prayers taken from the Bible, but also a setting to music on behalf of John Calvin. Who knew that the stern Protestant preaching original sin wanted you to sing? It has drawings and prints merely because their scenes draw on the Bible, but then how much older art does not? A fine porcelain of the Holy Family comes close to the viewer in proximity and scale—enough to put anyone in the place of the shepherds or the wise men.

Artists as different as William Blake and Filippino Lippi depict Job close to despair. His “comforters” gesticulate cruelly for Blake, dutifully for Lippi. A drawing by Anthony van Dyck displays his command of anatomy and vitality, even as Jesus is as grisly as death. The show has among the largest of Rembrandt prints. He bathes the crucifixion in a shower of light, even as the thieves on the cross and the mob on the ground sink in darkness. He shows the mocking of Jesus as a multi-tiered display of statues, spectators, heroism, and terrible abasement. Rembrandt’s scratchy, compulsive line has never been more evident.

Still, an expansive show makes sense given the roles of the Bible in real life. Morgan had more than one role as well. Even while he nurtured his library, he served as president of the Metropolitan Museum, doing far more for its growth than many a curator today, much less than the work of presidents overburdened with fund-raising today. He also considered himself a devout Episcopalian, which did not in the least stand in the way of showing off his love of wealth. Some books are leather, enhanced with clasps, crystals, and other finery, some embroidered. Here you can tell a book by its cover.

His scholarship appears from the start, with a Bible that divides its pages into blocks for Hebrew and other languages. Scholarship appears, too, in German and English editions. The Morgan has famous translations by William Tyndale and Myles Coverdale in the 1500s, the Great Bible commissioned by Thomas Cromwell for Henry VIII, and a King James Bible first edition. They testify to two more roles for the Bible as well, reaching our and reaching kings. Embroidery was largely limited to a guild with privileged status, but not entirely. Anyone with a needle and thread could, at least in principle, give it a go.

Like other illuminated manuscripts, these also testify to a role in art history. The delicate realism of a Bible from Tuscany dates to the 1490s, before a Renaissance in sculpture and painting. As late as Peter Paul Rubens, artists were still copying miniatures as well. Always, though, Morgan was out there collecting. Photo shows him in Egypt’s desert sands and taking lunch in a Persian temple. Whether the message of the Bible reached him I leave to you.

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.