donatello's mary magdalene

Walking in to the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, I expected the art to delight, to intrigue, to pique my interest in the architecture and history of Florence’s most iconic cathedral. I didn’t expect a museum of Renaissance Florentine art to shock me. More modern art often trades on this currency, relying on the novelty of shock in an artistic piece — it too assumes that historical artistic movements, beautiful or revolutionary as they were, did not aim to startle. 

Standing before me was a woman in ruins. A long, haggard figure, her disshelvelled hair was barely distinguishable from the rags hanging off her shoulders. Most paralysing was her face; an intense gaze from sunken eyes, the slightly skeletal, gaunt features most prominent in her cheekbones and neck. Her skin, heavily blemished, obscured by wild strands of hair. Her mouth, slightly parted, almost spoke, and through it I caught glimpses of her few remaining teeth. She was stunningly real. 

As the wave of shock passes over, the dominant theme emerges. Mary’s hands held slightly apart in a gesture of prayer — this striking pose the reason she is named Penitent Magdalene. By stripping away the idealised beauty of most religious artworks, Donatello is brutally honest in his depiction of what atonement really means; the suffering it demands, the reality of how it looks. This sculpture, addressing a city where religious ideas and institutions shape daily life, stubbornly refused to contort the messages of the Scripture. Donatello’s choice of Magdalene aligns perfectly with the teachings of the Dominican and Franciscan orders, who focused on her as a symbolic figure of penitence; he simultaneously confronts the hardship of atonement while acknowledging the possibility of divine forgiveness. 

Such a confronting work is more able to provide insight into the true ideologies of Florentines. Not created for its aesthetic appeal, its purpose must be thus more focused on religious or philosophical ideas, reflecting a population deeply permeated with religious fervour and a desire for forgiveness. This statue, a warning of the grim road back to salvation, could only come from a society that felt itself entrenched in vice. Behind the profound confrontation of Mary is the unsettling message that this — rags disappearing into one’s body, emaciated, weak — is what we must become, to fulfil those constant declarations of possible salvation. 

But, in a touch of ambiguity that makes this work so fascinating, Donatello incorporates a hint of quiet optimism. Magdalene’s arms are strikingly muscular, holding up her hands in prayer. This could be interpreted as a nod to the anatomical mastery of Donatello, not neglectful of his own talent. However, in my opinion, there is more to this emphasis on strength; especially if we compare to Donatello’s David, or other statues, where even an anatomically masterful man has far less muscular definition and visible strength. Donatello made Magdalene extremely strong. This contrasts against the material; unlike marble or bronze, wood is warmer, more intimate, more prone to decay—just like flesh. Or, it might be a beautiful balance — a more intimate, realistic feel that illustrates Penitent Magdalene as delicate combination of both the strength and weakness in her starvation. 

I believe this subtle force is an insight into a very particular, and largely voiceless, audience in Renaissance Florence: the convertiti, converted women who used to be prostitutes. For them, this would not have been a disturbing display of hardship, but a reflection of the suffering they intimately knew; and perhaps they would first have noticed her elongated, tall stature, her strong arms, the life behind her eyes. 

Even the apparent atrophy of Magdalene is a result of her own choice; her asceticism, following the instructions of Christ, which had become central to her religious image. By renouncing her sin and wilfully starving, Penitent Magdalene has reclaimed her own body and soul — Donatello, regardless of how disturbing the process is, nevertheless shows us an ugly strength. 

There is a reason this message does not frequently appear in depictions of Magdalene, long hair flowing across her body, angelically gazing up to Heaven, or mourning at the cross. For the diverse sects of the Catholic Church competing for worshippers and attempting to make belief sound approachable, Magdalene was an exemplary, optimistic figure. But Donatello tells us how the citizenry — especially the women for whom she was such a central role model — interpreted her story, and the value they placed in her bold strength in suffering. 

Donatello’s Mary Magdalene is more than just a masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture—it is a window into the values and contradictions of 15th-century Florence. It reveals a city deeply concerned with faith and penitence, when their aristocracy was not. A city where religious institutions played a central role in shaping public morality, but did not fully retain control over their own messaging. Donatello brings attention to the overlooked women of Florence—the convertiti, the marginalized, those who lived in the shadows of a society that often defined them only by their past sins; and although for the average Florentine, and the audience of today, it is a work designed to shock, for those women perhaps it was one designed to empower.