The first was the Foligno Madonna, now in the Vatican Gallery. It was
painted in 1511 for the pope's secretary, Sigismund Conti, as a
thank-offering for having escaped the danger of a falling meteor at
Foligno. No thoughtful observer can be slow to recognize the
superiority of this composition over all others of its kind in point
of unity. Here is no formal row of saints, each absorbed in his or her
own reflections, apart from any common purpose. On the contrary, all
unite in paying honor to the Queen of Heaven. Not less superior to his
contemporaries was the painter's skill in arranging the figures of
Mother and child with such grace of equilibrium that they seem to
float in the upper air.

In the Sistine Madonna, Raphael carried this form of composition to
the highest perfection. So simple and apparently unstudied is its
beauty, that we do not realize the masterliness of its art. We seem to
be standing before an altar, or, better still, before an open window,
from which the curtains have been drawn aside, allowing us to look
directly into the heaven of heavens. A cloud of cherub faces fills
the air, from the midst of which, and advancing towards us, is the
Virgin with her child. The downward force of gravity is perfectly
counterbalanced by the vital energy of her progress forward. There is
here no uncomfortable sense, on the part of the spectator, that
natural law is disregarded. While the seated Madonna in glory seems
often in danger of falling to earth, this full-length figure in motion
avoids any such solidity of effect.

The figures on either side are also so posed as to arouse no surprise
at their presence. We should have said beforehand that heavy
pontifical robes would be absurdly incongruous in such a composition,