His name is Rogier van der Weyden, and the scope of work united here uncovers a great expressiveness.

The main other Flemish craftsman of that period who measures up to him is Jan van Eyck, and both craftsmen utilized the new medium of oil painting on board with amazing authenticity.

Anyway, this Prado study, which commends the exhibition hall's fruitful reclamation of a late painting called "The Crucifixion," summons an enthusiastic force that recognizes Van der Weyden all through his profession.

Van der Weyden envisions exactly how enchanted the kid would have been by the disclosure of writing, and this delightful small painting passes on the kid's aggregate ingestion in his errand.

Van der Weyden portrays each of the three of these holy exercises with piercing conviction, and in the right board an extremely moving juxtaposition places appointment and marriage surprisingly near to the great unction of a withered man passing on in bed.

At the same time, Van der Weyden is not reluctant to underline the great cruelty of death, as the disabled patient extends his skeletal arm to be anointed with sacred oil.

Even along these lines, nothing can set us up for the sheer instinctive desolation of "The Descent From the Cross." 
Van der Weyden, whose treatment of drapery is constantly expressive, verifies that the sensational wrinkles in her dress strengthen the anguish she endures.

Van der Weyden demands painting with excruciating instantaneous the blood issuing from Christ's head and middle.

Van der Weyden places the injury uncomfortably close to the Virgin's dangling left hand.

The pressure in her body is transmitted with all the sharp conviction that Van der Weyden can summon, and his significant power places him among the most remarkable 15th-century craftsmen.