“The Baroque art and architecture that the viceroys bankrolled gave license to a peculiar sort of cultural insurrection: an opulence of expression, specifically Neapolitan, proudly courting bad taste, which thumbed its nose at Spanish and Roman proprieties. Churches here during the 17th century became riots of jasper, porphyry and polychrome marble, with stone floors carpeted in patterned tiles, colors piled on top of one another like bowls overflowing with fruit: architectural feasts of abundance and stagecraft celebrating native obstinacy.”

“Crossing the threshold between sun-drenched forecourt and interior — where light pours like diamond dust through the doorway, bouncing off the inlaid marble floor — a visitor is transported from the gritty streets to someplace otherworldly. Then Ribera’s patriarchs and prophets just as swiftly return the visitor to earth. Conceived to glorify God, their earthiness implies both Ribera’s devotion and the city’s profane glory. I always leave the certosa full of life and starving, stuffing myself with a roll on the hike downtown.

Nobody writes about religion and its objects like a good art critic. Here’s Michael Kimmelman at the New York Times inside the church of the Certosa di San Martino in Naples, moving shamelessly back and forth between this world and the otherworld.

It’s the pink arch, black space, gold, and columns that drew my eye like a shot to the image, which you can zoom at the website.