The triptych, or the art of telling a story in three acts
Imagine a winter morning in Colmar, 1515. In the chapel of the Antonite hospital, patients afflicted with "Saint Anthony’s fire"—that gangrene which consumes the limbs like an inner flame—drag themselves toward the altar. There, before their feverish eyes, the Isenheim Altarpiece slowly unfolds. Fir
By Artedusa
••11 min read
The triptych, or the art of telling a story in three acts
Imagine a winter morning in Colmar, 1515. In the chapel of the Antonite hospital, patients afflicted with "Saint Anthony’s fire"—that gangrene which consumes the limbs like an inner flame—drag themselves toward the altar. There, before their feverish eyes, the Isenheim Altarpiece slowly unfolds. First, a Crucifixion of unparalleled violence: Christ’s flesh torn, fingers clenched in an agony that seems to stretch into eternity. Then, with a gesture from the priest, the side panels swing open, revealing a celestial Annunciation, a Resurrection where Christ’s body rises in a golden light, almost unreal. Suddenly, the wounds are no longer stigmata but gateways to healing. The sick believe they see their own suffering transfigured. This altarpiece is not merely a painting—it is a machine for hope, a three-act narrative where each panel responds to the next like lines in a play.
This is the magic of polyptychs. Far more than multi-part works, they are living objects, designed to converse, contradict, or enrich one another. Buying a triptych is not about collecting three paintings side by side—it is acquiring a visual score, where each note matters to form a unique melody. But how do you choose panels that harmonize without repeating? How do you distinguish a coherent work from a mere decorative assemblage? And above all, how do you bring this silent conversation between images into your own home?
When walls became picture books
In the Middle Ages, polyptychs were not works of art but tools of devotion—and sometimes propaganda. Take the Mérode Altarpiece, painted around 1425 by Robert Campin. Three panels, modest at first glance: on the left, the donors in prayer; in the center, the Annunciation; on the right, Saint Joseph in his workshop. Yet every detail is a riddle to decipher. The extinguished candle on the table? It symbolizes the divine light that will replace the natural light of human reason. The tiny mouse near the Virgin’s foot? An allusion to Christ’s victory over sin, represented by the rodent. Even the nails on Joseph’s table, arranged in a cross, foreshadow the Passion.
What strikes you is how the panels converse without resembling one another. On the left, the earthly world of the patrons; in the center, the sacred moment of the Incarnation; on the right, Joseph’s daily life, where every object becomes a symbol. The altarpiece functions like a book whose pages you turn: each scene illuminates the next, without the eye needing to follow a linear order. It is this freedom of reading, this richness of correspondences, that gives great polyptychs their power.
Medieval artists played with scale, color, and perspective to guide the gaze. In the Ghent Altarpiece by the Van Eyck brothers, the upper panels—with their prophets and sibyls—seem to literally overlook the earthly scenes. Colors, too, create bridges: the red of Christ’s robe in majesty reappears in Saint John the Baptist’s mantle, as if to underscore their spiritual bond. Even the gilded frames, often overlooked, participate in the narrative: their brilliance draws the eye toward the central figures, while the subtler borders of the side panels hint at secondary details.
The secret grammar of triptychs
For a polyptych to work, it is not enough to line up three similar images. There must be a visual grammar, a play of correspondences that turns juxtaposition into dialogue. Consider two opposing examples: Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights and Bacon’s Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion.
In Bosch’s work, the three panels form a moral narrative in three acts: on the left, the Earthly Paradise; in the center, the world of pleasures; on the right, Hell. Yet what stands out is how elements echo across the panels. The giant fruits of the central panel—symbols of lust—reappear in Hell, transformed into instruments of torture. The monstrous birds pecking at damned souls have their counterparts in the hybrid creatures of the Garden. Even the colors create echoes: the blue of the paradisiacal sky becomes, in Hell, the livid hue of tormented flesh.
Bacon, on the other hand, subverts this narrative logic. His Three Studies do not tell a story but explore a sensation—terror, pain, the absurdity of existence. Yet here, too, the panels communicate. The three figures, though different, share the same muted palette: ochres, violet-pinks, deep blacks. Their postures, twisted as if by invisible pain, create a visual rhythm that runs through the entire work. Even the backgrounds, a uniform dirty orange, unify the three scenes into a single suffocating atmosphere.
The lesson? A good polyptych does not merely juxtapose—it creates resonances. Sometimes it is a color that returns like a leitmotif; sometimes a motif (a curve, a shadow) that repeats in echo. In Monet’s Water Lilies, for example, the panels do not form a narrative but an immersive experience: the blues and greens respond across the canvases, like notes in the same score. The eye moves from one panel to the next without rupture, as if gliding across the surface of a pond.
The art of staging: when triptychs play with space
A polyptych is not just a work to look at—it is a work to inhabit. Its effectiveness depends as much on its composition as on how it fits into a space. Take the Ghent Altarpiece: designed for Saint Bavo’s Cathedral in Ghent, it was placed in a side chapel, slightly elevated. The faithful, as they approached, first saw the closed panels—a stark Annunciation painted in grisaille. Then, during major feasts, the altarpiece would open, revealing its vibrant colors and sumptuous scenes. The daylight, filtered through the stained glass, made the gilding and pigments shimmer, transforming the work into something almost alive.
Baroque artists pushed this logic even further. In Rubens’s The Elevation of the Cross, the three panels do not form three distinct scenes but a single dynamic composition, where the diagonals of the cross sweep across the canvases like a wave. The viewer, standing before the work, is literally drawn into the movement: the gaze follows the curve of Christ’s body, then shifts to the executioners struggling to raise the cross, before returning to the face distorted by pain. The space of the chapel becomes an extension of the painting.
Today, contemporary artists play with these same principles, adapting them to modern spaces. Gerhard Richter, in his triptych October 18, 1977, uses blurred photographs to evoke the deaths of members of the Red Army Faction. The three panels, though nearly identical, create tension through repetition itself—as if history, replayed, reveals a new detail each time. Installed in a gallery, these canvases transform the space into a place of memory, where the viewer is invited to meditate on violence and forgetting.
Buying a polyptych: the art of coherence without monotony
How do you choose a triptych that does not resemble a mere assemblage of three paintings? The first rule is to forget perfect symmetry. Great historical polyptychs often play with subtle imbalances: a wider central panel, a figure spilling over to one side, a color that draws the eye left before bringing it back to the center. In Leonardo da Vinci’s The Virgin of the Rocks (which exists in two versions, one as a triptych), the composition is asymmetrical: the Virgin leans toward Saint John the Baptist, while the angel on the right points a finger at the viewer, as if inviting them into the scene.
The second rule is to look for connections that do not immediately jump out. A good polyptych reveals itself like a novel: the more you look, the more you perceive its subtleties. Take Marlene Dumas’s triptychs: her portraits, often based on photographs, seem independent at first. Yet upon closer inspection, you notice that the faces share the same pallor, the same shadows under the eyes. It is not a formal resemblance but a community of emotions—as if each panel explores a facet of the same melancholy.
Finally, consider the hanging. A triptych is not displayed like three separate paintings: you must leave space between the panels while ensuring that the frames (or their absence) do not break the visual continuity. Some collectors opt for identical frames, others prefer discreet borders that allow the images to blend into one another. In any case, lighting is crucial: direct light flattens the reliefs, while side lighting reveals textures and plays of shadow.
Pitfalls to avoid: when the triptych becomes mere decoration
Not all polyptychs are masterpieces. Some are just lazy assemblages, where three vaguely related images are placed side by side to fill a wall. How can you spot them?
The first pitfall is repetition. If the three panels repeat the same motif with slight variations, the effect is often monotonous. Conversely, if the images are too different—a landscape on the left, a portrait in the center, a still life on the right—the whole lacks cohesion. The secret lies in the details that echo: a line, a color, a texture that runs through the three canvases without homogenizing them.
The second pitfall is the lack of rhythm. A good triptych breathes: a calmer panel can frame a more dynamic central scene, as in Paolo Uccello’s The Battle of San Romano, where the static side panels highlight the agitation of the central combat. Conversely, a triptych where all three panels are equally agitated or equally calm risks tiring the eye.
Finally, beware of purely decorative triptychs, where form takes precedence over substance. Some contemporary artists produce abstract triptychs that function like wallpaper, without narrative or symbolic depth. There is nothing wrong with that—as long as you are not looking for a work that tells a story.
Where to find polyptychs that speak
The great historical polyptychs—those by Van Eyck, Bosch, Grünewald—are, of course, out of reach. But the art market is full of more affordable works, old and contemporary, that carry on this tradition.
For lovers of old art, auction houses (like Christie’s or Sotheby’s) sometimes offer fragments of medieval or Renaissance altarpieces. These panels, often sold separately, can be reunited to form a coherent whole—provided you carefully check their provenance and condition. Galleries specializing in religious art (like Galerie De Jonckheere in Paris) also offer smaller but high-quality polyptychs.
For contemporary collectors, fairs like Art Basel or Frieze are goldmines. Artists like Julie Mehretu, with her abstract multi-part canvases, or David Hockney, who often worked in triptychs, offer works where narration comes through color and form rather than figuration. Galleries like Gagosian or Hauser & Wirth represent artists who explore this vein, such as Rudolf Stingel or Mark Grotjahn.
Finally, for those seeking unique pieces at more accessible prices, emerging artists’ studios are full of surprises. Some contemporary painters, like the French artist Claire Tabouret, create triptychs where each panel explores a facet of the same face or landscape. These works, often sold directly by the artists or in independent galleries, offer the advantage of formal freshness.
The triptych as a mirror of the soul
Ultimately, what makes polyptychs magical is their ability to turn a wall into a theater stage. Look at Titian’s The Three Ages of Man: on the left, a child plays with a skull; in the center, a young man contemplates his reflection in a mirror; on the right, an old man meditates on the passage of time. The three panels do not form a linear story but a meditation on the fleeting nature of life. The viewer, observing them, is invited to recognize themselves in each of these stages.
It is this almost intimate dimension that makes polyptychs so fascinating. A multi-part work is not an object to contemplate passively—it is a conversation to which you are invited. Sometimes it is a conversation between the panels themselves; sometimes between the work and the viewer. In any case, it is an experience that renews itself with every gaze.
So the next time you come across a triptych, do not just observe it from afar. Step closer, step back, let your eye wander from one panel to the next. You may discover that these three images do not tell a story—they tell yours.
The triptych, or the art of telling a story in three acts | Buying Guide
