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All this comes through at a high pitch of both invention and homage in the centerpiece of the show, Dosso's Melissa, circa 1515-16. In Ariosto's epic, Melissa was a benign sorceress--a kind of white witch who cast counterspells to rescue Christian knights from the enchantments of the evil Circe. Dosso painted her as a creature of Oriental fantasy in a gold turban and a richly embroidered costume, sitting within a mock-cabalistic circle and holding what seems to be an astrological chart. (Astrology and fortune telling were high on the list of court amusements, and Ferrara was notable for its production of tarot cards.) She is lighting a torch from a brazier, and--a slightly sinister touch--the tree behind her is festooned with little effigies, like voodoo dolls. It's not hard to imagine what enjoyment this exotic fable of an image would have provoked in a court so given to stylishness for its own sake.
If it contained only paintings like Melissa, this would be an uninterruptedly enjoyable show. But Dosso was a very uneven artist, and the effort to present all his surviving work (other than murals) has dredged up quite a number of, to put it charitably, routine pictures, mainly of a devotional sort. He was also capable of dreadful clunkers when sandbagged by a new influence. His series of half-naked "Learned Men," painted for one of the Este houses, is among the most awkward homages to Michelangelo ever painted--posturing coal heavers with strained gestures and goofy expressions. And if you want to see how flabby a Renaissance nude can be, try the suety ladies and the porky Vulcan in Allegory of Music. But the magic of Dosso's best paintings was uniquely his, and it makes this show--in part, at least--irresistible, conundrums and all.