"fête galante" and demeaning terms

Ever since my earliest art history classes, I was taught that Watteau was associated with the "fête galante" genre from the Rococo period. The "fête galante" includes depictions of feasts or celebrations of gallantry, and it usually showed idle aristocrats in outdoor settings.

Today, Watteau is hailed as the master of the "fête galante." However, it appears that the term intially was used in a more demeaning sense. I just learned today that "fête galante" was first applied to Watteau's art by the Academy, so that Watteau would be separated "from the scholarly and morally serious narratives of the history genre."¹ The Academy renamed Watteau's painting Pilgrimage to the Island of Cythera (shown above, 1717) to Un Feste Galante.² I guess that Watteau's title and allusion to semi-mythic subject matter was troubling for the Academy; they didn't want this painting to be associated with the history/mythological paintings that were considered the "highest" form of art at the time. Therefore, "by admitting Watteau [to the exhibition], but not as a history painter, the Academy both welcomed and snubbed him."³

It's interesting to see that several demeaning or derogatory terms have been associated with art initially, and then the term ends up sticking to the art/artist in a positive way. The "Fauvists" received their name after an art critic compared the group's paintings to "fauves" or wild beasts. Likewise, the term "impressionists" was coined by the art critic Louis Leroy as a demeaning way to mock the art of Claude Monet (and others that exhibited in the Salon des Refuses in 1874).

Can you think of any other instances when a demeaning term has become a badge of honor for an artist or movement?

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 229.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 232.

fra filippo lippi's "handy" work

Vasari writes that Fra Filippo Lippi made a conscious decision to stop including a lot of hands in his paintings. Apparently, Lippi had been criticized for including too many hands in his compositions, and someone advised him to be aware of that fact.¹ Lippi received this sound advice around 1445, and Vasari writes that in later paintings Lippi "covered [the hands] up with draperies or some other invention in order to avoid such criticism."²

In some ways, you really can see a switch from the "hand" to "hand-free" Lippi. (Okay, in truth, his later paintings aren't "hand-free," but often there aren't as many hands.) Here are some earlier, "handy" paintings:

St. Fredianus Diverts the River Serchio, c. 1438
There are way too many hands in the group on the right. And look at the man who is standing on the left side of that group - his hands are awkwardly included in the composition to the point of distraction. It almost looks like that man is going to box the ears of the pious man who is kneeling down.

Madonna of Humility (Trivulzio Madonna), c. 1430
(with red circles added - click here to see a reproduction without circles)
I think this painting is pretty ugly, and the plethora of hands doesn't help the composition one bit. I circled sixteen different hands. Granted, there are a lot of figures in this painting, but sixteen hands seems a little extreme and unnecessary. Hands pop out in some of the strangest places, too. Check out some of the hands on the left-side of the Virgin.

Lippi's post-1445 (ahem, post-"handy") works still include hands, although he often (but not always!) toned down the number of hands and was a little more tactful.

Detail of Disputation in the Synagogue, 1452-65
Notice how Lippi covered up the figure on the left's hands with drapery? Smart move. There aren't any miscellaneous fingers or palms sticking out anywhere, either, which is an improvement.

Detail of St. Stephen is Born and Replaced with Another Child, 1452-65
Lippi toned down the hands a bit in here - Stephen's mother covers up one hand with her head, and the seated woman covers up a hand with her knee (although I think her other hand is awkward in its position and placement). And you don't even see the hands of the figure behind the bed. I think, though, that the woman on the left's hand is poking out from behind her cloak - it's a little awkward since its the only part of the woman that we can see, but hey, this is an improvement for Lippi.

Do you know of a "handy" or "hand-free" work by Lippi? What do you think - did Lippi improve by toning down his inclusion of hands? I certainly think so.

1 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 194.

2 Ibid.

the artist had never seen a [insert animal] before

It's always interesting to see how an artist depicts an animal that he/she has never seen. Vasari writes that Paolo Uccello wanted to depict a chameleon his Four Seasons, but since the artist had never seen a chameleon, he opted to draw a camel instead.¹ I guess you can kind of see Uccello's logic in picking a camel, since camaleonte and camello are similar words in Italian (the two words are a little similar in English, too). I wish that Uccello's Four Seasons still existed; I'd love to see what that chameleon/camel looked like.

Durer attempted to depict a rhinoceros, even though he had never seen one. He really didn't do too bad of a job (see woodcut print The Rhinoceros (1515) on the right), although the armor-like plates are a little funny. Durer became interested in the rhino after seeing a sketch and reading descriptions in a letter from Lisbon.² The year that Durer made this print, 1515, was a big year for rhinoceroses in Europe. Both the king of Spain and king of Portugal were trying to win the favor of the pope by giving him rhinoceroses. The pope apparently liked the West African rhino (the gift from Spain) best, which allegedly answers why the pope gave more New World territory to Spain.³ I bet that Durer was trying to maximize on the interest in rhinoceroses during this year, since woodcut prints can be widely distributed, popularized, etc.

There are other animal depictions which I think are amusing. When writing my thesis, I would often chuckle at Aleijadinho's depiction of a lion. Since the Brazilian artist had never seen a lion before, he sculpted this one with the face of a monkey:

Aleijadinho, detail of lion next to the prophet Daniel, 1800-1805

And you have to love Aleijadinho's great attempt at a whale. I especially love the whale's two spouts (kind of like nostrils, I guess) and fins:

Aleijadinho, detail of whale next to the prophet Jonah, 1800-1805

Aleijadinho, side-view of Jonah's whale, 1800-1805

Medieval bestiaries are full of creative depictions of animals. I particularly like this depiction of a crocodile and this depiction of an elephant (check out those tusks and horse-like flanks!).

I know there are lots of other interesting/creative/bizarre depictions of creatures that have resulted from the artist never seeing the actual animal. What ones do you know? Do you have a favorite? Let's see who can give the most bizarre example...

1 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 82.

2 "The Rhinoceros," in Web Gallery of Art, available from , accessed 5 November 2009.

3 Hemanta Mishra, Bruce Babbitt, Jim Ottaway, Jr., The Soul of the Rhino (Guilman, Connecticut: Lyons Press, 2008), 137. Available online here.

new portrait of caravaggio (only you can't see it)

If I asked you what was in this detail of Caravaggio's Bacchus (1597), and you answered "A carafe of wine," you would only be given partial-credit for your answer. Sorry. This detail, my friends, has been found to contain an early self-portrait of Caravaggio at his easel, shown as a reflection in the glass carafe.

You're aren't seeing it, you say? To tell you the truth, me neither. In actuality, you can't see this detail with the naked eye. It used to be visible, however, since it was mentioned by an Italian restorer in 1922. However, poor restoration efforts and the gradual darkening of this image have obscured this small portrait over time. Only recently did the portrait "resurface" through reflectography, and the image results were revealed last Friday at a conference in Florence.

You can kinda-sorta see the portrait of Caravaggio in this Telegraph article, which posted the reflectography results and circled where the portrait is located. I'm still not seeing too much, but I'm trusting that one can actually see a young Caravaggio, paintbrush in hand, with his arm extended toward a canvas on an easel.

Pretty cool, huh? I wonder if restorative efforts can make this self-portrait visible again to the naked eye.

goya can be creepy

Halloween is here and I can't help but think of all the creepy, spooky art that exists. I think some of the creepiest art belongs to Goya's "Black Paintings" series (1820-1823). These fourteen paintings were created during the period that Goya was recuperating from yellow fever. Some have interpreted these works as Goya's response to constitutional freedom, but I think (along with many other art historians) there must have been a lot more personal, psychological motivations that inspired Goya's work.¹

Goya created the "Black Paintings" on the walls of his home, Quinta del Sordo (you can see a virtual tour here). Later, the paintings were transferred to canvas in the 1870s. The most famous painting in this series is Saturn Devouring His Children (shown above to the right). This painting refers to the classical story of Saturn, the king of the gods, who feared an prophecy which said that one of his children would overthrow him. In order to stop this from happening, Saturn ate each child upon birth (although you will notice that Saturn is eating an adult body in this painting). (You can read more of the mythological story here). With grim sarcasm, Goya painted Saturn Eating His Children on his dining room wall. Doesn't it whet your appetite?

Another creepy work from the "Black Paintings" series is Witches Sabbath (The Great He-Goat) (shown left). This painting shows a group of witches who have convened with the devil, who has assumed the form of a goat. Goya was obviously drawn to this subject matter, since he created a more light-hearted version of this subject earlier in 1789 (see here). I think the "Black Paintings" version is infinitely more spooky and ominous. I identify most with the figure of the little girl on the right, who seems resistant and apart from the frightening crowd.

The earlier 1789 version of Witches Sabbath was one of six paintings of witches and devils. Goya created these six paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. If the "Black Paintings" don't convince you that Goya was interested in creepy subject matter, maybe two of these Osuna paintings will:

The Bewitched Man, c. 1798
(More information here)

Witches in the Air, 1797-98
I think this painting is freaky. (More information here)

Still not convinced that Goya liked creepy art? Then check out some of the lithographs from his Los Caprichos series, which he created around the same time as the paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. You can see a few here. Another one in the series, "There is a lot to Suck" (Capricho 45), depicts a greedy witch with her mouth wide open. The witches are catching babies in a basket, in order to drink their blood. This superstition might be connected to abortion, since women who assisted with abortion were labeled as witches.²

Are you spooked? Which work by Goya do you think is the creepiest?

Happy Halloween!

1 Priscilla E. Muller, "Goya, Francisco de", in Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T033882, accessed 30 October 2009.

2 Rose-Marie Hagen and Rainer Hagen, Francisco Goya: 1746-1828 (London: Taschen, 2003), 36. Available online here.

news updates and twitter flash

In an ideal world, I would have time to blog about whatever strikes my fancy. (Really, in an ideal world, I would get paid to blog about whatever strikes me fancy.) There are a couple of major events that have happened recently in the art world, but I haven't had time to write about them (mostly because I get distracted by silly things like Giovanni Arnolfini's red turban). Here are two news items that I've wanted to blog about, but haven't had the chance:

- The recent attribution of a Leonardo da Vinci painting via fingerprinting (shown above). You can read about the story here and see a BBC video clip here. Heidenkind expressed some of her reservations about this new attribution, and I kind of feel the same way. I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump on the "La Bella Principessa" bandwagon yet.

- Earlier this month Egypt cut off ties with the Louvre due to an ownership dispute regarding antiquities. In order to maintain good relations, the Louvre quickly agreed to return five fresco fragments to Egypt.

I like to keep up-to-date with major/interesting art news on this blog, but I realize that it's not feasible to write about everything (especially since I tend to get distracted and write about whatever I'm thinking about/researching). So, I've decided to start a Twitter account for Alberti's Window. Please follow me. You also may have noticed that I've also uploaded a "tweet feed" on the left side of the blog page. I'll tweet about interesting art news, short art history thoughts, and one-liner reviews of art exhibitions. It should be fun!

terracotta warriors

My friend rachsticle just got back from a trip to China. I am really, REALLY jealous that she got to see the terracotta warriors at Xi'an. These warriors are placed to protect the tomb of the emperor Qin Shi Hugandi, who proclaimed to be the first emperor of China in 221 BC.

So, what's the big deal about these warriors? Well, first off, it's estimated that there are about TEN THOUSAND of them. These warriors were discovered in 1974, and over the past thirty-five years only about an eighth of the warriors have been excavated. Some of these underground vaults and pits are very hard to access (there are around 600 pits that cover a 22 square-mile area), but excavations are still in progress.

Huangdi arranged a mass-production project to create all of these warriors. Almost in assembly line fashion, artisans cranked out bodies and then customized them with ears, mustaches, hats, shoes, etc. Many of the figures appear strikingly individualized, but it's not likely that they were modeled after real people. Instead, it's more probable that the workers were instructed to represent different regional types of Chinese people.

If you don't have plans to go to China soon, you could still see some of these statues in Washington DC. Next month, terracotta warriors will be on display in the National Geographic Society Museum, as part of an exhibition series which features the largest collection of these statues to ever leave China. You can read more about these statues and the upcoming exhibition in this Smithsonian article.

Sadly, I don't have plans to go to China or DC in the near future. If you're like me, then feel free to content yourself with some of rachsticle's pictures (thanks, friend!):

It appears that the artisans had different molds for body types.
Look at how some of the bodies are skinnier than others.