Alberti's Window

reminder: Alberti's Window has moved!

2011-09-22T16:59:00.000-07:00

I have a new post about Fragonard's painting The Swing on the new domain for my blog, Alberti's Window. If you haven't switched your links or RSS subscriptions to the new site, please do so! I look forward to seeing you on my new site.

NEW domain: www.albertis-window.com

NEW RSS feed: albertis-window.com/feed/

NEW Comments feed: albertis-window.com/comments/feed/

Alberti's Window has moved!

2011-09-19T22:57:00.000-07:00

My friends, the time has come. I am moving this site away from Blogger. Alberti's Window has been redesigned (by my talented husband) and I have changed to a new domain: www.albertis-window.com

I think you'll be pleased with the new design and look! Please join me there and update your links. I am working so that all of the links from this site will redirect to the new site. I will no longer be posting at this URL address, however.

NEW RSS feed: feed://albertis-window.com/feed/
NEW Comments feed: feed://albertis-window.com/comments/feed/

Book Review: "Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome"

2011-09-17T09:42:00.000-07:00

I recently had the pleasure of reading the new exhibition catalog, Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome. I've read this book with a great deal of personal interest - not only do I love Caravaggio, but I will be traveling to Texas later this year to see this historic exhibition! Many of you are probably aware that I highlighted some details from this catalog on a post at Three Pipe Problem - particularly information regarding the painting, Saint Augustine (c. 1600) which recently has been attributed to Caravaggio.

When opening this book for the first time, I was immediately struck by the beautiful images. This catalog is chock full of gorgeous, simply delicious color reproductions of paintings by Caravaggio and the Caravaggisti. There are numerous detail images for many of these paintings, too. The catalog also includes several dozen images that are not included in the actual exhibition, too. Honestly, I would own this book just for the reproductions themselves.

But praise for this catalog goes beyond the reproductions. This book also includes a lot of great essays about Caravaggio, written by prominent scholars like Sebastian Schütze, Francesca Cappelletti, and Michael Fried. That being said, though, this catalog isn't for someone with just a casual interest in art history or Caravaggio. The essays are pretty dense, and some writers (I'm particularly thinking of Fried and Schütze) use art historical terms that would be unfamiliar to the casual reader.

The first half of the book is dedicated to essays about general history regarding Caravaggio and the Caravaggisti (even mentioning Caravaggio's plate of artichokes that recently grabbed a bit of attention in the news). This section also includes a theoretical essay by Michael Fried. The essay is interesting (and, granted, is written in a slightly more approachable way than many of Fried's other essays on similar topics of absorption and spectatorship), but it seems quite out-of-place with the other historical essays in the book.

The second part of the book is dedicated to thematic essays related to works in the exhibition. I loved this section of the book the most. The essays are generally organized by different types of subject matter: gypsies, cardsharps, musicians, saints, etc. It's really fun. I was interested to learn that Caravaggio's painting The Cardsharps (c. 1595, shown left) has inspired more copies and variants than any other work by Caravaggio.¹

In fact, themes of gambling (which expands to include dice players) and were popular among Caravaggio's Roman followers. One popular subject matter for the Caravaggisti was The Denial of Saint Peter (as can be seen in Bartolomeo Manfredi's work of c. 1616-18). These scenes were often expanded to include depictions of soldiers playing dice or cards. Interestingly, though, the Caravaggisti were not inspired by Caravaggio's personal treatment of the subject; Caravaggio's Denial of Saint Peter (c. 1609-10) includes only three half-figures. Instead, the Caravaggisti used Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew (1599-1600) as a prototype for their Denial of Saint Peter scenes. One can see similarities in composition by comparing Manfredi and Caravaggio's paintings, particularly since both works involve groups of men huddled around a table. In addition to these similarities, Nancy E. Edwards points out that "The Denial of Saint Peter and The Calling of Saint Matthew have similar subjects: an apostle's response to Christ's call of faith."²

Anyhow, that interesting tidbit of information is just a taste of what is available in this great catalog. I would heartily recommend it to anyone that has a keen interest in Caravaggio or the Caravaggisti. I only have one small complain about the book itself: it needs to have an index! I know that it is not common for exhibition catalogs to have indexes, so I realize that this complaint is geared more toward a cultural standard than this particular book. However, I have noticed that exhibition catalogs are becoming increasingly more scholarly in their content. If museums want scholars to use their catalogs as an academic resource, more indexes need to start showing up in catalogs!

As I read Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome, I wrote down a makeshift index on the last page of my book copy (see above right), with some of the topics that are particularly interesting to me. If there was an index, I would be spared such effort...

1 Nancy E. Edwards, "The Cardsharps," in Caravaggio and His Followers in Rome, edited by David Franklin and Sebastian Schütze (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 180.
2 Ibid., 199.

Thank you to H Niyazi of Three Pipe Problem, Inbooks and Yale University Press for supplying the review copy.

New(ish) Romanesque Theories

2011-09-15T18:21:00.000-07:00

Boy, art history keeps me on my toes! If I ever start to feel too comfortable in my knowledge of an artistic period, I get knocked off of my feet again by discovering some new theories! Here are two new(ish) theories that I recently have learned about Romanesque art:

THEORY #1 - GISLEBERTUS THE COUNT: For those of you who love that Autun Cathedral and the sculptural program there, this fairly new theory by Linda Seidel may come as a surprise. For a long time, it was thought that Gislebertus (and his workshop) were responsible for the sculptures here. This well-founded assumption is based on the inscription, Gislebertus hoc fecit ("Gislebertus made this") which is located underneath the text of Christ in the Last Judgment tympanum (c. 1120-1130 or 1130-1145; see detail image on right). It sure seems like Gislebertus was the sculptor based on that inscription, right? It was unusual for Romanesque sculptors to sign their work, so Gislebertus has received quite a bit of attention and recognition in the art historical world.

However, Seidel argues that Gislebertus wasn't a sculptor at all. She finds that he was a late Carolingian count who might have contributed financially to the Autun Cathedral. Count Gislebertus made significant contributions to local churches, and his name might have been included in the tympanum in remembrance of his patronage. Seidel even goes further to suggest that this inscription may "challenge those in power to respect and continue the venerable tradition of patronage."¹ For more information, I would recommend Seidel's book, "Legends in Limestone: Lazarus, Gislebertus, and the Cathedral of Autun" (1999, University of Chicago Press). I haven't read Seidel's book myself yet, but I look forward to checking it out. I think this theory is quite compelling.

And regardless of whether Gislebertus is an artist or count, I "heart" him all the same.

THEORY #2 - HILDEGARD AS ARTIST:

I've always remembered when I first learned about the "Hildegard and Volmar" frontispiece of the Liber Scivias (original 1150-1175, facsimile shown on left) as a student, since my professor joked that the stylized flames of fire (representing Hildegard's vision) looked like tentacles. I can't remember his joke verbatim, but it was something like, "and we can see in this manuscript that the Spirit of the Lord descended on Hildegard like a squid."

All joking aside, I'm very interested in the new(ish) theory regarding the Liber Scivias. This book is a text that contains descriptions and illustrations of Hildegard of Bingen's visions. This theory by Madeline Caviness proposes that Hildegard might have been the designer for the illustrations for her visions. Caviness supports her argument in two ways: 1) She finds that these depictions of visions of very unconventional and 2) She thinks these designs also conform to some of the "visionary" aspects that are experienced by people during migraines.² Hildegard had migraines throughout her life, but especially during the period when she was composing the Scivias.

I think this is another interesting argument, and I to think that many of the designs are quite unconventional and unique. One of the images that I like is the "Vision of the Angelic Hierarchy" (1150-1175, shown right). You can see read a synopsis of Hildegard's visions (and see some small images for some of the designs that may have been created by Hildegard) by looking here.

I hope I can get my hands on a copy of Caviness article; I'd like to learn what "visionary" aspects of these illustrations compare with the effects produced by migraines. More information can be read in Caviness' article, "Hildegard as the Designer of the Illustrations of her Works" (1998, Warburg Institute).

"Hildegard and Volmar" image courtesy of Wikipedia.
"Vision of the Angelic Hierarchy" image courtesy of Wikipedia.

1 Stokstad, Art History (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2011), 478.
2 Ibid., 487.

Fragments of the Gates of Hell

2011-09-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you may have noticed I my tweets about Byzantine art over the past day or so. I've been revisiting Byzantine art this past week - it's been quite a while since Justinian and I have hung out together. And I can always use more gold backgrounds in my life, right?

Today, while finishing up my Byzantine projects, I happened to notice some fun details in "anastasis" depictions that have caught my attention. "Anastasis" is the Greek word for "resurrection." Depictions of anastasis don't reference the biblical story of Christ's resurrection, but are inspired by the Gospel of Nicodemus (also called "Acts of Pilate"), an apocryphal text. These scenes show a triumphant, victorious Christ who has broken the Gates of Hell in order to rescue his Hebrew forbearers. Probably the best known anastasis painting is this one:

Anastasis, Funerary chapel of Theodore Metochites, located at the Monastery of Christ in Chora, 1310-1321

Here, Christ is shown rescuing Adam and Eve from their tombs. Other patriarchs, prophets, and kings wait on the sidelines - perhaps waiting their turn to be rescued by Christ. I like a lot of things in this painting, particularly that Christ and Adam are dressed in similar white robes. Since Christ was perceived as a "new Adam" to reverse the effects of the Fall, I think it's fitting that they are depicted in matching clothes.

Anyhow, what I noticed today were details at the bottom of this wall painting. The Gates of Hell are depicted in reddish panels, located underneath Christ's feet. In between the two gates is the defeated Satan, who is wrapped in a bundle. Underneath Christ's feet there are a bunch of tiny fragments:

Anastasis, detail of funerary chapel of Theodore Metochites, located at the Monastery of Christ in Chora, 1310-1321

It turns out that these fragments are keys, nails, hinges, bolts, locks, and other tiny bits from the locks which sealed the Gates of Hell shut. Christ, in his triumph over death, has burst through the Gates of Hell with a dramatic gesture. From a historical standpoint, these different depictions are especially valuable to scholars and archaeologists. Some scholars have found that this fresco includes the most detailed depictions of keys, locks, etc., that exist and have compared the wall painting to actual historical artifacts.¹

I decided to look at the Gospel of Nicodemus to see if there were any specific references to keys, locks, or the Gates of Hell. There are a few references, particularly Chapter V (XXI): 1-3. Christ announces his arrival at the doors, and Hell cries "unto his wicked ministers: Shut ye the hard gates of brass and put on them the bars of iron and withstand stoutly, lest we that hold captivity be taken captive" (Verse 1). The captive saints in Hell protest against this action, and King David reminds Hell that Christ is the individual who "hath broken the gates of brass and smitten the bars of iron in sunder" (Verse 2).

The artist for the funerary chapel of Theodore Metochites really took the "in sunder" description to heart! Other Byzantine artists also depicted this scene, but usually with less fragments of locks and keys. Here are three other anastasis scenes that include some keys and pieces of the "bars of iron." I'm showing details of the images below, but also providing links in case anyone wants to see the full scene.

Detail of Anastasis, Hosios Loukas, Greece, first quarter of the 11th century

Detail of Anastasis, Russian icon from 17th century (Hermitage Museum). Detail image courtesy of jimforest via Flickr.

Detail of Anastasis, west vault from Cathedral of St. Mark, Venice, c. 1180

These artists have left the Gates of Hell in shambles - it's no wonder anastasis scenes are sometimes called the "Harrowing of Hell!"² If you know of any other anastasis scenes that have fun depictions of keys, locks, bolts, hinges and the like - please let me know!

1 George Fletcher Bass and James W. Allan,Serçe Limanı: An Eleventh-Century Shipwreck Vol. 2, (College Station, Texas: Texas A&M University Press, 2009), 449. Available online here.

2 If you want to be nitpicky, though, I think it's more accurate to refer to Byzantine works of art as "anastasis." The term "Harrowing of Hell" is an Old English and Middle English term, so it doesn't perfectly apply to the Byzantine period.

Feathers and Colonialism

2011-09-03T01:39:00.000-07:00

Over the past few days I've been thinking a lot about Amerindian featherwork and colonialism. Probably the best-known examples of featherwork are the "feather paintings" produced by Nahua featherworkers (who were called amanteca). The Aztecs, a branch of the Nahua people, used featherwork for a wide range of prestigious items, including tapestries for their palaces, capes, and head crests.

I'm particularly interested in what happened to featherwork after the Europeans came to the Americas. For one thing, Aztec artisans were commissioned to create "feather paintings" in the European style. A Nahua ruler, Diego de Alvarado Huanitzin, commissioned The Mass of Saint Gregory (1539, shown left) as a gift for Pope Paul III.¹ From a postcolonial standpoint, it's interesting to see how the use of European style can be interpreted as an expression of European control. Gauvin Alexander Bailey points out that European "friars wanted to harness this native tradition in the service of Christian propaganda and benefit from the prestige enjoyed by such featherwork in the pre-Hispanic era."²

Along these lines, Europeans also were fascinated with feather paintings, not only for their technical skill, but apparently for their delicacy.³ I think that this idea of delicacy and fragility is very interesting, given the context of colonialism. With the European mindset of conquering the Amerindians (in terms of politics, culture, and religion), it doesn't seem surprising that the Europeans would be drawn to imagery that reinforces the delicacy and fragility (in other words, the weakness) of the Amerindians. And I think it is especially interesting that the this idea of fragility is not necessarily embodied in the subject matter for the imagery, but in the artistic medium itself.

Undoubtedly, the feather medium also was a source of exoticism to European viewers. The feathered cloaks of the Tupinambá people (an indigenous group of Brazil) "were collected as objects of curiosity and wonderment by Europeans."⁴ No doubt that this sense of wonderment was brought about by the "difference" and "Other-ness" of these objects. Even today, these cloaks continue to instill a sense of awe in European viewers by virtue of their rarity - today only seven such objects remain in European museums. (An image and discussion of the cloak in the Royal Museum of Art and History (Brussels) is found here.)

In fact, the act of collecting featherwork also can be connected to the conquering mindset of Europeans and colonists. One can argue that Europeans were able to "own" or "control" Amerindians through the collection and ownership of feather art. Works of art can be transported, manipulated, bought, contained (think of the Cabinet of Curiosities in the 16th and 17th centuries), and sold - similar to how the Amerindians were treated by various European groups.

1 This feather work copies the composition and details of a 15th century German engraving, Mass of Saint Gregory by Israhel van Meckenem.
2 Gauvin Alexander Bailey, Art of Colonial Latin America (London: Phaidon, 2005), 104.
3 Ibid., 105.
4 Edward J. Sullivan, "Indigenous Cultures," in Brazil: Body and Soul (New York: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, 2001), 78.

Image credit: Public doman image via Wikipedia.

Ancient Art: Formal Analysis Example

2011-08-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

Note: The following post is intended to be a resource for my ancient art students. If you know of any good examples of basic formal analysis that are available online, please leave links in the comments section below! I would like to build up a list of resources for my students.

Formal elements are things that are part of the form (or physical properties) of a work of art: medium, line, color, scale, size, composition, etc. Formal analysis involves an exploration of how these formal elements affect you, as a viewer.

Formal analysis involves describing a work of art, but formal analysis goes beyond mere description. Instead, description is used as an agent to support the argument-at-hand. Although your essay will likely introduce a work of art with some general descriptions, the rest of your descriptions should be very pinpointed and with purpose. Make sure that such detailed descriptions are used to back up specific points of your argument. For this formal analysis assignment, your argument will revolve around some type of reaction to the work of art.

Your formal analysis should include some type of thesis statement that revolves around your reaction. To help you think about your own assignment and personal reaction, I have written a short sample of formal analysis below (and have underlined the thesis statement). Please also note that I am not having my reaction based on the subject matter (in this case, the narratives depicted in the four scenes), but strictly on formal elements:

The front panel of the Great Lyre sound box (c. 2600-2500 BCE, shown left) is an example of Sumerian art from the Ancient Near East.The panel is divided into four different registers. These registers contain four scenes with figures (mostly animals) involved in various activities. Despite the rather rigid compartmentalization of the four sound box scenes, the overall effect of the front panel of the Great Lyre sound box is one of energy and dynamism. Such energy can be seen in the color of the figures and in curvy compositional lines.

The sound box is comprised of two different colors, a dark black and a light tan. These colors are caused by the medium of the panel. Dark black is the color of bitumen, which is used for the background of the panel and lines. Light tan is the color of the inlaid shell that is used for the bodies of the figures and objects. The stark contrast of light tan against a dark background adds a sense of dynamism to the figures. The figures seem to glow and hum with life. Furthermore, these lightly-colored figures are pushed closer toward the viewer, away from the black background, which gives the figures a sense of presence and energy.

The composition of the figures also lends itself to this idea of energy. The figures fill the whole space of their respective registers and scenes, giving them a strong, energetic presence. In fact, some figures strain and twist so that their bodies can fill and fit within the register space. Such dynamic twisting is especially seen in the two bulls in the upper-most register. These bulls are symmetrically placed on either side of a central human figure, creating a "Master of the Animals" motif. The bodies of the bulls twist inward toward the human figure, and but their necks and heads twist outward and slightly downward. The theme of curves and energy is underscored in the beards and hair of these three figures: each lock of hair ends with a bouncy curl.

Energy can be seen in the curvaceous lines of other figures as well. In the second register from the top, the backs and tails of the hyena and lion are comprised of swooping lines. In fact, the lines of the lion's back are reinforced and highlighted by swooping, short lines that suggest the lion's bushy mane. While the lion's mane swoops toward the center of the scene, the lion's lower back curves in the other direction. These opposing compositional lines give the panel an added sense of energy and movement.

In the second register from the bottom, the back of the bear curves upward and downward in a lyrical, dynamic swoop. In fact, the whole body of the bear is placed at a more dynamic angle, since the bear is leaning toward the lyre placed on the left side of the scene. Some of the strings of the lyre curve upward toward the right, opposite the angle of the bear's body, to add more opposing movement and dynamism to the overall composition.

The lowest register of the front panel contains some of the most dynamic curves and lines. The most obvious curve is found in the tail of the scorpion man on the left side of the scene. This tail curls and swoops upward, only to end with a stinger that loops downward. The shape and detail lines of the scorpion tail are also energetic. The tail is comprised of several oval shapes of decreasing sizes. These shapes are combined together to creating a visually dynamic, bouncy outline for the tail. Furthermore, the tail is full of energy because of the multiple lines that appear within each oval shape. These lines look a little like a maze or labyrinth; they visually reinforce the idea of movement through their repetition and interlocking layout.

The front panel of the Great Lyre sound box embodies energy in many ways. This energy can be seen not only because of the colors of the panel, but also through several compositional devices and lines. Such visual interest in energy is fitting for this piece, given that this sound box originally hummed with musical vibrations and the energy created by sound.

For further information about formal analysis, you may want to look at the chapter, "Formal Analysis" by Anne d'Alleva. Preview is available online here.

Caravaggio Guest Post on 3PP

2011-08-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone! Today I am honored to have a guest post featured on Three Pipe Problem. I recently received a copy of the new catalog Caravaggio and His Followers in Rome. My post covers information from the catalog (and elsewhere) regarding the attribution of a new Caravaggio painting, Saint Augustine (c. 1600, see left).

Please take a look! Enjoy!

Image credit: Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.

Digital Homage to the Square

2011-08-12T15:16:00.000-07:00

For those of you who like Josef Albers' Homage to the Square series, you might be interested in seeing my husband J's recent project, "Auto Albers." You can read a little about the project by clicking on the "?" on the lower left side of the project's webpage.

J writes, "I recommend opening it in a new window and leaving it up for a long period of time. It changes very slowly, but can change quite dramatically throughout the day. That's what I do, anyway..."

Art Crime and Textbooks

2011-08-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

I was surprised to learn recently that Monet's famous painting Impression: Sunrise (dated 1872, shown right) was stolen from the Marmottan Museum on October 27, 1985. Seven armed men forced museums visitors and a guard to lie on the floor while they stole this painting and eight other works. Impression: Sunrise was recovered in December of 1990 and went back on display at the Marmottan in April 1991.

Although the actual theft doesn't surprise me that much, I was taken back that I wasn't aware of this aspect of the painting's history. I feel like I know this painting pretty well - it is the work of art that is often seen as the "kickoff" point to the Impressionist movement. The title of this painting, Impression: Sunrise led hostile critic Louis Leroy to first use the term "Impressionists."

As I've thought my surprised reaction, I've realized that much of my knowledge about Monet's painting comes from art history textbooks. And, on the flip side, I've realized that most of my knowledge about art crime doesn't come from standard art history textbooks. I usually learn about art crime from online sources (like the blog "Art Theft Central") and popular history books like Lopez's The Man Who Made Vermeers or Charney's Stealing the Mystic Lamb. (And, speaking of Charney, I look forward to reading his new book on the thefts of the Mona Lisa).

So, why does art crime not get included in art history textbooks very much? Undoubtedly, such crime (theft or otherwise) becomes part of an art piece's history. Here are some related questions that have been muddling about in my brain:

Is there something about art crime that doesn't appeal to academia at large?
Is art crime too closely related to popular history? (Perhaps this topic is really an issue of popular history and academia, an idea that will be explored in an upcoming conference by The Historical Society.)
Is art crime too base of a topic for art historians? Will a work of art be demystified if it is connected with crime? Isn't it okay if a work of art is demystified?
Art crime is intrinsically linked to the art market. Does art history want to disassociate itself from the art market?
Do scholars (and their book editors) feel like there isn't room for a discussion of art crime in survey texts?
Am I just looking at the wrong kinds of art history textbooks? Are there textbooks out there that incorporate a good discussion of crime along with other general aspects of art history?

I feel like there are a lot of art historians and art history students that are interested in art crime, but I don't feel like there are enough academic publications to support my hunch. I definitely feel like there is a place for art crime in the classroom, though. I get very positive feedback from class lectures that include some information about theft, forgery and looting.

Maybe art crime is like crime itself - it needs to be learned "on the street" or by word of mouth! From what I can tell, it looks like Noah Charney's program for a Master's in Art Crime involves a lot of classroom discussion and lectures from experts on the topic, not a lot of textbook reading.

Thoughts, anyone?

Announcing "Smithsonian" Winners!

2011-08-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Betty Richards and Erin F who won subscriptions to Smithsonian magazine through my giveaway! Comment #11 (by Betty Richard) and Comment #12 (by Erin F) were randomly selected as the winners:

Betty Richard: "Congrats on the milestone! That shows commitment!"

Erin F: "Congrats! So much wonderful art history on the web! And a great giveaway to boot! Keep writing!"

Betty and Erin, you have three days to contact me via email (albertis.window@gmail.com) in order to claim the prize and give me a mailing address.* If a winner does not come forth by that time, I will then randomly select a new winner.

Enjoy your subscriptions! Smithsonian is a fantastic magazine. I've enjoyed my subscription for several years, and I'm pleased to share Smithsonian with others.

*Your mailing address will not be used for any other purpose than the Smithsonian subscription.

Underneath the Colosseum

2011-08-05T00:02:00.000-07:00

I've always really liked the Colosseum (70-80 CE, shown on left) and its history: Vespasian! Nero the Loser! Gladiators! The bastardization of Greek architectural orders! But even apart from art history, I personally have a soft spot for the Colosseum because of my own experience in Rome: several years ago I got to see Paul McCartney play a (free) concert outside the arena. It was awesome to see the Colosseum "rocking out" in florescent lights, serving as a backdrop to Beatles music.

Since I am featuring a giveaway for two subscriptions to Smithsonian magazine this week, I thought it would be fitting to write a post inspired by a Smithsonian article. I immediately turned to an article about the Colosseum in a Smithsonian issue from earlier this year ("Secrets of the Colosseum" by Tom Mueller, January 2011). This article contains some interesting, lesser-known facts about the Colosseum. For example, did you know that during the Renaissance Pope Sixtus V tried to turn the Colosseum ruins into a wool factory? Luckily, that project was abandoned after Sixtus V died in 1590. Phew!

The bulk of the Smithsonian article focuses on the hypogeum, the area beneath the arena floor of the Colosseum (see below). This area provided a network of service rooms and tunnels for performers, athletes, animals, and equipment. Currently, there has been a lot of hype created about the hypogeum (ha ha!). This area and the third floor of the Colosseum were just recently opened to the public last fall, following a $1.4 million restoration project. From what I understand, the hypogeum will probably be open through October of this year.

I've always thought that the hypogeum was particularly interesting, especially since I once heard that the hypogeum has its own unique ecological niche. For centuries, plants have rooted among these underground ruins. These plants are located quite far beneath the regular ground level and probably experience a unique range of external temperatures, sunlight, and rainfall. With such unusual conditions, one can suspect why botanists have been interested in these plants for such a long time. "As early as 1643, naturalists began compiling detailed catalogs of the flora, listing 337 different species."¹ Multiple surveys have taken place since then; in 2003 it was recorded that the combined lists contain 683 species.

I especially liked how the Smithsonian article discussed how the hypogeum allowed Colosseum spectacles to maintain an element of surprise and suspense. For example, animals that were held in the hypogeum would enter the arena on a wooden ramp at the top of a lift. "Eyewitnesses describe how animals appeared suddenly from below, as if by magic, sometimes apparently launched high into the air."² The hunter in the arena would never be sure of where the next animal(s) would appear.

I can't help but think of Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games books after reading more about the surprise tactics used in Colosseum events. Although I had made connections between the Hunger Games and the Colosseum before (in both instances contestants are supposed to fight to the death), I hadn't considered more parallels. The arenas for the Hunger Games were designed to continually introduce new surprises to the contestants. I even recall at least one instance (I think it was in Catching Fire) in which Katniss is lifted into the arena in a glass cylinder, suggesting that she was held in an underground space similar to the hypogeum.

Anyhow, I wonder how much Collins researched the Colosseum while writing her books. Has anyone else read The Hunger Games series? Can you think of more parallels between the Colosseum and the Hunger Games? What are your favorite things about the Colosseum?

1 Tom Mueller, "Secrets of the Colosseum," in Smithsonian 41, no. 9 (January 2011): 29. Article found online at: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/Secrets-of-the-Colosseum.html#ixzz1U87oTpui (accessed 4 August 2011).

2 Ibid., 34.

Image credits: Colosseum image by Diliff via Wikipedia. Hypogeum image by Briséis via Wikipedia.

The "Collection Museum" Complete* List

2011-08-02T21:53:00.000-07:00

The small "collection museum" list that I started in an earlier post has exploded into quite a large compilation, thanks to the comments from my readers! Per request, I've compiled this list into a separate post. This new list goes outside the chronological parameters that I used in the previous post, too. I've also added a two more museums: the Museé Nissim de Camondo (Paris) and Hillwood (Washington DC). As of the past week, Hillwood has taken a large role into my personal research project, since it was founded by female collector Marjorie Merriweather Post.

Walter Benjamin, when writing about collection, said that there was "a profound enchantment" in which "the thrill of acquisition" casts "a magic circle" around objects.¹ Hopefully this list will provide helpful suggestions for those who like to experience such "profound enchantment" and magic in person.

The list is organized chronologically from when the museum was founded and/or opened for public view. I am defining "collection museum" as a preserved art collection amassed by a private collector, which is now on view for the public. Often, these collection museums are located in what was once the private house and/or residence of the collector.

*If you know of any other collection museums to add to this list, please let me know! I'll try to keep this list as complete as possible.

Enjoy!

1 Anne Higonnet, A Museum of One's Own: Private Collecting, Public Gift (New York: Periscope Publishing, Ltd., 2009), xviii.

"COLLECTION" MUSEUMS

19th century

1817: National Brukenthal Museum (Sibiu, Romania). Collection of Baron Samuel von Brukenthal, which was amassed during the 18th century. Von Brukenthal stipulated in his will (which probably was written sometime around 1803, the year that Van Brukenthal died) how his collection should be treated after his death. He ordered that when the last male heir in his line of succession should die, his Late Baroque palace presenting his collections should be open to the public. These events took place in 1817. The museum was nationalized in 1948. A more detailed history of the museum is found here.
1837: John Soane Museum (London). As mentioned here, the collection functioned as a museum and academy in the beginning of the 19th century. Soane was serving as a Professor of Architecture at the Royal Academy, and he allowed students to come and study his collection. Soane negotiated an Act of Parliament in 1833 to preserve the museum, and in that act was put into force when Soane died in 1837.
1883: The Corsini Gallery (Rome). Collection was formed in the 18th century by the Corsini family, notably Cardinal Lorenzo Corsini (who became Pope Clement XII). Palace was sold to the Italian state in 1883 and comprised the basis for the National Gallery of Art. Official website says that "only recently" was the collection moved back to its original site at the Corsini palace.
1897: The Wallace Collection (London). The collection was mainly amassed by Richard Seymoure-Conway, who bequeathed the collection to his illigetimate son, Sir Richard Wallace. Collection is displayed in the Hertford House, the main London townhouse of Sir Richard Wallace. The collection was bequeathed to the British nation in 1897 by Lady Wallace (Julie-Amélie-Charlotte Castelnau), wife of Sir Richard Wallace.
1898: Musée Condé in the Château de Chantilly (near Paris). Bequeathed by the Duc d'Aumale to the Institut of France in 1897. The museum opened to the public in 1898. (Note: This museum is not the collection of one private collector, but a collection that was amassed over time by the Montmorency and Condé families. Museum also has a collection once owned by Caroline Murat, the sister of Napoleon.)

1901 - 1920

1903: The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (Boston, Massachusetts). Collection of Isabella Stewart Gardner. The museum ("Fenway Court") also served as Isabella's residence. Construction begun in 1899, opened to the public on Near Year's Day, 1903.
1903: The Borghese Gallery (Rome). This gallery was the original conception and collection of Cardinal Scipione Borghese (reign 1605-1621). Housed in the former Borghese country house, this collection contains works by Caravaggio and Bernini, among others. The art collection and country house were acquired by the Italian state in 1902. The remaining parts of the villa (including parks and open-air sculptures) were ceded by the Italian state to the municipality of Rome in 1903. More information about the museum is found here.
1913: Jacquemart-André Museum (Paris). Collection of André and Nélie Jacquemart. Nélie Jacquemart was a well known society painter. In accordance with her husband's wishes, Nélie bequeathed the mansion and collection to the Institut de France. Museum opened in 1913.
1920: The Hallwyl Museum (Stockholm). Primarily the collection of Countess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl. Museum is located in the Hallwyl House, which served as the private residence for Count and Countess van Hallwyl. Collection was donated to the state in 1920.

1921 - 1940

1921: The Phillips Collection (Washington, DC). Collection of Duncan Phillips. Museum building was once Phillip's residence. Founded 1921.
1921: Sinebrychoff Art Museum (Helsinki, Finland). Collection of Paul Sinebrychoff. Collection donated to the state in 1921. The Sinebrychoff private residence (the current location of the museum) was bequeathed to the state in 1975.
1922: The Barnes Foundation (originally located in Merion, Pennsylvania). Collection of Albert C. Barnes. Founded in 1922. I'm especially distraught over this museum, since the collection is currently being moved to a new location in Philadelphia. If you want to learn more about the situation involving the displacement of the Barnes Foundation, I'd recommend that you see the documentary The Art of the Steal.
1926: Freer Gallery of Art (Washington, DC). Collection of Charles Lang Freer. Construction begun in 1916, but gallery completion was delayed because of WWI. Gallery opened in 1926.
1926: Benaki Museum (Athens). Collections of Antonis Benakis. Founded in 1926.
1927: The Spada Gallery (Rome). Located in the Palazzo Spada, this collection includes 16th and 17th century paintings. The collection was largely amassed by Cardinal Bernardino Spada and his nephew, Virgilio Spada. Bernardino's grandson, Fabrizio Spada, also added to the collection. Cardinal Spada had the Renaissance palace remodeled by Borromini in the 17th century. The Palazzo was purchased by the Italian state in 1927.
1928: The Huntington Art Gallery (Pasadena, CA). Collection of Henry E. Huntington. Museum building was once Huntington's residence. Opened in 1928.
1932: The Courtauld Gallery (London). Gallery is part of the Courtauld Institute of Art. The gallery's art collection originally contained art that belonged to Samuel Courtauld, the founder of the Institute. Courtauld's collection contained mostly French Impressionist and Post-Impressionist works. Courtauld made a bequest to the Institute in 1948. The gallery collection has expanded to include works from several private collections, including the collection of Roger Fry (gallery received bequest following the art critic's death in 1934).
1935: Museé Nissim de Camondo (Paris). Collection of banker Moïse de Camondo. The museum is located in a mansion that was designed after the Petit Trianon in Versailles. Collection includes decorative arts, busts by Houdon, portraits by Elisabeth Vigée Lebrun, landscapes by Guardi and hunting scenes by Oudry.
1935: Musée Marmottan Monet (Paris). Originally the collection of Paul Marmottan (which was partially inherited from his father, Christophe Edmond Kellermann, Duke of Valmy). Museum was bequeathed to the Académie des Beaux Arts. The museum location originally served as the hunting lodge for Christophe Edmond Kellermann and later the home of Paul Marmottan. The Academy opened the museum in 1935. Museum collection was expanded with a gift in 1957 (Impressionist collection once owned by Doctor Georges de Bellio) and in 1966 (the personal collection of Claude Monet, bequeathed by Monet's son Michel Monet). Museum also houses a collection of illuminated manuscripts once owned by Daniel Wildenstein (who died in 2001).
1935: The Frick Collection (New York City). Collection of Henry Clay Frick. Museum is housed in the former home of Henry Clay Frick. Museum opened to the public in 1935.
1936: The John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art (Sarasota, Florida). Collection of John and Mable Ringling. Museum functioned as the Ringling family's private residence. Art collection, mansion, and estate were bequeathed to the state of Florida in 1936, at the death of John Ringling. This museum boasts an eclectic Baroque collection, among other things.
1940: Maryhill Museum of Art (Goldendale, Washington). Collection of Sam Hill and Loïe Fuller. Construction of mansion (current location of museum) was begun in 1914 by owner Sam Hill. However, construction stopped in 1917. Work resumed in 1920s and 1930s, with the intent of turning the mansion into a museum. Museum opened to the public in 1940. This museum owns more than 80 works by Rodin.
1940: Dumbarton Oaks (Washington DC). Collection of Mildred and Robert Woods Bliss. Museum also functioned as residence for the Bliss family. Institution dedicated and transferred to Harvard University in 1940.

1941 - 1960

1949: The Gilcrease Museum (Tulsa, Oklahoma). From what I have read online, it looks like that collection was open for public view in 1949. The collection was given to the city of Tulsa in 1955.
1951: Peggy Guggenheim Collection (Venice). Collection of Peggy Guggenheim. From 1951 Peggy opened up her home in Venice to the public during the summer months. Since Peggy's death, the Guggenheim Foundation has turned her private home into the small museum of modern art.
1952: Frye Art Museum (Seattle). Collection of Charles and Emma Frye. Collection contains late-19th and early-20th century European paintings.
1956: Kettle's Yard (Cambridge). Collection of H. S. "Jim "Ede. Museum was begun in 1956, after Jim Ede renovated four derelict cottages in Cambridge. Kettle's Yard houses modern art.

1961 - 1980

1962: Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum (Cairo). The museum is located in a palacethat was built in 1915. In addition to housing the museum collection, the palace also served to house government offices during the '70s, '80s, and beginning of the '90s!
1969: Gulbenkian Museum (Lisbon). Collection of Calouste Sarkis Gulbenkian. Museum contains a large collection of over 6,000 pieces that dated from antiquity to the 20th century. For security measures, the collection was split up in the middle of the 20th century and sent to locations like the British Museum and the National Gallery in Washington DC. The collection was finally reunited in 1969 (after a lot of negotiation!), fourteen years after the death of the collector.
1974-75: Norton Simon Museum (Pasadena, California). This museum has an interesting history, as it originally developed as the Pasadena Art Institute (1922) and then merged with the Pasadena Museum of Art (1942). Norton Simon took over financial control and naming rights for the museum in 1974-75. Simon was an art collector who was searching for a permanent house for his collection (which includes paintings of Impressionists and Old Masters). He was able to rescue the struggling Pasadena museum and find a house for his collection at the same time.
1977: Hillwood Estate, Museum and Gardens (Washington DC). Collection of Marjorie Merriweather Post. Collection was bequeathed to the public in 1973, following Post's death. The museum includes decorative arts from 18th century France and imperial Russian art.

1981-present

1986: Charleston Farmhouse (near Lewes, East Sussex, UK). This farmhouse served as the country home of the Bloomsbury Group. A Charleston Trust was established in 1980 to restore and maintain the home for public benefit. The collection has been open to the public since 1986.
1986: The Johnston Collection (Melbourne). Collection of William Robert Johnston. Museum contains decorative arts and antiques. Currently, the museum is located in the Fairhall house museum. The W R Johnston trust was established in 1986 to preserve and develop the collection.
1994: Estorick Collection (London). Collection belonged to Eric and Salome Estorick. This collection contains a lot of Italian art dating from 1890 to 1950 (with an emphasis on the Futurists). Eric Estorick died in 1993, and in 1994 a Georgian house was bought by the Eric and Salome Estorick Foundation.

"Smithsonian" magazine giveaway!

2011-08-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

Last week I hit the "300th post" mark for Alberti's Window. This is a big milestone for me! I'm so glad that I started this blog in 2007. Not only has this blog been a great way for me to organize my research and ideas, but I have gotten to collaborate and work with a lot of fantastic individuals in the process. Thanks to all of those who have worked with me along the way!

To celebrate, I wanted to have a little giveaway on this blog. I'm giving away two free 12-month subscriptions (11 issues) to Smithsonian magazine! I love Smithsonian; often articles from recent issues provide fodder for my post entries. Three of my favorite Smithsonian-inspired posts are: "What Old/Castaway Object Embodies You?", "Can You Spot Jackson Pollock's Name?", and "Sympathy for Renoir."

I will be randomly selecting the two subscription winners (using this site) on August 9, 2011. So you have just one week to enter this giveaway! You can enter your name up to four times. Here are the ways you can enter:

1) Leave a comment on this post!

2) Tweet about the giveaway (be sure to include my Twitter name: @albertis_window in your tweet, so I can find it). After tweeting, leave a comment on this post to let me know too, please.

3) Write about this giveaway on your own blog, and then include the URL in a comment on this post.

4) Become a follower of my blog (via Blogger - see sidebar on the left to join). Once you have become a follower (or, if you already are listed follower), leave a comment on this post.

Please make sure that you write a separate comment for each of your entries. I will write a post, announcing the two winners on August 9th. The winners will then have three days to contact me via email (albertis.window@gmail.com) in order to claim the prize and give a mailing address. If a winner does not come forth by that time, I will then randomly select a new winner.

Unfortunately, I have to restrict this giveaway to readers who have mailing addresses in the United States. For all of my international readers - I promise to include you on another giveaway in the future!

Similarities in Polynesia and Mesoamerica!

2011-07-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

It just occurred to me that the Atlantean warrior figures from the Temple of the Morning Star (Tula, Mexico) and the figures from Easter Island (Ahu Nau Nau, Easter Island, Polynesia) were created roughly around the same time but on different sides of the world.

Atlantean warrior figures, c. 900–1000 CE. Stone. Temple of the Morning Star (Tula, Mexico). Average height approx. 15' (4.5 m). You can get a sense of scale for the Toltec statues here.

Image from Wikipedia via Luidger.

Moai figures, Ahu Nau Nau, Easter Island, Polynesia, c. 1000–1500 CE. Volcanic stone. Average height approx 36' (11 m).

Image from Wikipedia via Ian Sewell

The Toltec statues are quite a bit smaller and contain more detail in bas relief (see more images here) than the Easter Island figures. These two statues also had different functions. The Easter Island figures might have served as memorials for dead leaders. In contrast, the Atlantean warriors served both as columns for the temple roof and as temple guardians.

Although there are definite differences, it is interesting to observe a few similarities between these monuments. Both are placed in an elevated area (the warrior figures are placed on top of a pyramidal base, whereas the Moai figures are placed on platforms.¹ Decorative headdresses were originally found in both groups as well. The warriors wear feather headdresses and the Moai figures would have originally worn red tufa headdresses (read an interesting article about the how these red hats may have been rolled down an ancient volcano).

I also see some similarity in the frontal, rigid stances for both these sculptural groups. The linear arrangement of the statues is also similar, although that similarity more easily observed today since the warrior figures no longer function as columns. It's interesting to see how a few similarities were appearing at the same time across the world. Perhaps we could chalk up these similarities to Hegel and his Geist theory?

1 I should point out, though, that most of the Moai figures are still located in the quarries instead of platforms. It is unclear why some figures were left in the quarries as opposed to those that are on platforms. However, there are some distinct differences between the two groups. The figures on the platforms are stockier, less angular, and have less accentuated features than those left in the quarries.

The "Collection Museum"

2011-07-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

I have been doing some research on Isabella Stewart Gardner over the past few weeks, in hopes to present something at a conference this fall.

In doing this research, I've started to make a compilation of "collection museums" that were created by private collectors in the late 19th and early-to-mid 20th century. I love going to "collection museums," especially when such buildings also functioned as the residence for the collector. Two of my favorite museum experiences are when I visited the Phillips Collection in Washington, DC (shown right) and visited the Frick Collection (shown below on left).

First of all, I love seeing what types of art appeal to one individual, as a collector. It is also interesting to visit these museums and see how a collector would have potentially "decorated" their residence space. (The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is most interesting in this respect, since she specified in her will that the arrangement and presentation of her collection could not be altered after her death, or the whole collection would be given to Harvard University.)

I think that a museum visitor can make a lot of interesting associations with works of art when they are in such a personal, domestic setting. Although great works of art can undoubtedly stand (or hang!) on their own, I love seeing works of art in an interesting context and display. "Collector museums" are fun to have in a postmodern society, don't you think? It's much more interesting to me than the white cube gallery space, that's for sure.

Here are the "collection museums" that I have compiled so far (in chronological order of when the museums were built/founded):

UPDATE: A more comprehensive list (going outside the time frame from this post) was created in a separate post on this blog.

The Wallace Collection (London). The collection was mainly amassed by Richard Seymoure-Conway, who bequeathed the collection to his illigetimate son, Sir Richard Wallace. Collection is displayed in the Hertford House, the main London townhouse of Sir Richard Wallace. The collection was bequeathed to the British nation in 1897 by Lady Wallace (Julie-Amélie-Charlotte Castelnau), wife of Sir Richard Wallace.
Musée Condé in the Château de Chantilly (near Paris). Bequeathed by the Duc d'Aumale to the Institut of France in 1897. (Note: From what I can tell, this museum is not the collection of one private collector, but a collection that was amassed over time by the Montmorency and Condé families. Museum also has a collection once owned by Caroline Murat, the sister of Napoleon.)
The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (Boston, Massachusetts). Collection of Isabella Stewart Gardner. The museum ("Fenway Court") also served as Isabella's residence. Construction begun in 1899, opened to the public on Near Year's Day, 1903.
Jacquemart-André Museum (Paris). Collection of André and Nélie Jacquemart. Nélie Jacquemart was a well known society painter. In accordance with her husband's wishes, Nélie bequeathed the mansion and collection to the Institut de France. Museum opened in 1913.
The Hallwyl Museum (Stockholm). Primarily the collection of Countess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl. Museum is located in the Hallwyl House, which served as the private residence for Count and Countess van Hallwyl. Collection was donated to the state in 1920.
The Phillips Collection (Washington, DC). Collection of Duncan Phillips. Museum building was once Phillip's residence. Founded 1921.
Sinebrychoff Art Museum (Helsinki, Finland). Collection of Paul Sinebrychoff. Collection donated to the state in 1921. The Sinebrychoff private residence (the current location of the museum) was bequeathed to the state in 1975.
The Barnes Foundation (originally located in Merion, Pennsylvania). Collection of Albert C. Barnes. Founded in 1922. I'm especially distraught over this museum, since the collection is currently being moved to a new location in Philadelphia. If you want to learn more about the situation involving the displacement of the Barnes Foundation, I'd recommend that you see the documentary The Art of the Steal.
Freer Gallery of Art (Washington, DC). Collection of Charles Lang Freer. Construction begun in 1916, but gallery completion was delayed because of WWI. Gallery opened in 1926.
Benaki Museum (Athens). Collections of Antonis Benakis. Founded in 1926.
The Huntington Art Gallery (Pasadena, CA). Collection of Henry E. Huntington. Museum building was once Huntington's residence. Opened in 1928.
Musée Marmottan Monet (Paris). Originally the collection of Paul Marmottan (which was partially inherited from his father, Christophe Edmond Kellermann, Duke of Valmy). Museum was bequeathed to the Académie des Beaux Arts. The museum location originally served as the hunting lodge for Christophe Edmond Kellermann and later the home of Paul Marmottan. The Academy opened the museum in 1935. Museum collection was expanded with a gift in 1957 (Impressionist collection once owned by Doctor Georges de Bellio) and in 1966 (the personal collection of Claude Monet, bequeathed by Monet's son Michel Monet). Museum also houses a collection of illuminated manuscripts once owned by Daniel Wildenstein (who died in 2001).
The Frick Collection (New York City). Collection of Henry Clay Frick. Museum is housed in the former home of Henry Clay Frick. Museum opened to the public in 1935.
The John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art (Sarasota, Florida). Collection of John and Mable Ringling. Museum functioned as the Ringling family's private residence. Art collection, mansion, and estate were bequeathed to the state of Florida in 1936, at the death of John Ringling. This museum boasts an eclectic Baroque collection, among other things.
Maryhill Museum of Art (Goldendale, Washington). Collection of Sam Hill and Loïe Fuller. Construction of mansion (current location of museum) was begun in 1914 by owner Sam Hill. However, construction stopped in 1917. Work resumed in 1920s and 1930s, with the intent of turning the mansion into a museum. Museum opened to the public in 1940. This museum owns more than 80 works by Rodin.
Dumbarton Oaks (Washington DC). Collection of Mildred and Robert Woods Bliss. Museum also functioned as residence for the Bliss family. Institution dedicated and transferred to Harvard University in 1940.

Know any more to add to this list? Have you been to visit any of these places? What was your experience? I learned about several of these lesser-known museums from a book review of A Museum of One's Own by Anne Higonnet. I hope to read Higgonet's book this week and add more museums to my list.

I think it's really interesting that several women were among the first to convert their private residence into a museum space, including Lady Wallace (Wallace Collection) and Isabella Stewart Gardner. Many other women were key in forming collections, such as the Countess Wilhelmina van Hallwyl (Hallwyl Museum) and Loïe Fuller (Maryhill Museum of Art). Perhaps there was something about displaying art in a domestic space that was especially appealing to female collectors? I think that I might explore this idea further in my research!

Images from Wikipedia. Frick Collection image by Wikipedia user "Gryffindor."

Kauffmann and Female Empowerment

2011-07-11T18:15:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I've been thinking about Angelica Kauffmann's painting, Self-Portrait Hesitating between the Arts of Music and Painting (1791, shown left). I can relate to this painting quite well: during my first year and a half as an undergraduate, I couldn't decide whether to major in music or art history. I play the piano and studied classical voice for several years. At the beginning of college I continually felt compelled to study vocal performance, music education or choral conducting. In some ways, I still wish that I had kept up with my classical singing, especially when I listen to singers like Renée Fleming or Patricia Petibon (the latter is a recent discovery - she's fantastic!).

In the end, though, I decided to major in art history and minor in music. With only a minor in music, I felt like I could still learn and refine my singing skills but remain somewhat distant from the discipline. I've found that my enjoyment of music lessens if I focus on theory and technique too much; I end up overanalyzing musical scores and critiquing performances instead of just listening. However, my enjoyment and love for art (and art history!) doesn't ever seem to go away, despite how much I learn or how critically I think. So, in the end, I art history was the best choice for me.

Kauffmann was an accomplished musician; she played the zither and clavichord. She also was said to have an extremely beautiful, agile singing voice. Kauffmann had to choose between music and art as a career, and she depicts this decision in her painting. Obviously, Painting won her over. It appears that Kauffmann's career choice was influenced (at least in part) by a priest who convinced Kauffmann and her father that an operatic career on the stage would lead to a faithless, debased lifestyle.¹(On a side note, I wonder what Painting is pointing at in the distance, beyond the canvas of Kauffman's painting. Great heights? Achievement? Music seems much more passive of a figure, being seated on the left.)

Not only do I love this painting because I relate to Kauffmann's interest in music and art, but I also love the idea behind the painting's composition. Here, Kauffmann is shown in an empowering position between the two arts: she has the ability to choose either career path. Instead of the many depictions in art that show women in helpless or subordinate positions, Kauffmann advertises "publicly her ability as an individual to choose."² Another painting by Kauffmann also hints at this same topic of female choice and empowerment: Venus Induces Helen to Fall in Love with Paris (1790, shown right) shows Helen contemplating the decision to fall in love. For Helen, love seems to be a conscientious choice and she has the ability to make that choice. What a dramatic departure this is from depictions of swooning women in art (see here and here and here), who are rendered as helpless subjects!

Do you know of other examples in art where a female figure is represented with agency or ability to choose? Or, do you know of any other examples of swooning and/or helpless women?

1 Frances A. Gerard, Angelica Kauffmann: A Biography (London: Ward and Downey, 1893), 18-21. Available online here. Gerard relates that a handsome, promising (male) musician was one of the individuals who actively tried to convince Kauffmann to study music. It is related that Kauffmann's depiction of Orpheus in Orpheus Leading Eurydice out of Hades (located in a private collection) is a portrait of the handsome musician.

2 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 406.

Strawberries as an "Earthly Delight"

2011-07-09T16:22:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about Hieronymous Bosch and The Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1510-1515) quite a bit this week. In fact, this afternoon I sat down to write a post about how Bosch's "tree-man" (located in the center of the panel which depicts Hell) is believed by some to be a self-portrait of the artist.¹ But, I'm not going to write on that. At least not right now.

Instead, I've become pleasantly distracted by Walter S. Gibson's article, "The Strawberries of Hieronymous Bosch." These strawberries appear all over the central panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights altarpiece (see details on right and below). Gibson notes that Bosch's strawberries garnered attention from viewers very early on. In fact, in 1593 an inventory for some of Philip II's pictures mentions that the altarpiece had earned the nickname the Madroño (or "the Strawberry").² Twelve years later a librarian at El Escorial, Philip's monastery-palace, explained that the panel is "of the vanity and glory and the passing taste of strawberries or the strawberry plant and its pleasant odor that is hardly remembered once it has passed."³ This librarian, named Fray José de Sigüenza, felt that the strawberry was the most important feature of Bosch's garden, and was the fruit was a symbol of the ephemeral, transient nature of earthly pleasures.

Many symbolic interpretations for the strawberries have been put forward, and most of them have negative connotations.⁴ For example, strawberries have multiple seeds, which could hint at promiscuity.⁵ The other fruit included in the central panel (such as the big raspberries) could also be associated with promiscuity for this same reason.

Gibson suggests that the strawberry imagery might connected to a text by Virgil (which probably would have been familiar to Bosch and Hendrik III because Virgil's passage is referenced in Roman de la Rose, a popular poem in the Burgundian court). In this text, Virgil warns children to not gather strawberries, because "the cold, evil serpent" is hiding the grass nearby. It seems to me that Bosch's strawberries could serve as an indirect reference to a serpent (and, by extension, the Fall and sin). Such associations fit well with the imagery for The Garden of Earthly Delights, don't you think? That being said, I also think that there isn't just one specific symbolic meaning for these strawberries. Since this altarpiece undoubtedly served as a focus for intellectual discussion, it is appropriate that Bosch used imagery that was replete with symbolic associations.

Do you know of any other interpretations for the strawberries in this altarpiece? Do you know of any works of art which also include strawberries for symbolic reasons? On a fun side note, I found an amusing comparison between Katy Perry and Bosch's fruit here. No doubt that Perry would view Bosch's strawberries as a symbol of sexuality!

1 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 327.

2 Walter S. Gibson, "The Strawberries of Hieronymous Bosch," in Cleveland Studies in the History of Art 8 (2003): 25.

3 Ibid.

4 There are some positive interpretations of the strawberry which exist. In fact, Gibson points out that the strawberry was seen a medieval symbol of the Virgin. Such exalted associations with the fruit have led a handful of individuals to interpret Bosch's central panel as a scene of transcendent bliss and spiritual love. For a brief synopsis of these interpretations, see Gibson, 26-27.

5 Wilkins, 326.

Book Review: "The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome" by Alois Riegl

2011-06-28T17:43:00.000-07:00

Today I finished reading Riegl's The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (2009, Getty Publications). As I mentioned in an earlier post, this publication is very significant, since it is the first time that Riegl's writings on Baroque art have been translated into English. Apart from a few introductory essays, this book is comprised of Riegl's lecture notes. Riegl taught lectures on Baroque art during three different university semesters in the late 19th and early 20th century. These lecture notes were first published posthumously in 1908, and now have appeared in English almost a century later!¹

I have to say, I think that this book is very interesting in many respects, but it's not a book for someone who has a casual interest in Baroque art. Although Riegl's lecture notes are written in a relatively approachable manner (since the text was written with the intent of being spoken in a lecture hall), the publication itself is rather dense. Riegl takes many specific arguments in his lectures, and he assumes that his audience already has a solid foundation of Renaissance history. In fact, much of this book discusses Renaissance art, as opposed to the Baroque art that is commonly found in today's art history textbooks. For example, I was surprised to see more discussion of Bramante than Borromini (the latter was hardly mentioned at all!).

One of Riegl's arguments is that Michelangelo and Correggio should be seen as the earliest predecessors of the Baroque style. I think this is an interesting argument. On a whole, I think that today's Baroque scholars don't give a lot of attention or emphasis to Michelangelo, at least in comparison with Riegl. Michelangelo really is the core of Riegl's text. I think that today it is more common for people to think of Correggio as a "proto-Baroque" artist than Michelangelo. Perhaps 20th and 21st century Renaissance scholarship has such a vice-like grip on Michelangelo, that Baroque scholarship has been forced to back off a little bit?

I thought quite a bit about historiography while reading this book, and it wasn't just because I noticed a discrepancy between today's scholarship and Riegl's treatment of Michelangelo. Riegl also made a passing comment about naturalism, which caught my attention: "Naturally, for us northerners the naturalists are the most interesting [artists to discuss]."² As an Austrian art historian, Riegl realized that his geographic area and cultural origins influenced the way he responded to artistic style. Is there more scholarly interest in "naturalist" Baroque artists because so many great Baroque art historians came from Germany and Austria? Perhaps so!³

As for the publication itself, I liked that many of the key ideas and artists were highlighted in bold text. This small detail helps the viewer to maneuver and search through the text quite easily. On the other hand, I was disappointed to see so few images included in the publication - and the images that are included are only black and white! Although I have a solid foundation of Renaissance/Baroque sculpture and painting, I am less familiar with the secular architecture that is produced during those periods. Without images to help me visualize Riegl's descriptions of the architectural pieces, I found myself a little bored and frustrated in that section of the text.

That being said, I really enjoyed reading the sections about painting and sculpture; I wasn't bothered by the lack of images since I am familiar with the works of art that were discussed. Since I had this mixed reaction to the images (and lack of images!) in this book, I really would recommend this book only to Renaissance and Baroque scholars. Without many pictures to entice or engage the casual reader, this publication could disappoint. However, if you are interested in early Baroque scholarship and historiography, this is a great resource!

1 Riegl died in 1905 at the young age of 47.

2 Alois Riegl, The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2009), 216.

3 One such "naturalist" artist is Caravaggio, as opposed to more-so classical artists (or "eclectic" artists, to use Riegl's term) like the Carracci and Guido Reni. I personally think there is more interest in Baroque naturalism today, but I'm biased toward Caravaggio myself!

Thank you to H Niyazi of Three Pipe Problem, Inbooks and Getty Research Institute for supplying the review copy.

Book of Kells Folio 34 Description!

2011-06-22T15:03:00.000-07:00

I sometimes have trouble finding satisfying discussions of illuminated manuscripts in general art history textbooks. I have found that many descriptions, while very informative about a specific illumination or artistic style, tend to focus on illuminated manuscript pages as isolated works of art. Although I realize that such isolated descriptions are part and parcel of the general survey textbook (it's impossible to discuss everything in depth!), I still am a little disappointed. I feel like medieval gospel books were meant to be experienced as cohesive whole, not as merely isolated illuminations.

One such example of an isolated description can be found in a recent edition of Gardner's Art Through the Ages, which discusses the "Chi-rho-iota (XPI)" page, folio 34 recto of the Book of Kells (c. 800, shown right). Although I really like that Gardner's touches on historical context by explaining that this particular passage would be read on Christmas Day, I feel like a sense of the illustration within the biblical text and Book of Kells itself (as a whole) is relatively lacking.

This being said, I was quite delighted when I read the following passage yesterday afternoon (see below). This is one of the best descriptions of Folio 34 that I have seen in an introductory textbook. Although the passage doesn't exactly describe the folio in relation to any other pages in the book (and, as I mentioned earlier, I realize such analysis is largely beyond the scope of an introductory textbook), I really like that the author tries to tie the decoration of the page into the actual context of Saint Matthew's gospel:

"The earliest surviving Hiberno-Saxon religious manuscripts reveal and interest in decorating the letters themselves, a not surprising development when we remember that the words were believed to be proclamations of God. This tendency reaches its peak in the Book of Kells. When the text discussing the life of Christ in the Gospel of Saint Matthew (1:22) reaches the point where the Incarnation of Christ is mentioned, the letters burst out into joyful, exuberant patterns. This whole page is devoted to three words - Christi autem generatio ("the birth of Christ") - with most of the page devoted to the first three letters of Christi (XPI). The X is the dominant form, and it surges outward in bold and varied curves to embrace Hiberno-Saxon whorl patterns. Interlace fills other areas, and simple colored frames set off the large initials amid the consuming excitement. The human head that forms the end of the P also dots the I. Near the lower left base of the X, a small scene shows cats watching while two mice fight over a round wafter similar to those used in the Mass - a scene surely of symbolic intent, even if its meaning is lost to us today. The pulsating vitality of the word of God is thus visually demonstrated."¹

Have you found any descriptions of illuminated manuscripts that you like? Do you know of other descriptions that help the reader to better understand either the biblical context or the folio's physical context within the gospel book itself?

1 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 171.

Altar of Pergamon and Baroque Scholarship

2011-06-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of reading The Origins of the Baroque Art in Rome by Alois Riegl. This recent publication is a really exciting and influential textbook in its own right, since it is the first time that Riegl's essays on Baroque art have been translated into English. I plan on writing a full review of the book very soon, but I just wanted to write something that I found particularly interesting.

As an introduction to Riegl's discussion of Baroque art, this book is prefaced with three essays. These essays largely deal with historiography in regards to Baroque scholarship. It's pretty fascinating stuff. I was particularly interested in the discussion about the excavation of the Altar of Pergamon in the late 19th century. Fragments of the altar started to arrive in Berlin in 1879 (which, incidentally, was the same year that prehistoric cave paintings were first discovered. But that's a topic for another day. My point: 1879 was a big year for art history.)

The Altar of Pergamon is from the Greek Hellenistic period (c. 175-150 BCE). It was excavated in the late 19th century by Carl Humann, a German road construction engineer. The continuous frieze depicts the Gigantomachy ("Battle of the Giants") with extremely high relief figures, dramatic emotional expressions, lots of diagonal compositions, and light/dark contrasts (see detail on left). Baroque scholars (such as myself) eat this kind of stuff up, since the stylistic characteristics are very similar to those of the Baroque period. I think that even the placement of the frieze near the steps (as opposed to being placed above the columns, which is the traditional location for an Ionic frieze) ties into the Baroque characteristics of viewer participation and involvement.

So, how did the arrival of the Altar of Pergamon in Berlin change scholarship on Baroque art? Before this point, the Baroque period had been viewed with some disdain by art historians and scholars. In fact, in the 18th century Winckelmann used the word "baroque" as an abusive term (and unsurprisingly, Winckelmann also disliked Hellenistic art!). But the unquestionable quality of the Pergamon frieze caused 19th century scholars to reassess their previous negative interpretations of not only Hellenistic art, but Baroque art as well. In fact, the Hellenistic period began to be known by scholars as the "ancient Baroque."²

Consequently, because of the Altar of Pergamon's influence, German art historians began to write about Baroque art. Heinirch Wölfflin wrote his seminal book Renaissance and Baroque in 1888, less than a decade after the Pergamon altar began to arrive in Berlin. Wölfflin even wrote in the preface "that he had intended to include an evaluation of the 'ancient Baroque' but that his 'little book' did not afford enough scope for this project, and he promised to return to it at a later date."² Unfortunately, Wölfflin never returned to write about the "ancient Baroque," though other scholars (such as Arnold von Salis) did. Now, I think that Baroque scholars take the connection between the Hellenistic and Baroque period for granted. But Baroque scholarship is quite indebted to the Altar of Pergamon. Without the arrival of the altar in Berlin, perhaps "baroque" would still be a demeaning term in art history.

1 Alina Payne, "Beyond Kunstwollen: Alois Riegl and the Baroque" in The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome by Andrew Hopkins and Arnold Witte, eds. (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2010), 8.

2 Ibid.

*Image for Pergamon altar photograph © Raimond Spekking (via Wikimedia Commons) CC-BY-SA-3.0

YouTube: Social, Cultural, and Religious Functions

2011-06-15T12:13:00.000-07:00

I just made my first YouTube video to help introduce course material to online students. Normally I create QuickTime videos of PowerPoint presentations for my online students, but I thought that a short clip of myself could help to set the tone (and hopefully encourage excitement!) for the upcoming course, which begins next week.

The video encourages students to look for ways that prehistoric and ancient art is connected with cultural, social, and religious functions. Before students even open their textbook, I want them to understand that definitions for art have changed over time. Today's definitions for art (including ideas behind "Expressionism," "art for art's sake," and a keen interest in aesthetic) are somewhat different from those of earlier centuries.

P.S. Yes, that's a puzzle replica of the Sistine Chapel in the background of the clip. You can lift off the roof to reveal Michelangelo's ceiling and Last Judgment fresco inside!

Condivi and Michelangelo's "Pietà"

2011-06-13T01:00:00.000-07:00

Well my friends, I think I may have found another minor error in an art history textbook. The textbook I use for my Renaissance classes, The Changing Status of the Artist, says the following: "Ascanio Condivi recorded that his friend Michelangelo carved himself in the guise of Nicodemus mourning over the dead Christ"¹. This seemingly insignificant comment has captured my attention for several months, and consequently I have long wanted to read Condivi's biography of Michelangelo (first printed 1553). Now that the school quarter is finished, I finally found time to read the biography this past weekend. But when I got to Condivi's discussion on the Duomo Pietà (c. 1550, see below), I couldn't find any discussion about a self-portrait! Only in the footnote of biography did I notice this information from the editor: "The figure of Nicodemus, according to a letter from Vasari to Michelangelo's nephew Leonardo shortly after the artist's death, is a self-portrait"²

Now, in the great scheme of things, perhaps it isn't too a big deal that my textbook misattributed this self-portrait information to Condivi instead of Vasari. I understand that. But I also am in favor of historical accuracy, and I thought I would put the record straight here. If any of my past students are reading this, please make a note of the error on page 69 of your textbook!

That being said, this misattribution happily led me to become familiar with Condivi's book first-hand. Many scholars believe that Condivi's work is the best account of Michelangelo's life; this book can practically be considered an autobiography. Condivi wrote that he got his information "with long patience from the living oracle of his [master's] speech."³ It appears that Michelangelo wanted this biography to be written for two reasons: 1) to correct omissions and errors about Michelangelo that appeared in Vasari's first edition of Lives of the Artists and 2) to exonerate Michelangelo from accusations that he deceived the heirs of Julius II and embezzled sums of money (in regards to Michelangelo's seemingly-endless sculptural project for Pope Julius II's tomb).

Condivi's biography is a great resource for any Renaissance scholar, and it's a rather quick read. And although I didn't read any new information about Michelangelo's self-portrait on the Duomo Pietà, I was prompted to consider reasons why Michelangelo included his self-portrait. Condivi wrote that "Michelangelo plans to donate this Pietà to some church and to have himself buried at the foot of the altar where it is placed."⁴

So, if this was to be a funerary function in some sense, Michelangelo may have wanted to include his portrait as part of the traditional convention to represent an image of the deceased on funerary monuments. Michelangelo may have also identified with Nicodemus for either spiritual or personal reasons. For example, according to legend, Nicodemus was a sculptor.⁵

However, this Pietà never was placed next to Michelangelo's tomb. Vasari, who designed Michelangelo's tomb, unsuccessfully tried to acquire the Pietà from the family who owned the sculpture at the time. However, I think it's best that Vasari didn't get his hands on the Pietà: it appears that Michelangelo changed his mind and didn't want the sculpture for his tomb after all. In 1555, two years after Condivi wrote his biography, Michelangelo abandoned and mutilated the Pietà. He then sold the sculpture in 1561 to his friend Francesco Bandini, a Florentine banker in Rome. So if Michelangelo sold the sculpture, it's very likely that he had no intention of using the sculpture on his own tomb. In a way, I'm surprised that Vasari didn't pick up on that simple concept.

A lot of scholars have discussed and analyzed why Michelangelo mutilated the Duomo Pietà, and I think I will compile some thoughts in a forthcoming post. Stay tuned!

1 Catherine King, "Italian Artists in Search of Virtue, Fame, and Honor c. 1450-1650," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 69.

2 Ascanio Condivi, The Life of Michelangelo, translated by Alice Sedgwick Wohl, edited by Hellmut Wohl, 2nd ed. (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), 140 (my emphasis). I realize that the Changing Status textbook could be referring to something else written by Condivi besides his biography (such as a letter), but I highly doubt it. The editor of this Condivi text probably would have mentioned if Condivi had written anything about Michelangelo's self-portrait, instead of only mentioning this letter by Vasari.

3 Ibid., xvi-xviii.

4 Ibid., 90. Michelangelo wanted to be buried in Santa Maria Maggiore, but was actually interred in the Florentine church Santa Croce. Vasari writes details of the internment (and opening Michelangelo's casket to reveal a body untouched by decay!) in his second version of Lives of the Artists (1568). See Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 486.

5 King, 69.

St. Benedict and Thornbushes

2011-06-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

I have a new appreciation for St. Benedict of Nursia (480-547 CE) this afternoon, just having spent a few hours pulling wild thornbushes out of my backyard. I think that is the most grueling and painful exercise I have ever had while gardening, even though I was equipped with gloves and protective clothing. But back to St. Benedict: while battling these bushes, I couldn't help but think of the the saint. According to legend, Benedict cast himself into a thorn bush while naked, to escape the wily temptation of a woman.

When I discuss Benedict in my art classes, I sometimes joke with my students that the thornbush experience was the early equivalent to "taking a cold shower" today. (And it was, at least for some monks!) But since this morning I have a new appreciation for thornbush hoppers. Anyone who willingly throws himself into a thornbush - with the intent of getting pricked - deserves sainthood in my opinion. Definitely.

I thought it would be fun to post some images of Benedict and the thornbush. I was only familiar with a few examples before writing this post, and frankly, I've been surprised that I can't find more works of art dedicated to this legend online. Perhaps monastics wanted to remember that Benedict overcame temptation, but not necessarily focus on exactly how he overcame temptation? Or perhaps there are more images that exist, but they are cloistered away from the public eye? Any medievalists have thoughts on this topic?

"Saint Benedict Overcomes Temptation" (note the devil in the center scene, who is bringing the woman to tempt Benedict) and "Saint Benedict and the Thornbush" (right), Romanesque choir capital, Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire Abbey, France, 11th century

Sodoma II, Life of Saint Benedict: Benedict is Tempted, fresco cycle from Abbazia, Monteoliveto Maggiore (1505-08)

Giovanni di Cansalvo, Saint Benedict Throwing Himself into the Thornbush, ca. 1435-39, Chiostro degli Aranci, Badia Fiorentina

Hermann Nigg, Saint Benedict Writing the Rules, c. 1926

Although I don't think this painting is fantastic, I think it's interesting that the artist included a thorny bush on the side of the painting. This painting depicts Benedict writing his sacred maxims and precepts; these Rules have come to be part of the foundation for monastic living in Western society.

I found another fresco described online (without an image, unfortunately) at the Subiaco Monastery, just southeast of Rome. In this fresco, Saint Francis is grafting roses onto the thornbushes into which Saint Benedict threw himself. I think that the choice of Saint Francis is especially appropriate, since Saint Francis was also known to throw himself into thornbushes to avoid sexual temptation.

The Minneapolis Institute of Arts has proposed some interesting symbolism for thorny plants, given this context of Saint Francis and Saint Benedict. It may be that in some situations thorny plants symbolized chastity and virtue, since these plants functioned as an aid for sexual abstinence!

The Red Vineyard: SOLD!

2011-05-25T16:53:00.000-07:00

I have plenty of things to do this afternoon, but I keep stopping to think about Van Gogh. Today I was discussing with my students about how Van Gogh is the quintessential example of the "artist-genius" construct (an artist who essentially is tortured by his art and creative mind). After all, Van Gogh cut off his own ear (unless Gauguin cut it off!), checked himself into a mental asylum (no doubt because of his uncontrollable passion for art, right???), and committed suicide.

Such aspects of Van Gogh's life are popular to discuss in the world of art history (after all, we still are drawn to the "artist-genius" idea), but there has always been one other biographical detail which has puzzled me for a long time. In order for one to fully emphasize Van Gogh's oppressed, tortured life, one of the following "facts" is oft repeated in the art world: "Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime" or "Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime."

So, which is it? Did Van Gogh sell a painting or not? Or did he sell more than one painting? I've seen different answers in all types of locations (such as here and here), and I find it curious that there is so much ambiguity on this topic. Perhaps this confusion is partially a result of the internet, although I think that these these "facts" about Van Gogh have been independently propagated for much longer than the past two decades.

Luckily, the internet also has resources to allow for fact-checking. This afternoon I've been reading through an unabridged collection of Vincent Van Gogh's letters online. These letters indicate that Van Gogh did sell (at least) one painting during this lifetime. The Red Vineyard (shown above, 1888) was sold to Anna Boch for 400 francs in 1890 (just a few months before Van Gogh's death). The Red Vineyard had been on display at the 1890 "Les XX" exhibition in Brussels. Van Gogh was well aware of his sale, since he wrote his mother about the sale in a letter from 20 February 1890. In a later letter the following month (dated 29 March 1980), Vincent's brother Theo asked if he could send Vincent the money "from your picture from Brussels."

A website dedicated to Anna Boch has put forward some suggestions as to why Boch bought The Red Vineyard. One suggestion is that Boch wanted to show some support for Van Gogh, since his art received a mixed review from artists and critics at "Les XX." Or, as an Impressionist painter, it is possible that Boch simply was interested in Van Gogh's style. Whatever the reason, the sale was made.

Do you know any more information regarding Van Gogh's sold painting(s)? Any thoughts as to why this ambiguity has not been completely resolved?

Mondrian's Evolution

2011-05-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, my husband and I were looking at an exhibition of photographs by Arnold Newman. This series depicted portraits of different 20th century artists, and it was so interesting to see a compilation of faces that are figuratively "behind" the great works of art from that era. I particularly remember a photograph of Mondrian. Upon seeing that photograph, my husband laughed and said (all in good humor), "Ha! This looks like an uptight guy who would paint grids and squares!"

I've been thinking about that comment this afternoon, as I've been looking at Mondrian's oeuvre. Mondrian is definitely best known for the De Stijl movement and paintings from his mature style (such as his Composition in Yellow, Blue and Red, 1937-42, shown left).

Although I like Mondrian's mature style well enough, I agree with Rosalind Krauss that Mondrian limited himself (or caged himself!) within with the grid composition of his mature style.¹ Mondrian painted in this style from about 1920 until the he died from pneumonia in 1944.

Personally, I am much more drawn to Mondrian's pre-1920 paintings. I sense more freedom and exploration in these earlier works, which appeals to me more than the formulaic (but undoubtedly iconic) later style. I also find it interesting that Mondrian took an early interest in depicting the natural world, but he gradually moved toward abstraction after the introduction of Cubism. Honestly, I think Greenberg could have created a little "Modernist Painting" trajectory on Mondrian's career: Mondrian continually flattens his paintings and removes "non-art" references until finally reaching his mature style.²

Here is just a glimpse at how Mondrian's style changed over the beginning of his career:

Piet Mondrian, View of Winterswijk, 1898-99

Piet Mondrian, Summer Night, 1906-07

Piet Mondrian, Windmill in Sunlight, 1908

Piet Mondrian, Passionflower, 1908

(Doesn't this painting remind you of Klimt?)

Piet Mondrian, Amaryllis, 1910

Piet Mondrian, Church Near Domburg, 1910

Piet Mondrian, Still Life with Ginger Jar I, 1911-12

Piet Mondrian, Trees in Blossom, 1912

Piet Mondrian, Composition 6, 1914

Piet Mondrian, Composition with Color Planes no. 3, 1917

Piet Mondrian, Composition with Black, Red, Gray, Yellow, and Blue, 1920

Mondrian experimented with so many styles! I can spot Expressionism, Fauvism, and Cubism in his earlier works. For an even clearer understanding of Mondrian's early style and evolution, see images here and here and here.

So, I guess that Mondrian wasn't always the "uptight guy" who favored squares and primary colors! What do you prefer? Mondrian's earlier style or his mature style? Why?

1 Rosalind Krauss, "The Originality of the Avant-Garde: A Postmodern Repetition," October 18 (1981): 56.

2 See Clement Greenberg, "Modernist Painting," in Art in Theory 1900-2000: An Anthology of Changing Ideas by Charles Harrison and Paul Wood, eds. (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), 773-779. Essay first published in 1960.

Art History Buffness

2011-05-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

Some of you may have noticed the new list of "40 Books that Art History Buffs Love," which was recently compiled by Accredited Online Colleges. I looked through the list, and noticed that I have read (or at least read a good portion from) twelve out of the forty books listed. By my calculations, that means that I'm 30% of an art history buff, right?

I tweeted about my 30% buff-ness online, and my friend heidenkind jokingly made me this button. (I think she threw in an extra 10% for good measure, which is great - then I get a little bit of a reading buffer while building up my buff-ness!)

What percentage of art historical buff-ness are you? Any books that you want to read from the list, or have no desire to read? I think there are a lot more books that I would add to the list (why isn't there anything by Winckelmann or Burckhardt?!?). And I'd probably take out a few books that are on there - I've never even heard of the Cezanne book by Rainer Maria Rilke...

Snakes in Ancient Art Hiss-tory

2011-05-14T17:16:00.000-07:00

Each of my classes this quarter has its own distinct personality. My ancient art students are especially curious, and I love the questions that they raise in class. And for some reason, a lot of our recent topics have meandered (or perhaps slithered?) toward a discussion of snakes. I suppose this shouldn't be surprising, since snakes held symbolic significance in a lot of ancient cultures. Here are some of the works that we have been discussing at length (and some topics that we'll be discussing in the next few weeks):

I can't even express how much I love the Minoan Snake Goddess (shown left, c. 1700-1550 BCE, image courtesy Flickr via Xosé Castro). This was one of the first statues that I loved as an AP art history student in high school. A few weeks ago, my students and I discussed how the snake could have held multiple symbolic associations for the Minoans. Snakes are associated with rejuvenation in many ancient Mediterranean cultures, since snakes can rejuvenate themselves by shedding their skin. Snakes are also associated with resurrection, since they can move both above and beneath the ground.

Last week, when discussing Hellenistic art, a student asked why Alkyoneos (depicted in part of the Gigantomachy frieze at the Altar of Zeus, Pergamon, c. 175-150 BCE) was entwined with a snake. (We were also looking at another Hellenistic sculpture, the Laocoön (1st century BC), and the student noticed a visual similarity between the writhing snakes.) I had never paid attention to the Alkyoneos snake before, but discovered that the snake helps the viewer to identify that Alkyoneos is battling with the Olympian goddess Athena. The snake aids Athena in her victory, similar to how serpents aid the Olympian gods (specifically Athena, according to some accounts) in the killing of Laocoön, the Trojan priest.

Athena was often identified with snakes (I joked with my students that she might have been a Parselmouth). Not only was the snake associated with wisdom (which was one of Athena's attributes), but snake also served as the symbol for Erectheus, the mythical king of Athens. As the patron goddess of Athens, it makes sense that Athena would also be associated Erectheus (and Athens) through the snake symbol. Athena was depicted with a snake in the monumental "Athena Parthenos" statue by Phidias (original dated 438 BC, see reconstruction from Royal Ontario Museum here).

In about a week, I'll be talking about snakes with my ancient art students again, this time in connection with the Etruscans. Scholar Kristen Lee Hostetler recently explored how snake imagery is found in depictions of Etruscan demons (such as the wall painting of the demon Tuchulcha, Tomba dell'Orco II, Tarquinia, last quarter of the 4th century BC; shown left). It appears that snakes (specifically the extremely poisonous adder) were feared by the Etruscans. Hostetler points out that the distinct adder markings are noticeable in the demon imagery¹. In addition, some of these Etruscan demons have blue flesh (as seen in the "Tomb of the Blue Demons" in Tarquinia, late 5th - early 4th century BC), which is reminiscent to the skin discoloration caused by an adder snakebite.²

Earlier in the quarter, my students and I have discussed the significance of the enraged uraeus snake in Egyptian pharaonic imagery (as can be seen in the funerary mask of King Tutankhamun, c. 1327 BCE). The snake is a reference to the Wadjet, the cobra goddess of Lower Egypt. According to mythology, the pharaoh sat at coronation to receive his crown from this goddess.³ The cobra was one of the earliest of Egyptian royal insignia.

Do you have a favorite work of art which includes snake imagery? It's interesting that snakes have obviously fascinated (and intimidated) the human race for so many centuries. I can think of many other examples, even extending outside the realm of ancient art. Biblical images of Eve with snakes have been popular in Christian art for centuries. Snakes can also appear in conjunction with the Virgin; my favorite Baroque example is Caravaggio's Madonna with the Serpent (1606 CE).

1 Kristin Lee Hostetler, "Serpent Iconography," in Etruscan Studies 10, no. 16 (2007): 203.

2 Ibid., 206.

3 Nancy Luomala, "Matrilineal Reinterpretation of some Egyptian Sacred Cows," in Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany by Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, eds. (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1982), 27.

Jumping Through History Each Week

2011-05-07T18:05:00.000-07:00

This is the first quarter that I've taught four classes at the same time. And believe me - this is a busy time! It's been interesting to teach so many different artistic periods during the same quarter; I'm constantly jumping between BC and CE dates. Next week's lecture schedule seems particularly diverse:

Monday's lecture:

Courbet, The Stone Breakers, 1849 (destroyed 1945)

(This lecture discusses the role of "avant-garde" art in connection with politics)

Tuesday's lecture:

The architectural orders of ancient Greece

(This is an introductory lecture to ancient Greek art and architecture)

Wednesday's lecture:

Daumier, Les Femmes Socialistes, c. 1848

(This lecture discusses how not all "avant-garde" artists align themselves with socially oppressed groups)

Thursday morning's lecture:

Dipylon funerary krater, c. 700-750 BC

(This lecture is devoted to the connection between ancient Greek women and funerary vases)

Thursday evening's lecture:

Jan Borman, detail from carved altarpiece of Saint George, 1493

(This lecture discusses the phenomenon of commercial altarpieces in the Northern Renaissance)

Friday's lecture:

Ingres, The Grand Odalisque, 1814

(This lecture is devoted to postcolonial theory and popularity of Orientalist art in the 19th century)

Appropriating Hitler: The Chapman Brothers

2011-04-28T16:28:00.000-07:00

Today one of my students was telling me about a comparatively recent exhibition by brothers Jake and Dinos Chapman. Titled If Hitler Had Been a Hippy How Happy Would We Be, the exhibition ran at the White Cube gallery during May 2008. In preparation for this show, the Chapman brothers bought several watercolors by Hitler. Then, the two brothers painted the backgrounds of Hitler's watercolors with rainbows, smiley faces, floating hearts, and psychedelic skies.

This idea of appropriating the work of another artist is nothing new to the contemporary art scene. When hearing about this exhibition by the Chapman brothers, I was immediately reminded of John Fekner's X Americana X series (1985), in which Fekner painted over "found" kitsch paintings.

But this exhibition by the Chapmans is different than Fekner's series. Why? Well, because it's Hitler's art. The Chapman brothers insist that they are not trying to profit from Hitler's notoriety with their exhibition, but simply try to explore Hitler's psychology. Personally, I think that first claim is ridiculous. Of course these artists are trying to get attention and profit because of the connection with Hitler - there's no way around that fact. If they were purely interested in the "psychology of the artist," I think they could have explored that idea without publicizing Hitler's name. Granted, Hitler does need recognition for his contribution to the show. And yes, the psychological connection with Hitler is terribly interesting. But one can consider the "psychology of the artist" with pure visual elements, without knowing who created the work of art.

As you can imagine, this exhibition caused quite a bit of controversy. Some find Chapman's work to be unethical and unrespectful, while others feel like Hitler's art deserves to be defaced. You can get a sense of some previous discussions on the topic here.

Personally, I don't have a problem with these paintings being "tweaked" by the Chapman brothers. (But I know this reaction is because I'm not that excited about Hitler's artwork in the first place.) I would have been bothered if Chapmans additions had defaced the bulk of Hitler's compositions and figures, but that doesn't seem to be the case. The work of the original artist is still there, but the context and meaning has changed.

What do others think?

Bruegel's Dead Men

2011-04-22T18:17:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I had a student point out something in a painting that I had never noticed before (I love it when this happens!). We were discussing Pieter Bruegel the Elder's The Fall of Icarus (c. 1558, shown left), and I was mentioning how this painting's subject matter appears to be influenced by several different literary sources. For one thing, Bruegel's depiction of the scene follows the Icarus story described in Ovid's Metamorphosis, which mentions a fisherman, peasant at his plough, and a shepherd.¹

Given that Bruegel was strongly influenced by oral tradition, it also seems likely that this painting refers to the popular proverb, "No plough stops for the dying man." Up until Wednesday, I have always thought that Icarus was the "dying man" shown in the painting (notice Icarus' flailing legs as he falls into the sea). However, it looks like Bruegel included two dying (or dead!) men in this scene, perhaps to really emphasize this popular proverb.

If you look closely on the left side of the painting, you'll notice a white dot on the left side of the plowed field, slightly above the donkey's ears. There, in the bushes, is a corpse. Check it out:

Crazy, huh? After noticing this corpse, I decided to do a little research and find out what scholars had say on this topic. Lyncle de Vries discusses how the inclusion of this corpse emphasizes a message about brevity of life.² This interpretation makes sense, and ties into my idea that Bruegel wanted to reference the popular proverb that I mentioned earlier.

I also am interested in an idea that was discussed by Robert Baldwin. He mentions how the corpse and sword (which is placed in the foreground of the painting, on the right side of the canvas (see detail on left)) is an allusion to the Christ as the "Prince of Peace." These two details may reference the biblical prophecy regarding the beating of "swords into plowshares." Baldwin points out that similar Netherlandish imagery existed that contrasts the soldiers of death (perhaps referenced here by the corpse) and the plowman of life.³

Another interesting argument is proposed by Karsten Harries, a philosopher. Harries sees this scene as an allusion to the biblical story of Cain and Abel. Cain, who was a "tiller of the ground," murders his brother Abel, a shepherd. Not only could Abel's body be depicted in the bushes, but Harries posits that the shepherd in the middleground might also represent Abel.⁴

Which interpretation do you like? I think that several (if not all) of these interpretations can coexist; Bruegel appears to have wanted this painting to have multiple references. Are you familiar with any other interpretations for Bruegel's corpse in the bushes? It's too bad the Bruegel didn't leave any writings for historians to reference; it would be nice to know his thoughts on the matter. Unfortunately, we're left on our own to interpret this painting, since "dead men tell no tales."

1 Kim Woods, "Pieter Bruegel the Elder and the Northern Canon," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 181-82.

2 Lyncle de Vries, "Bruegel's Fall of Icarus: Ovid or Solomon?" Simiolus 30, no. 1/2 (2003): 17.

3 Robert Baldwin, "Peasant Imagery and Bruegel's Fall of Icarus," in Konsthistorisk Tidskrift, LV, 3, (1986): 101-114. Citation available online here.

4 Karsten Harries, Infinity and Perspective (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002), 101. Citation available online here.

Versailles and France as "Art Capital" of the World

2011-04-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

I think Versailles is a big deal. And I don't mean that the palace of Versailles is big in terms of physical space (that fact is beyond obvious!), but I have long thought that Versailles needs to have more recognition for its role in art history - particularly in terms of why France became the art capital of the world in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Up until this point, I've never seen a fantastic explanation for how and why the artistic scene shifted from Italy (and Southern Europe) to France. A lot of possible ideas for this shift could be put forth, such as the establishment of the Academie de peinture et de sculpture (Paris) in 1648. Obviously, this artistic academy helped to promote art and establish France within the artistic scene, but I don't think that this event caused Europe to focus its attention on France. Likewise, if one looks to the 18th century, it is easy to pinpoint how the establishment of the Louvre museum in 1763 was connected to France's preeminence among the arts (not only so that artists could study art, but in terms of France becoming a major artistic attraction for tourists).

Although these are both very significant events, I don't think that either the Louvre or French Academy was the initial cause of a major geographic shift in Europe's artistic scene. Instead, I really think that it was the redesign of Versailles which brought France to the forefront of the European art scene. Versailles, which originally functioned as a hunting lodge, underwent a major redesign and enlargement in the 17th century. One of the major additions to the palace was begun by the architect Le Vau in 1668. Subsequent additions, remodels, and changes were made over the next several years (including he creation of the "Hall of Mirrors," which was begun in 1678 by Hardouin-Mansart and Le Brun). Louis XIV finally moved to the palace in 1682, and eventually required his court to live at the palace as well.

Versailles was over-the-top in terms of luxury, space, and design. It was so huge and so ostentatious that it immediately attracted the attention of other countries. In fact, Versailles was so impressive that many European monarchs wanted to model their own palaces after Versailles. Subsequently, Baroque palaces popped up all over Europe. You can see a great compilation of Baroque residences here (complete with photographs). One such Versailles-inspired palace was the Würzburg Residenz, in Würzburg, Germany (1720-1744, shown above). In essence, Louis XVI became a major trend-setter with Versailles. Everyone wanted to live like him. And, consequently, I think that this is the reason that the art world moved to France. Europeans focused their attention to French art and architecture, a focus that would continue for over two centuries.

Although I don't think that Versailles is the sole reason that the artistic scene shifted to France, I think the remodeling and establishment of court at Versailles are very pivotal points in art history. Obviously, I'm a little biased as a Baroque scholar, but I can't overlook Versailles on this point. It's just too big - both physically and metaphorically!

Can you think of historical events which helped to foster (or solidify the presence of) the artistic scene in France?

*Photo of Versailles courtesy of Eric Pouhier, as found on Wikipedia.

"Stealing the Mystic Lamb": A Review

2011-04-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I finally finished reading art historian Noah Charney's book Stealing the Mystic Lamb: The True Story of the World's Most Coveted Masterpiece. I've wanted to read this book for a long time, and I finally got my hands on a copy over a month ago. It took me several weeks to read this book, not because it was boring, but because I kept pausing to type notes on my computer. And now, with eighteen pages of notes in my computer files, I have finally finished the book. Phew!

This book recounts the troubled (and bizarre!) history of the Ghent Altarpiece by Jan van Eyck. Specifically, Charney deals with the many crimes (particularly thefts and attempted thefts) of this famous altarpiece from the Northern Renaissance. Historically, this work of art has been stolen and "coveted" more than any other work of art. I was particularly interested in how much of the altarpiece ended up in France during the Napoleonic era. During this time, the panels were put on display at the Louvre. The panels were undoubtedly seen in the Louvre by the artist Ingres, whose painting Napoleon on his Imperial Throne quotes van Eyck's image of God the Father.¹

Although I liked all of the book, I think that I enjoyed the first half of the book a little bit more. In this first half, Charney races through several centuries of history in a lively discussion of the altarpiece's creation and thefts before WWII. I really enjoyed the quick, animated pace in the first few chapters. The latter half of Charney's book slows down considerably to focus on just one historical event: the theft of the Ghent Altarpiece by Nazis during WWII. The altarpiece panels, which were intended to be placed in Hitler's super-museum for art, were kept in the Alt Aussee mine in Austria. Although I thought that this story was still very interesting, it took a some mental adjustment to move at a slower pace in terms of chronology.

This book is fascinating and written with a very engaging tone. Aside from the change in pace, I only had one other teensy-weensy issue with Charney's book: I was really surprised to see that he referred to Jan van Eyck's The Arnolfini Portrait (1434) as a marriage scene.² Since the marriage interpretation has been questioned by art historians for so long (and has been disproved in many ways), it ever-so-slightly undermined the quality of Charney's book. But that being said, don't let my nit-picky issue deter you from reading Stealing the Mystic Lamb. On the contrary, please read it. (Just know that I have crossed out the word "wedding" on a few pages. That's all.)

P.S. There is a great interview of Noah Charney on Three Pipe Problem. Be sure to check it out!

1 Noah Charney, Stealing the Mystic Lamb: The True Story of the World's Most Coveted Masterpiece (New York: PublicAffairs, 2010), 104.

2 Ibid., 22.

Noble or Ignoble Savages?

2011-04-08T18:06:00.000-07:00

Almost exactly five years ago, I gave my first research presentation in a graduate seminar. This seminar was dedicated to Northern Baroque art, and I chose to write on the Dutch artist Albert Eckhout. However, even though Eckhout is Dutch, I am mostly interested in the paintings he created while living in Brazil. The Dutch established a colony in Brazil (called "The New Netherlands") in 1636, and the following year Eckhout traveled to the new colony as a commissioned artist. The governor-general of the colony, Johann Maurits, wanted Ekhout (and fellow artist Frans Post) to work as documentarists and paint the flora, fauna and indigenous people of the area. As part of the work, Eckhout painted eight portraits of the different indigenous people in the area, including Tupi Woman (c. 1641-44, shown right).

However, in my graduate presentation, I argued that even though Eckhout was hired as a "documentarist," he doesn't visually record the native people with a dispassionate eye of scientific observation. Nor do I think that these portraits were displayed as scientific images. Instead, I see these Brazilian portraits as a symbol of conquest. For one thing, Governor Maurits chose to display these portraits within his Vrijburg palace in Dutch Brazil. Maurits not only "owned" the subject matter within the painting, but the native people were therefore captured, defeated, and regulated to the walls of the palace.

Furthermore, Eckhout continually emphasizes the "Otherness" of the subjects of his Brazilian portraits. These portraits encourage the viewer to understand and define them on a basis of comparison against Western culture. As can be seen in his Tupi Woman, Eckhout is interested in emphasizing the cannibalism and nakedness of this native group. Ethnic stereotypes can be seen in the other portraits too. The Mameluke Woman (c. 1641-44, shown left) is depicted as a coquettish concubine in garb that is quite non-European (not only with the loose fitting dress, but because she apparently isn't wearing a girdle or underclothing). Her raised dress and exposed leg suggest the sexual "profitability" of native people to the conquering Dutch. In fact, these mameluke women (a mixture of Indian and European blood) were stereotypically seen by the Dutch as being promiscuous and sexually available.

I'm not going to outline the rest of my argument here, since I assume people can catch the gist of my interpretation. The reason why I am writing this post, however, is to flesh out a thought in relation to the scale of these paintings. (For some unknown reason, this thought unexpectedly popped into my head as I was washing dishes last night.)

These portraits are created on a large scale (they are life size), which could imply that Eckhout was attempting to elevate and honor the Brazilian natives in his paintings. In fact, my professor suggested as much when she critiqued my graduate presentation. She also pointed out that the trees in the background form a makeshift "cloth of honor," a visual tradition found in other Northern European portraits of nobility. Although I can see how one could interpret these aspects positively, I think that an opposite stance can be taken. I think that the grand scale and "cloth of honor" actually magnify the "Otherness" of the sitters. The Tupi woman is not only naked, but she's really naked. She's large-scale naked. And she doesn't really get a "cloth" of honor, does she? Instead of luxurious red velvet, this woman is shown in front of a native tree which furnishes imposing, machete-like pods.¹ I'm not sure if that is really ennobling. I think the uncomfortable juxtaposition of Western traditions (the grand scale painting with an impromptu "cloth of honor") with non-Western subject matter makes the "Otherness" of the subjects even more apparent.

What do others (and Others!) think? Do you think that the grand scale and "cloth of honor" serve to ennoble these indigenous portrait sitters? Why or why not?

1 I should point out that trees previously had been used as natural "cloths of honor" in Northern Baroque art (consider Van Dyck's portrait, Charles I at the Hunt (1635)). In the Charles I portrait, however, Van Dyck doesn't try to draw much attention to the tree. Instead, the tree is mainly used as a framing device. I think this is different from Eckhout's portraits, who takes pains to emphasize the non-Western nature of the plant life.

**When pulling together my previous research for this post, I also stumbled upon a book that was written in 2007 (one year after my graduate school presentation). I'm very curious to read Rebecca Parker Brienen's book, Visions of Savage Paradise: Albert Eckhout, Court Painter in Colonial Dutch Brazil. From what I can tell online, she and I are interested in the same topics and interpretations for this piece. Like Brienen, I think that Eckhout's work is "informed by sexual as well as ethnic stereotypes." We must have been researching these ideas around the same time. Fer Hegel's Geist! You can see a preview of Brienen's book here.

The Laocoön: Bandinelli vs. Michelangelo

2011-04-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

I guess the Renaissance artist Baccio Bandinelli has been on my mind lately. I realized that somehow I managed to bring up Bandinelli in each of my classes this past week - including my ancient art class!

To be fair to myself, I better say that I didn't stray too far on a tangent with my ancient art students. I was discussing the classical statue Laocoön (1st century BC) with these students and happened to mention Bandinelli's Laocoön (1520, shown left). It is not surprising that Renaissance artists (and patrons) were interested in copying the Laocoön sculpture, because the classical sculpture was unearthed in 1506. Bandinelli's sculpture was commissioned by Cardinal Giulio dei Medici and originally intended as a gift for Francis I, the King of France. It appears that Cardinal Giulio dei Medici (who later became Pope Clement VII) liked the sculpture too well to part with it, since it eventually ended up in the courtyard of the Palazzo Medici.

Anyhow, I especially think Bandinelli's sculpture is interesting because the central figure has an extended arm above his head. When the original, classical Laocoön was discovered, the figure's right arm was missing. Bandinelli believed that the arm was extended, and other artists (such as Sansovino) ended up following this same idea for their copies. Michelangelo, in contrast, felt that the originally arm probably appeared bent. Bandinelli and Michelangelo were life-long rivals, and this difference in opinion is just one example of the opposition and tension between these artists. (I should say, though, I think Bandinelli felt the rivalry more than Michelangelo, although letters to Michelangelo (see here and here) indicate that he was keenly aware (curious?) of what Bandinelli was doing.)

Anyhow, Bandinelli's proposal for the Laocoön arm came to be generally accepted. I think this general acceptance came about because Bandinelli ended up creating a wax cast of the arm for the original sculpture. Additionally, he received the prestigious commission to make the aforementioned sculpture for Guilio Cardinal de Medici. No doubt Bandinelli relished the fact that he received these invitations instead of Michelangelo.

To add insult to injury, Michelangelo had been present the day that the Laocoön was unearthed in Rome. No doubt Michelangelo felt a certain affinity and connection with the classical sculpture. Scholars have even noted that Michelangelo's figure of Christ in the Last Judgment (Sistine Chapel, 1537-1541, shown right)) was inspired by the classical Laocoön (and note that Christ's raised arm is bent!).¹ Perhaps Michelangelo felt like he was getting "the last Word" with Bandinelli by including that visual reference in his fresco?

Either way, Michelangelo finally got validation in the 20th century (ha - as if Michelangelo needs more validation in the art world!). In 1906 a bent arm was discovered in Rome, and in the 1950s it was generally accepted that this was the arm which had broken off of the Laocoön composition. The current restoration of the classical statue shows a bent arm. So it looks like Michelangelo was right all along.

Do you know any more stories about the rivalry between Michelangelo and Bandinelli? Vasari records that Bandinelli tore a cartoon by Michelangelo into small pieces (you can see Aristotile da San Gallo's copy of the cartoon, which depicted the Battle of Cascina, here). I know that the topic of rivalry and Bandinelli's jealously are of interest to many scholars. If you know of any other stories - do share!

*Some readers may remember that I touched on this Laocoön topic last year. If you're interested for a little more information (and some links), see here.

1 Michael P. Kemling, "Michaelangelo's 'Last Judgment': The Influence of 'Lacoon and His Sons,'" (University of Georgia, 2003, available online here). For the discussion of the figure of Christ specifically, see Chapter 2.

Mrs. Arnolfini Might Be Dead!

2011-03-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, the title of my post is a bit facetious. Of course Mrs. Arnolfini is dead - Jan van Eyck's famous Arnolfini Portrait (shown left, 1434) was made several centuries ago. But I'm actually referring to a relatively new argument: in 2003 Margaret L. Koster argued that this double-portrait includes a depiction of Giovanni di Nicolao Arnolfini's deceased wife.¹ (Koster recognizes though, that this painting might not be of Giovanni Arnolfini at all - there were no less that five Arnolfinis in Bruges at the time who could have commissioned the painting. In 1998 Lorne Campbell picked Giovanni di Nicolao as the probable commissioner for this painting, since Giovanni di Nicolao would have been in Bruges for some time and would have had ample opportunity to meet Jan van Eyck.²)

Anyhow, I think Koster's argument is fascinating for several reasons. First of all, Koster reveals an archival discovery that Giovanni di Nicolao's wife, Costanza Trenta, was dead by 1433 (a year before the Arnolfini Portrait was dated!). And from what we know, Giovanni di Nicolao Arnolfini never remarried.

So, what does this mean? Koster convincingly argues that this portrait is a posthumous representation of Costanza, a way to remember and commemorate Giovanni's wife. The oath gesture by Arnolfini could reference an wedding oath already taken, perhaps suggesting a renewal of Arnolfini's wedding vows and devotion to his deceased wife.

First of all, the idealized depiction of Costanza stands in stark contrast to the very naturalistic and individualized depiction of Giovanni, which could indicate that these two individuals are separated by life and death. Furthermore, there are other aspects in the painting which allude to death. The roundels circulating the mirror frame (see right) are scenes from the Passion of Christ. All of the scenes which show Christ alive are on the left side of the mirror (near Giovanni), whereas all of the scenes alluding to Christ's death or resurrection are closest to Costanza. Additionally, the lit candle is placed near Giovanni, whereas the snuffed-out candle is placed over Costanza.

The colors of Costanza and Giovanni's garments could also symbolically allude to their present situation. Costanza is wearing a dress of blue and green: blue was a symbol of faithfulness and green was a symbol of love. Giovanni's darker clothing can be interpreted as a symbol of mourning or suffering (and Koster further points out that this work was painted before black clothing became fashionable for the Burgundian court).

If you'd like to see Koster explain aspects of her argument, check out the beginning of the "Part 5" section for this documentary. (This documentary on Northern Renaissance art is hosted by Joseph Koerner, another art historian who happens to be Margaret L. Koster's husband!).

What do people think of this argument by Koster? On a side note, I have to say that I'm always surprised when practicing scholars still refer to this painting as a wedding portrait. That Panofskian approach has been questioned by Northern Renaissance scholars for several decades, and even the National Gallery (which houses this painting) shies away from the wedding interpretation. In fact, I thought the wedding debate was settled in 1993 by Margaret D. Carroll, who pointed out that Mrs. Arnolfini is wearing a headdress traditionally reserved for married women.³ Argh. Despite all of the respect that Panofsky deserves, I really feel like we need to stop interpreting this piece as a wedding portrait. Let's get on with our lives, folks.

1 Margaret L. Koster, "The Arnolfini Double Portrait: A Simple Solution," in Apollo (Sept. 2003): 3-14. Text available online here.

2 Lorne Campbell, “Portrait of Giovanni(?) Arnolfini and his Wife,” The Fifteenth Century Netherlandish Schools (London, 1998), 174-204 (see especially p. 195).

3 Margaret D. Carroll, "In the Name of God and Profit: Jan van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait," Representations 44 (Autumn 1993): 100-101.

When You Have "No Monet"

2011-03-24T15:11:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law forwarded me the following email this afternoon. I figured that some of my readers will appreciate its corny humor:

"A thief in Paris decided to steal some paintings from the Louvre.
After careful planning, he got past security, stole the paintings, and made it safely to his van.

However, he was captured only two blocks away when his van ran out of gas.

When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied, 'Monsieur, that is the reason I stole the paintings:
I had no Monet
To buy Degas
To make the Van Gogh.'

See if you have De Gaulle to send this to someone else.
I sent it to you because I figured I had nothing Toulouse."

*Could we make this joke longer? Can you add any more puns using artists' names (or major French historical figures) from the 19th century?

The Scream!

2011-03-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

I've had Edvard Munch's The Scream (right, 1893 version, also known as The Cry) keep popping into my mind lately. This week I'm getting ready for an extremely busy spring quarter, which will start next Monday. Although I know that the workload will be manageable (I'm too organized to let things become unmanageable!), this image keeps coming to mind when I look at my upcoming calendar. There's so much work to be done!

I thought I'd share my two favorite things about this painting (well, I should say that there are four versions of this painting, but I especially like the 1893 version). My favorite art historical argument about The Scream was put forth in 1978 by Robert Rosenblum.¹ Rosenblum argued is that the screaming figure was inspired by a Peruvian Mummy, which Munch would have seen on view at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris. This mummy, called the "momie trépanée," is now located in the Musee de l'Homme in Paris (see an additional image of the mummy here). It is thought that Gauguin also saw this mummy on display; the old woman in his painting Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? (1897) bears a strong resemblance to the mummy's features and fetal position.

I also love that The Scream has quite a history when it comes to art crime. Versions of The Scream have been stolen from the National Gallery in Norway (in 1994) and the Munch Museum (in 2004 - Wikipedia even has a photo of the thieves with their loot!). I think the 1994 story is especially interesting; a few years ago I read The Rescue Artist by Edward Dolnick, which discusses the theft and recovery in detail. If you're interested in art crime, I'd recommend this book. Essentially, two thieves simply propped a ladder against the window of the museum, shattered the glass, and stole the painting around 6:30 in the morning. The crime occurred on quite a historic day, 12 February 1994, the opening day for the Olympic Games held in Lillehammer. The painting was recovered in May of that same year.

On a side note, I wanted to point out that The Scream was originally titled Despair. (This original title doesn't surprise me, since it seems like Munch experienced a lot of despair and turmoil in his personal life.) I have to say, though, that I don't feel despair when I think about the upcoming spring quarter. Actually, I'm quite excited about it, even though I know it will be very busy.

1 Robert Rosenblum, "Symbols and Images of Edvard Munch," (National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1978).

Lavinia Fontana Post on 3PP!

2011-03-17T08:07:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone! I wanted to let people know that I have written a guest post on Lavinia Fontana and self-portraiture at Three Pipe Problem. This fantastic art history blog is regularly featuring posts about women artists, and I was very pleased to contribute to the series.

This post was very fun for me to write; I regularly discuss Fontana's self-portraiture (including her Self-Portrait at the Spinet, 1577, shown left) with my Renaissance students. If you want to see a sneak-peek at some of the topics that I discuss in my classroom, check out the post!

Why Picasso Needs the Old Masters

2011-03-10T16:52:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, my students and I have been discussing some of the ironies regarding the avant-garde tradition. One of the biggest ironies is that although avant-garde artists are radical and break away from tradition, the avant-garde is also reliant upon tradition. Without the conservative Academy, the avant-garde would have nothing to react against. Hence, avant-garde art will never be able to break completely free from Western artistic tradition, because it would become meaningless without that context.

Today I've been thinking about this irony in relation to Picasso. During the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, a stray shell broke the defenses of the Prado Museum. Picasso was very concerned about the masterpieces in the museum, particularly the work of artists like Goya. But the artist had added motivation to be concerned: this same year Picasso accepted the honorific title of Director of the Museum, which was bestowed on him by the Republican government. Picasso's acceptance of this title is an indication of his sympathies with the Republican government (in case you think his attack on General Francisco Franco via his etching The Dream and the Lie of Franco Part 1 (1937) isn't enough evidence of his political leanings! Ha!).

As director of the Prado, Picasso managed the removal of several masterpieces from Madrid to Valencia. Two years later, Picasso contributed part of his personal funds to have these paintings removed once again to safekeeping in Geneva. For the most part, the paintings were kept safe, although Goya's Second of May 1808 (1814, shown right) and Third of May 1808 (1814) were both severely damaged by a falling balcony. The Prado reports that some damage was intentionally kept on the left corner of Second of May as a reminder of the Civil War.

Of course, on one hand, it isn't surprising that Picasso was concerned about the masterpieces in the Prado collection. After all, as an artist, Picasso undoubtedly appreciated the work of other artists. But could there be another reason why Picasso was invested in preserving this art? Think about it: what would Picasso be if artistic masterpieces did not exist? The radicalism in his own art wouldn't make sense. His commentaries on artistic tradition (and his rejection of those traditions) would have no meaning. Picasso needs masterpieces and tradition in order to stylistically reject them. In this light, one could say that Picasso was helping his own career when he helped to save the work of earlier masters. The continued existence of masterpieces would help ensure that Picasso's art held meaning and relevance. I wonder if Picasso realized this ironic fact.

Caillebotte and Hopper

2011-03-02T20:33:00.000-08:00

Today a perceptive student asked if art historians had ever discussed a connection between the paintings by Gustave Caillebotte (a 19th century Impressionist) and Edward Hopper (a 20th century artist). I thought this was a really fascinating question. This week, my students and I have been discussing how Caillebotte's work can be interpreted within the themes of isolation and loneliness. We've discussed ideas of how the modernization and industrialization of Paris could have isolated people in the 19th century, and particularly analyzed Caillebotte's painting Pont de l'Europe (1876, see right). My students and I looked at Caillebotte's biography, using some of the research done by my friend and colleague Breanne Gilroy. One thing Gilroy mentions is that Caillebotte experienced a sense of isolation during his lifetime, particularly since the artist's father, brother, and mother all died within a period of four years.¹

Anyhow, I thought that my student's question regarding Edward Hopper was especially interesting in this context, since Hopper's paintings also can tie into themes of isolation and loneliness. One can especially get a sense of isolation in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks (1942) and Gas Station (1940). Caillebotte and Hopper are also similar in other ways as well: they both have an interest in depicting contemporary subject matter, both use comparatively muted color palates, and both favor compositions with large, flat areas of color.

Although I didn't find too many people who discuss a similarity between the two artists, I did come across a few things. First of all, Time blogger Richard Lacayo noted that he saw a similarity between the compositions of Caillebotte's Paris Street, Rainy Day (1877) and Hopper's New York Movie (1939). Lacayo also noted a essay by Judith A. Barter in the catalog Edward Hopper.

Although I haven't seen a copy of Barter's essay, this evening I was able to listen to a podcast in which Barter discusses more of Hopper's life. Barter mentions that Hopper went to France three times between the years 1906-1910. While there, Hopper viewed and studied the art of many Impressionist painters, and I think it's very likely that Hopper was familiar with the work of Caillebotte. Although Baxter doesn't cite Caillebotte as a direct influence, she does mention a similarity between Caillebotte's Paris Street, Rainy Day and Hopper's Nighthawks (side note: it isn't surprising that she chose these two paintings for comparison, since they are both part of the Art Institute of Chicago collection - the museum where Baxter works as a curator!). Here is a transcript from the podcast:

"Hopper’s...viewer witnesses the street corner and figures in Nighthawks in much the same way that Gustave Caillebotte saw the boulevard section in Paris Street, Rainy Day…But there is an important difference: unlike Caillebotte’s pedestrian, who is part of the moving traffic of the street, Hopper’s observers are further distanced and stand outside the vision of the figures that the artist paints. Hopper eliminates all pedestrians, removing the observer from the observed. This is the core of his city subjects: the experience of watching unobserved."²

What do others think? Can you think of more similarities between the work of Caillebotte and the work of Hopper? Do you know of any other art historians who have published on this topic?

1 Breanne Gilroy, "Mourning and Melancholy in the Work of Gustave Caillebotte," (Unpublished), 2006. Gilroy mentions how Caillebotte's father died in 1874, his brother René died in 1876, and his mother died in 1878. Gilroy also cites an article by Kirk Vardenoe, "Gustave Caillebotte in Context" in Arts Magazine 9 (May 1976): 94-99.

2 Judith A. Baxter, "Transcending Reality: Edward Hopper's Nighthawks," public lecture delivered 28 February 2010. Podcast of lecture is available here.

Titian, Mulvey, and Lacan

2011-02-25T18:00:00.000-08:00

I've been on a Renaissance kick lately, haven't I? For several weeks I have been wanting to write a post about Titian's Venus with a Mirror (c. 1555, shown left). I think this painting is so interesting, especially because it can be applied to a few theories that are popular in art historical analysis.

I often feel a bit unsettled when looking at this painting, and it has to do with Venus' mirror reflection. The reflection of Venus' eye captures my attention the most. For one thing, only one eye is reflected in the mirror, causing goddess of love's reflection to look a little bit like the Cyclops! Ha! The eye also seems to stare out of the picture plane towards the viewer (perhaps as a way to invite the viewer into the painting, as was suggested by Obridge in a comment for an earlier post of mine). This direct gaze makes the viewer extremely aware of his (the pronoun is intentional) voyeuristic gaze. (And although I don't bring a "male gaze" to the painting, perhaps I feel unsettled because I'm a heterosexual woman; I don't want to be accused as a voyeur while gazing at a female form!) One perceives that Venus is completely aware that her nude body is on display, since her reflected eye acknowledges the viewer's presence.

But it's not only the direct gaze in the reflection that captures my interest. It's the fact that only part of Venus' body is revealed in the reflection. Through the "cropping" of the mirror frame, Venus' eye and shoulder become fetishized for the viewer. This reminds me so much of Laura Mulvey's discussion of women in film. Mulvey discusses how the film camera crops and fetishizes the female form, particularly with camera close-ups on specific parts of the female body.¹ It can be argued that Titian is doing the same thing, by having the mirror highlight certain parts of Venus' body.

I wonder what psychoanalyst Lacan would say about Venus with a Mirror. Lacanian theory discusses how the mirror stage is the most important stage of development for a child (and the child's ego) - it's the point in which an infant recognizes himself/herself in the mirror.² Lacan also is interested in the idea of the gaze, particularly how one develops awareness through looking.³ Given the usage of a mirror (and gaze!) in this painting, can anything be related to the mirror stage? Does the viewer feel compelled to recognize his own eye (and, perhaps by extension, his role as a spectator) when gazing at the reflected eye? Perhaps this is one reason that I feel a little unsettled; I am accustomed to seeing my own eye when I gaze at a mirror, and not the direct gaze of another person's eye.

Lacan discusses how a young infant experiences elation during the mirror stage, for the child imagines the mirror image to be more complete and more perfect than the child experiences his own body. Obviously, the viewer can't get a sense of completion and perfection in the mirror image that Titian has created, since Venus' body is fragmented from the viewer's perspective. The viewer expects to see (and anticipates that Venus also sees) a more complete reflection of the goddess in the mirror, but in actuality the more complete image of Venus (for the viewer, at least) is displayed on the left side of the canvas. Hence, I feel unsettled; the mirror has failed my expectations, yet paradoxically I am still given a "complete image" of Venus within the picture frame.

Does anyone else feel a bit unsettled by looking at this painting? Why or why not?

1 Laura Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," in Screen 16, no. 3 (Autumn, 1975): 21-22. I've written a little bit about Mulvey's ideas in a previous post.

2 Ibid, 17. See also "Lacan: The Mirror Stage" for further information and resources.

3 Jacques Lacan, The Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (New York: W. W. Norton, 1981), 67-78.

The Inverted "T" Shape

2011-02-21T15:46:00.000-08:00

Occasionally a student will ask me about why Rogier van der Weyden's Deposition altarpiece (also called "Descent from the Cross, c. 1440, shown left) is formed in an unusual shape. Up until this point, I have always answered that the shape (which looks like an inverted "T") was a traditional form for altarpieces in Northern Europe. Although this answer is true, I have recently learned that I could give a much more detailed response to my students. In a fascinating article, "The Inverted "T"-Shape in Early Netherlandish Altarpieces: Studies in the Relation between Painting and Sculpture," scholar Lynn F. Jacobs explores some reasons for why this particular shape would have contained significance, meaning, and specific purpose. ¹ I wanted to highlight some of her ideas here:

The inverted "T" could help to visually emphasize the most important scene in the altarpiece. Along these lines, the added vertical section could also accommodate particular narrative features (such as a cross, as is well demonstrated in van der Weyden's Seven Sacraments altarpiece, c. 1445-50, shown right).²

The elevated section of the shape could have been used to suggest a type of hierarchy (in terms of sanctity). The more sanctified, holy persons appear in the most elevated section of the "T" altarpiece. This visual emphasis on sanctity is connected with the idea of heaven (since heaven is usually conceived as being a place "on high"). Jacobs points out that this connection with heaven is implicit in the "T" shape, simply by virtue of its form.³

The "T" shape could have symbolic associations with the church, since it also mimics the architectural cross section of a Gothic cathedral. (Notice how Seven Sacraments even places the figures within a cathedral setting, with the vertical section for the nave elevation and the smaller areas for the side aisles.) Jacobs even points out that some of these altarpieces seem to suggest the triple portal facade of a cathedral.⁴

Jacobs particularly stresses that the inverted "T" might have originated for practical reasons (and perhaps later took on these aforementioned symbolic associations). These altarpieces were used to define space during the celebration of the Mass. During this service, the priest elevates the Sacrament and holds it high in the air. Not only does the "T" shape altarpiece create "a backdrop to frame the display of the sanctified Host," but the vertical stress of the shape ensures "a backdrop that could encompass this elevated gesture."⁵ Since the elevation of the Sacrament had been an established part of the Mass service since the thirteenth century, this practical explanation seems extremely logical to me.

What suggestion do you particularly like? Do you have a favorite Netherlandish altarpiece that is formed in an inverted "T" shape?

1 Lynn F. Jacobs, "The Inverted "T"-Shape in Early Netherlandish Altarpieces: Studies in the Relation between Painting and Sculpture," Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 54 Bd., H. 1 (1991): 33-65.

2 Ibid., 36.

3 Ibid., 48.

4 Ibid., 37.

5 Ibid., 45.

Renaissance Art and Conception!

2011-02-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

I hope the title of my post grabbed your attention! I've been reading a terribly interesting book this afternoon: Picturing Women in Renaissance and Baroque Italy. This book includes a chapter by Caroline P. Murphy, a scholar on 16th century artist Lavinia Fontana.¹ Murphy's chapter discusses how art was used in conjunction with the conception and delivery of children, and it's absolutely fascinating.

To introduce this aspect of her argument, Murphy mentions how people in early modern Europe were both "appalled and fascinated by the birth of monstrous children" (e.g. children with severe birth defects).² It was believed in order to avoid the conception of a monstrous child, a woman should look at pictures of beautiful figures. In essence, this beautiful image was supposed to have "a positive morphological effect on the child in [the woman's] womb."³ Consequently, some pictures with beautiful figures were designed so that they could be placed over a bed or attached to the bedframe (since the bed was the place where sexual intercourse would take place). In addition, a pregnant woman would spend much of her time resting on the bed, and she would have additional opportunities to look at the beautiful figures (and positively affect the growth of the child).

So what constituted a "beautiful figure" in 16th century Bologna, the city in which Lavinia Fontana worked? You may be think that such figures were mythological, such as Venus or Cupid. Actually, due to the Counter-Reformation and promotion of religious imagery, it is more likely that women looked at images of Mary and the Christ Child. Murphy mentions a few Holy Family paintings by Lavinia Fontana which were probably bought for married couples, one being The Virgin Adoring the Sleeping Christ Child (Boston Museum of Fine Arts).

However, I think there is one more painting by Fontana which should be added to Murphy's discussion. Given Murphy's emphasis on childbirth, I think it's surprising that she did not discuss Fontana's Holy Family with Saints Margaret and Francis (1578, shown right) in her article.* Not only do these beautiful figures fit with other Holy Family images that Murphy discusses, but this painting also includes a depiction of Saint Margaret: the patron saint of childbirth! (Saint Margaret is identified on the left, through her symbol of the dragon.)

Couldn't this image have been a source of comfort to pregnant women at the time? Murphy mentions how some images of the Holy Family include St. Elizabeth; the inclusion of St. Elizabeth would have been comforting for a female viewer, particularly a woman who was attempting to get pregnant (since Elizabeth conceived in old age). Although this painting does not depict Elizabeth, I think this inclusion of St. Margaret in this painting would have served as a source of comfort too (and it seems to be an even more appropriate connection, given St. Margaret's role and patronage!).

Interestingly, the Davis Museum and Cultural Center of Wellesly College (which has this painting on loan), does not make any mention of Murphy's argument in their webpage for this painting (and their bibliography does not cite Murphy). I'm going to have to write them - I think they need to slightly modify their discussion of this painting!

*Update: the comments section for this post discusses Murphy's reasoning for not including this painting in her argument.

1 Caroline P. Murphy, "Lavinia Fontana and the Female Life Cycle Experience," in Picturing Women in Renaissance and Baroque Italy, edited by Geraldine A. Johnson and Sara F. Matthews Grieco (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 111-138.

2 Ibid., 120.

3 Ibid., 121.

"Watson and the Shark" by Copley

2011-02-14T18:06:00.000-08:00

I want to write a blog post on Copley's Watson and the Shark (1778, shown left) for my friend "e." She has been a long-time reader of this blog, and due to some significant changes in her life, she won't be able to get online and read blogs for some time. She particularly likes this painting, so I thought this post would be a fitting tribute to her.

This painting is interesting to me for several reasons. First of all, this painting is interesting because Copley probably had never seen a shark when he painted this scene!¹ In fact, at least one contemporary critic sensed there was some inaccuracy in the way the shark was depicted, saying that the shark "bore no resemblance to any creature on earth."² I wouldn't go that far (!) - but I don't think that the shark is perfectly realistic.

In addition, the I think subject matter of this painting is interesting since it is based on an actual historical event. In 1749, a fourteen year old boy named Brook Watson was attacked by a shark while swimming in Havana Harbor. The shark struck twice, consuming Watson's right foot and flesh from his right calf (notice in the painting that Watson's right leg eerily disappears at the bottom of the canvas). Copley depicts the moment where Watson was saved by rescuers, just as the shark was rearing for a third strike. Watson's leg was amputated just above the knee.

Watson managed with a wooden leg (as can be seen an etching of Watson created by Robert Dighton in 1803). He eventually became a successful merchant, and it is likely that he commissioned Copley to paint this scene for him, since Watson owned the painting at the time of his death.³ Honestly, I'm quite surprised that Watson wanted a have a painting which depicted such a traumatic event in his life! If I was ever attacked by a shark, I don't know if I would want the event immortalized in oil and canvas!

This painting holds some significance art historically, since it depicts a real-life event in the tradition of "history paintings." Typically, history paintings (which were considered to be the most important type of painting by artistic academies) consisted of biblical or mythological scenes. Copley breaks from the traditional representations of history paintings by depicting an obscure event from recent history.⁴ He even elevates this obscure event by depicting it on a grand-scale: the large canvas is approximately 5' 7" x 7' 6" (182.1 cm × 229.7 cm).

If you're interested in learning a little bit more about Watson and the Shark, check out this mini-site that is maintained by the National Gallery of Art (Washington, DC).

1 For more examples of art that was created without the artist having seen the animal beforehand, see my prior post, "The artist had never seen a [insert animal] before."

2 Louis P. Masur, "Reading Watson and the Shark," in The New England Quarterly 67, no. 3 (Sept. 1994): 437.

3 Ibid., 434.

4 Ibid., 436-37.

Valentine's Day Kisses

2011-02-11T14:33:00.000-08:00

With Valentine's Day around the corner, I thought people would like to look at Flavorwire's article, "The 10 Best Art Kisses of All Time." My two favorite pieces that are highlighted in the article are Rodin's The Kiss (1889) and Brancusi's The Kiss (1908 version found through link).

I would have also included Canova's Cupid and Psyche (c. 1787-1793, see detail here) on the list. Even though technically the figures have just kissed or are about to kiss (depending on who you ask), it's a much more beautiful sculpture than that horrid drawing by Picasso (listed as #9 in the article). Ugh.

Do you know of any other works of art which are appropriate for Valentine's Day?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Barbie in Fine Art

2011-02-08T20:10:00.000-08:00

A student sent me some fun links with images of Barbie that reference famous works of art. I recently saw something along these lines with drawings of Barbie, but I like that the actual dolls are used as models for most of these images. Check them out:

Barbie as Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Nefertiti, etc.
Barbie as a Warhol print

Photographer Mariel Clayton has a whole series of Barbie photographs that reference famous works of art (see the "Hystoria" section on her website). She has kindly given me permission to reproduce a few images here. They are all quite fun, but I think that her recreation of Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring is my favorite.

Mariel Clayton, after Vermeer's The Milkmaid from c. 1660

Mariel Clayton, after David's Death of Marat from 1793

Mariel Clayton, after Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring from c. 1665

Mariel Clayton, after Whistler's Arrangement in Gray and Black: The Artist's Mother (also called "Whistler's Mother") from 1871

Do any other professors find themselves talking about Barbie in art history courses? Whenever I teach about ancient art, students always bring up Barbie in comparison with the Venus of Willendorf. I enjoy comparing how the standards and ideals for representing the female figure (and perhaps beauty) have changed since prehistoric times, but I think it's interesting that students best understand (or relate to?) this concept in conjunction with Barbie.

Diana of Ephesus: Keeping Abreast with Iconography

2011-02-05T18:34:00.000-08:00

Some of my long-time readers will remember my previous post on Saint Lucy, whose iconography (or visual symbol) is a pair of eyeballs. I remember being struck by how St. Lucy's iconography was so unusual (and kinda grotesque, in my opinion). Some comments on that previous post mentioned another unusual example of hagiographic iconography: Saint Agatha carries her breasts on a platter (see an example by Zurbaran here). Today, though, I remembered another female figure associated with kinda bizarre iconography: Diana of Ephesus. Although Diana (or "Artemis" to the ancient Greeks) isn't a Catholic saint like Lucy and Agatha (she's a fertility goddess from classical mythology), I would have to say that her iconography might be the most unusual of all. Take a look:

Artemis of Ephesus, 1st century CE Roman copy (Museum of Efes, Turkey)

Lady of Ephesus, 1st century CE (Ephesus Archaeological Museum)

With breasts aplenty, it's easy to tell that Diana of Ephesus was an ancient goddess of fertility, but her iconography might be little more complex than one would suppose! In 1979 a scholar name Gerard Seiterle pointed out that none of the supposed breasts of Diana/Artemis figurines have nipples. Seiterle argued that instead of breasts, Diana is laden will bull testes.¹ This is an interesting argument for two reasons: 1) the bull was symbol of fertility in ancient times and 2) the altar at Ephesus would have been large enough to sacrifice a bull. Although Seiterle's argument is not accepted by all scholars (I personally don't feel quite convinced), it does add an interesting element to the discussion of Diana's iconography, don't you think?²

Even if early depictions of Diana do not include nipples on her breasts, I noticed that later depictions do include nipples:

Diana of Ephesus, detail from The Discovery of the Child Erichtonius by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1615

Fountain of Diana of Ephesus, Villa d'Este, 16th century

Diana of Ephesus was a very popular goddess in ancient times (in fact, some readers may be interested to know that worship of Diana is mentioned in the Bible (see Acts 19:28 and Acts 19:35). Additionally, Diana's temple at Ephesus was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. I get the sense, though, that she wasn't as popular (and more specifically, her traditional iconography wasn't as popular) in more recent artistic periods like the Renaissance (although some examples from later periods exist, as I've shown above).³ Perhaps Diana of Ephesus' multi-breasted appearance was too far from the Renaissance standards of idealization?

If you can put forward a more unusual type of iconography than Diana of Ephesus, speak up!

1 See Gerard Seiterle, "Artemis: die Grosse Göttin von Ephesos" Antike Welt 10 (1979): 3-16. Seiterle is also mentioned (although his name is misspelled) in Vicki Goldberg, "In Search of Diana of Ephesus" in New York Times 21 August 1994 (citation available online here). I also found some scholars discussing Seiterle's argument on this WikiTalk.

2 Wikipedia mentions here that Seiterle's argument was "accepted in the 1980s by Walter Burkert and Brita Alroth, among others, criticised and rejected by Robert Fleischer, but widely popularized." For an argument against Seiterle, see Fleischer, "Neues zur kleinasiatischen Kultstatue" Archäologischer Anzeiger 98 1983:81-93; Bammer 1990:153.

3 It's interesting to note that a Renaissance humanist scholar might have been interested in Diana of Ephesus, though. It's possible that Andrea Odoni is holding a statuette of Diana of Ephesus in his portrait (painted by Lorenzo Lotti, 1527). See portrait and discussion here.

Jan and Hubert van Eyck: What I Wish We Knew

2011-01-28T15:24:00.000-08:00

I introduced Jan van Eyck to my students about a week ago, but I haven't stopped thinking about him since. It's known that van Eyck (depicted in a supposed self-portrait, The Man with the Red Turban, 1433, on right) worked as court painter for Philip the Good, Duke of Burgandy. This position was extremely advantageous for van Eyck, and essentially helped the artist to develop an individual reputation (as opposed to many unknown artists, who were involved in collaborative artistic workshops which were regulated by the local guilds).

We know a little about van Eyck's duties at Philip's court. For example, the artist was sent in an embassy which was charged with the duty of requesting Isabella of Portugal's hand in marriage to Philip. But I wish I knew more about the paintings that van Eyck produced for Philip the Good. Unfortunately, none of the paintings survive; the only extant works by van Eyck were produced for other, private patrons.¹ (I assume that all of these Philip-the-Good-paintings were destroyed in the iconoclastic riots of the 16th century, but I have not come across a comprehensive discussion of how/why these works no longer exist. That being said - if anyone could point me to specific information on this topic, I'd be most grateful!).

I also wish that we knew more information about Jan van Eyck's brother, the painter Hubert van Eyck. I think the paucity of information is rather surprising, given how much information is available about Jan. What do know, however, is that a "Master Hubert" was paid to paint panels in churches in both 1409 and 1413, and it seems likely that this painter is referring to Jan's brother (believe it or not, Hubert wasn't a terribly common name back then!).

There is only one definitive work by Hubert which survives: the Ghent altarpiece (1432, on left, see version of the altarpiece with closed wings here). Yep - the work which is touted as a masterpiece by Jan van Eyck (and for good reason, nonetheless), was actually begun by Hubert, as noted by a contemporary inscription (dated 6 May 1432, the date of the altarpiece's dedication).² According to the inscription, the altarpiece was finished by Jan, "'[Hubert's] brother, second in art'" at the request of patron Jodocus Vijd.² It appears that Hubert's death left the work unfinished: the inscription suggests that large areas of at least the lower layers of paint could be seen at the time of Hubert's passing.³

Wait - you're saying that you haven't ever heard of Hubert and his role in the Ghent altarpiece? I'm not surprised. With the "cult of the artist-genius" so prominent in art (and art history textbooks), it makes sense that people would shy away from (or ignore?) a discussion of Hubert. Mentioning any artistic collaboration would diminish the idea that Jan was a solitary master, a genius beyond equal. This idea ties in with my earlier discussion of Jef Vanderveken, the 20th century copyist who painted a new panel on the Ghent altarpiece (after "The Just Judges" panel was stolen in 1934). Poor Jef and Hubert. They both are relatively forgotten, having been lost in the mystic shadow which art history has cast for Jan van Eyck.

1 Kim Woods, "The Status of the Artist in Northern Europe in the Sixteenth Century" in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 123.

2 Although some historians question the authenticity of the inscription (finding it to be a contemporary forgery), others assert that it is a "doubtless reliable inscription." See Anne Hagopian van Buren, "Eyck, van." in Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T027196pg1, accessed 28 January 2011.

3 Ibid.

4 Ibid.

Cherub = The Blissful Graduate Student

2011-01-25T22:01:00.000-08:00

Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514

I'm getting ready for an activity in tomorrow's class: we're going to explore the historiography of arguments surrounding Durer's enigmatic Melencolia I engraving (shown above). Perhaps one day I'll outline some of the arguments on Alberti's Window. For now, though, I wanted to post a very amusing, tongue-in-cheek interpretation of the winged child (in the center of the composition) and the large seated figure:

"The staring winged figure, compass listlessly in hand, has come upon a problem that exceeds her angelic strength, perhaps in string theory, and she is peevish; behind her a small graduate student, unaware of the deep difficulties that has stumped his Doktormutter, scribbles away blissfully at his dissertation."¹

Ha ha!

1 John L. Heilbron, "A Short History of Light in the Western World," from Visions of Discovery: New Light on Physics, Cosmology and Consciousness, edited by Raymond Y. Chiao et al., (Cambridge University Press, 2010), 8-9. Citation available online here.

The Ecstasy of St. Robert Plant

2011-01-19T17:39:00.000-08:00

While commuting to work this morning, I listened to Led Zeppelin's "Mothership" album in anticipation for my lecture on Baroque art. But there's no similarity between those two things, you say? I beg to differ:

Bernini, detail of The Ecstasy of St. Theresa (1647-52)

Of course, the "ecstasy" that may have influenced Robert Plant would have been much different from the ecstasy of St. Theresa...

Lorenzo Ghiberti and Vittorio Ghiberti

2011-01-15T16:01:00.000-08:00

Art historians have previously discussed how Ghiberti's self-portrait on the "Gates of Paradise" doors (shown on the far left of the image, 1424-52, see detail image here) can be interpreted not only as a signature portrait, but also as a promotional image.¹ By placing his portrait in such a prominent public location, there is little doubt that Ghiberti was interested in promoting himself as an artist. Catherine King also records that "the Latin inscription alongside [the doors] reads in translation: 'Made with wonderful skill by Lorenzo Ghiberti.'"²

This past week, when looking at dates and details regarding the "Gates of Paradise," I was struck with an additional idea. The "Gates of Paradise" were completed in 1452, when Ghiberti would have been about 74 or 75 years old. Therefore, at such a late point in the artist's life, it is not surprising that Ghiberti decided to include his son Vittorio's portrait on the door as well (see portrait on right side of the image). Vittorio inherited the family workshop after his father's death (which was in 1455, only three short years after the "Gates of Paradise" were finished). I think that Lorenzo has anticipated his death (at least to some degree) by including his heir's portrait. That way, even after Lorenzo died, the Ghiberti family business would still be promoted on the baptistery doors.

Smart thinking, Lorenzo.

As other historians have noted, Lorenzo was quite a "shrewd" and "keen" businessman.³ The inclusion of Vittorio's portrait seems to be further evidence for this fact.

1 Catherine King, "Italian Artists in Search of Virtue, Fame, and Honour c. 1450-1650," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 60-63.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 59. See also Gary M. Radke, ed., The Gates of Paradise: Lorenzo Ghiberti's Renaissance Masterpiece (London: Yale University Press, 2007), 67. Citation available online here.

Strange and Unusual Portrait by Fontana

2011-01-12T17:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I came across the strangest portrait I have ever seen. Take a look at Lavinia Fontana's portrait of Antonietta Gonzalez (also written as "Gonzales," c. 1595, on left). At first, I didn't know what to make of this painting. Was it a joke? Why would young girl be depicted with a hairy face?

This is no joke, my friends. In fact, it's a rather unusual story. Antonietta Gonzalez (as well as her father, two sisters and other family members) had hypertrichosis (also commonly called "werewolf syndrome"). This is a rare genetic disorder which causes an abnormal amount of hair on the body. (You can read more about the disorder and see some interesting images here.) Antonietta's father, Pedro (sometimes written as Pedrus) Gonzalez, was the first known person to be affected with this disorder. Given the rarity of the disease, it seems a little surprising that so many people within the Gonzalez family were affected by hypertrichosis. One writer noted that in terms of pathology, "the Gonzales sisters were one in a billion - all three of them."¹

Luckily, though, Antonietta and her sisters were not shunned by society, but welcomed into the courts of Europe. Although I'm sure that these girls served as objects of curiosity to some degree, they also were subject to medical investigations and, obviously, portrait sittings. Antonietta explains a little of her personal history in the handwritten note which she holds in the portrait: "Don Pietro, a wild man discovered in the Canary Islands, was conveyed to his most serene highness Henry the king of France, and from there came to his Excellency the Duke of Parma. From whom [came] I, Antonietta, and now I can be found nearby at the court of the Lady Isabella Pallavicina, the honorable Marchesa of Soragna."²

Historian Merry Weisner-Hanks has speculated that Lavinia Fontana met Antonietta in Parma. I hope to find more information about the portrait in The Marvelous Hairy Girls: The Gonzales Sisters and Their World a relatively new book by Weisner-Hanks. It looks really interesting.

Okay, so here's my question: do you know of a portrait more unusual or strange than this one? Let's make it a little game; I'm curious to see what people might submit. And I'll let you, dear readers, decide what constitutes "unusual" or "strange" (e.g. the sitter, the artistic presentation of the sitter, the medium, etc.).

P.S. As I was finishing up this post, my two-year-old looked at the Fontana portrait and said, "Hey, is that you?" Ha ha! I didn't realize that I was having such a bad hair day!

1 Jason Zasky, "Hair Apparent," in Failure Magazine (n.d.), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

2 Merry Weisner-Hanks, "Hairy Marvels and Beastly Sex," in National Sexuality Resource Center (1 October 2009), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

Historia Paintings: Here's Looking at You, Kid

2011-01-08T23:06:00.000-08:00

I'm getting ready to teach a lecture on Alberti's theories regarding the type of painting called historia (also seen as istoria). In his treatise On Painting (1435), Alberti argued that historia painting is the highest goal and achievement for an artist. A historia is a narrative painting which includes a complex composition and a large number of figures. Furthermore, these figures should be displayed in several dramatic and emotive poses. Alberti felt that "everything the people in the painting do among themselves, or perform in relation to the spectators, must fit together to represent and explain the 'historia.'"¹

One of Alberti's most interesting ideas about historia has to do with how the painting communicates and involves the viewer. Alberti found that a historia painting is most effective if there is a figure in the painting who directly communicates with the viewer. He wrote, "I like there be someone in the 'historia' who tells the spectators what is going on, and either beckons them with his hand to look, or with ferocious expression and forbidding glance challenges them not to come near, as if he wished their business to be secret, or points to some danger or some remarkable secret, or by his gestures invites you to laugh or to weep with them."²

I think one of the best ways for historia figures to communicate with the viewer is through an outward glance (as if the figure was actually looking at the viewer).³ I know that there are tons of examples of such outward glances, but here is just a small sample of my favorites:

Two figures gaze outwards (while one of them beckons toward the viewer - Alberti would be so pleased!) in Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Magi (1488). The staring figure near the top of the detail is a supposed self-portrait of Ghirlandaio.

Christ stares out at the viewer, amid all of the hustle and bustle found in Veronese's The Wedding Feast at Cana (1562-63)

An alleged self-portrait of Botticelli. The artist is gazing at the viewer from the foreground of his painting, Adoration of the Magi (c. 1475)

This one is also a supposed self-portrait of the artist Perugino, found within his painting Christ Giving the Keys to Saint Peter (1481)

I think it's interesting that so many painters decided to include themselves as the token "communicating figure" within their paintings. The examples by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli and Perugino are a small sampling of the staring/communicating self-portraits which exist. (To give you an idea, other such self-portraits were done by are Jacopo Pontormo (see here), Raphael (see here) and Fillipo Lippi (see here and here). But, the more that I think about it, the inclusion of the self-portrait is very fitting for historia painting, particularly when considering Alberti's thoughts on communication. After all, if at least one figure is responsible for communicating to the viewer (and drawing the viewer into the scene), shouldn't that figure be the artist?!? Makes sense to me.

What about you? What paintings do you enjoy where a figure is staring outwards at (or beckoning toward) the viewer? I know there are tons of them out there - especially from the Italian Renaissance period!

1 Leon Battista Alberti and Martin Kemp, On Painting (New York: Penguin Press, 1991), 78. Citation available online here.

2 Ibid., 77-78.

3 It should be noted that many painters followed Alberti's advice by including a figure in communication with the viewer, but not directly looking at the viewer. For example, Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Shepherds (1485) shows a shepherd who is pointing (to communicate with the viewer), but the shepherd's gaze is toward another figure in the painting.

James Hampton and Audience

2011-01-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

One of my friends recently saw James Hampton's The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millenium General Assembly (ca. 1950-1964, shown left) on display in a folk art exhibition. Her mention of this piece brought back two memories for me. First, I remembered being struck by this piece a few years ago when visiting the Smithsonian American Art Museum. I was impressed to learn that Hampton created his altarpiece over a period of fourteen years. Hampton wasn't an artist by profession; he worked as a janitor. He kept his creation in a rented garage and continually built up the piece with found objects and discarded materials. Hampton then collected and then covered with shimmering metallic foil and purple paper (the latter now faded to a tan color).

When my friend mentioned seeing this work of art, it also brought back a second memory: a conversation that I had with an art history student last spring. We were discussing whether it is important for a work of art to have an audience, and this student brought up the example of Hampton. My student felt that Hampton was not interested in having anyone see his work: Hampton worked for years to create this piece, and yet he seemed to have kept his project a secret. His relatives did not learn about his project until after Hampton had died of stomach cancer. Even the man who owned Hampton's garage seemed unaware of what Hampton was creating in the rented space.

I can understand why the student had come to this conclusion, but I pointed out a few things which indicate that Hampton intended his work to have an audience. For example, it has been noted that he hoped to open a storefront ministry and use his artistic composition as the centerpiece for the ministry. This is a pretty sure indication that he wanted his art to be viewed by others. But we can also look to the work of art for clues that a viewer/audience is presupposed. One could argue that the phrase "FEAR NOT" (at the top of the central piece) is a visual indication that Hampton wanted an audience, since he obviously wanted those words to be read by someone (most likely someone other than himself).

Nonetheless, I'm the first to admit that there are some baffling things about Hampton's altarpiece. The work contains notebooks, plaques and tags that are written in some kind of secret language (which one scholar has called "Hamptonese"). Did Hampton intend for his audience to see this secret writing system? Or were these written areas intended only for Hampton to see? Does this supposed gibberish indicate that Hampton was mentally unstable? I suppose we'll never know.

Picasso and Paul McCartney

2011-01-03T23:33:00.000-08:00

Pablo Picasso, The Old Guitarist, 1903

Did you know that a Picasso painting helped to inspire a Paul McCartney song? Today my little brother sent me this short clip of Paul explaining when/where/why he came up with the idea for the "Two Fingers" song:

I'm pretty sure, though, that Picasso didn't have a specific chord in mind when he painted The Old Guitarist. In fact, it has already been discussed how Picasso's lack of musical training is evident in his other depictions of musicians (for example, instances in which violinists hold their instruments with the wrong hand, as is seen in his Three Musicians (1921, PMA version)). Nonetheless, it's fun to know that Picasso had a little influence on Paul.

Our Mother of Mercy and Y1K

2010-12-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

Madonna della Misericordia, Church of San Tomá, Venice, mid 14th century to early 15th century

Remember Y2K? I can't believe that it has been ten years since we experienced the Y2K drama and anxiety. I recall that my mom gave our neighbors hand-powered flashlights as a holiday gift that year (almost entirely in jest).

Remember how some people proclaimed that Y2K would bring the end of the world? This actually isn't surprising, since history has shown a repeated end-of-the-world fear with the approach of a new year/century/millenium. Actually, it's interesting to see how this fear even has affected art. I think the most prominent (and interesting) example is the imagery for Our Mother of Mercy, which displays the Virgin protectively taking her protégés/children underneath her cloak (see a late medieval example above). Henry Kraus has discussed that this iconography developed in the tenth century by the order of Cluny, "possibly in response to the terror of the world's end that spread abroad with the approach of the Year Thousand."¹This protective, loving image of the Virgin must have brought comfort to devout medieval worshipers who feared that the world was ending in Y1K.

Is it safe to argue, then, that the Middle Ages experienced a "Y1K"? I think so. The iconography for Our Mother of Mercy gives evidence for it! Ha!

Do you have a favorite work of art that is inspired by an end-of-the-world theme?

Having written about this end-of-the-world gloom, it seems a little ironic to wish everyone a Happy New Year. Nonetheless, I hope that this upcoming year is better and brighter for everyone. Personally, I'm not focusing on possibilities that the world will end anytime in 2011. In fact, I've already thought to write a post on Mayan art with the advent of 2012... ;)

Happy New Year!

1 Henry Kraus, "Eve and Mary: Conflicting Images of Medieval Woman," in Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany by Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, eds. (Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1982), 84. See also Mlle. Chatel, "Le culte de la vierge Marie en France, du Ve au XIIIe siécle," Théses-Sorbonne (Paris, 1945): 151-52.

Happy Holidays

2010-12-24T17:00:00.000-08:00

Unknown German Master, The Adoration of the Magi, c. 1420

Happy holidays from Alberti's Window! This is one of the Christmas paintings which I recently discovered while performing a research project for a friend. Isn't it fun? I love that the kings are wearing contemporary Renaissance clothing - check out the crowns and the ermine robe! Ermine has been associated with royalty (and the extremely wealthy) for a long time, so it's not surprising that one of the Three Magi is dressed in ermine. Interestingly, though, ermine was also seen as a symbol of purity during the Renaissance period. I think that the inclusion of ermine fur in this painting could also refer to the pure heart of the king (and perhaps emphasize the holy nature of the scene in general).

What is your favorite Nativity/Adoration scene?

Happy holidays and Merry Christmas!

Christmas During the Civil War

2010-12-21T15:21:00.000-08:00

Over the past few days I've been reading about the history of Christmas in America. (For a brief introduction on the subject, I suggest you read the preface of William B. Wait's book, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving). It has been most surprising for me to discover that Christmas wasn't widely celebrated until about the mid-19th century. I didn't realize that the celebration of Christmas was such a recent phenomenon in American history. Of course, I already guessed that the Puritans didn't celebrate Christmas, so I wasn't surprised to learn that the holiday was outlawed between 1659 and 1681. But it appears that Americans still resisted Christmas in the 18th century, partially because it was a way for rebellious American patriots to set themselves apart from an English/European tradition.

In the 19th century, Christmas began to be celebrated more regularly. I've been particularly interested in different historical arguments regarding how Americans perceived Christmas during the Civil War (1861-1865). For example, Penne L. Restad argues that around the time of the Civil War, Americans looked toward the Christmas holiday as an "idealized domestic haven that was neither northern nor southern in its origins or biases."¹

On the other hand, it has also been argued that Americans also were divided on the subject of Christmas. Southerners tended to celebrate the Christmas as part of the social season, whereas Northerners saw more sin in the celebration of the holiday.² Although these two arguments by historians seem a little contradictory, I think that they can coexist. Perhaps the idea of Christmas both unified Americans (with its promise of peace and tranquility) and also divided Americans (in the way that the holiday should be observed).

The division of Civil War era Americans regarding Christmas is especially interesting to me when considering Thomas Nast's drawings for Harper's Magazine. Nast made several images of Santa Claus during the 1860s, including a picture of Santa delivering presents to Union soldiers (see image above, which is from the January 3, 1863 cover of Harper's Magazine). Some argue that this drawing functioned as a type of psychological warfare against the Confederate Army, since Santa Claus was showing favor to Union soldiers (when Southerners were the ones who tended to celebrate the Christmas holiday).

I think that the drawing is particularly interesting. Santa is dressed in a suit with stripes and stars, which looks very similar to the Union flag. He is handing out gifts which would have been important to soldiers, such as a pair of socks. Interestingly, Santa is holding out a puppet that looks very much like Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate South. Santa is pulling on the puppet string, which makes it look like Santa is lynching Jefferson Davis! (Who knew that Santa could be so violent?) I think that the inclusion of lynching is an especially interesting comment on anti-slavery, don't you think?

It's interesting to think about how Christmas is a cultural construct, especially within a relatively young country like America. If you live outside the United States, what is the history of Christmas in your country? Are you aware of early representations of Christmas in your respective country or area? Or, if you are American, what representations of Christmas do you like?

1 Penne L. Restad, Christmas in America: A History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 98. Citation is available online here.

2 Although not within the Civil War context, William B. Wait also discusses how the Northerners were suspicious of the Christmas revelry, whereas the Southerners embraced the celebration. See William B. Wait, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving (New York: New York University Press, 1994), xv-xvi. Citation is available online here.

The "Sumptuous" Arts in Greece

2010-12-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

The quarter is over. Over the past few days I've reflected on what lectures I enjoyed teaching to my ancient art students. I think that my favorite lecture was based on Kenneth Lapatin's essay, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Metals: Toward a Historiography of Ancient Greek Minor (?) Arts"¹.

The reason why Lapatin includes a question mark after the word "minor" is important: his whole essay revolves around the argument that the Greeks valued the so-called "minor arts" much more than they are valued today. For Lapatin, the "sumptuous" artistic materials like ivory, gold, silver and gemstone were the artistic mediums that the Greeks most prized. In other words, the Greek marble, bronze and (painted) pottery (all of which are placed at the heart of Western art history) weren't as valued by the ancient Greeks.

To prove his point, Lapatin gives one especially interesting example. He writes that "in the middle of the sixth century BC, the inhabitants of Phocaea decided to abandon their city rather than submit to the Medes. Herodotus reports, 'They loaded onto their ships their children, women, and household property, and above all the images of the gods from the sanctuaries and other dedications, everything, in fact, except bronzes, stoneworks, and paintings, and they sailed to Chios.'"² Now I realize that there may have been some practical reasons why the Greeks didn't load their ships with stonework (it is heavy, after all!), but isn't it interesting that the art we value today is precisely the art that the Greeks chose to abandon?

In some ways, this news shouldn't come as a surprise to art historians. We have known for a long time that the main purpose of the Parthenon was to house Phidias' chryselephantine cult statue of Athena (see above left for a reconstruction of an original of c. 438 BC). The cult statue was the most valued thing by the Greeks, not the building which housed the statue. This is very ironic, because today much more emphasis is placed on the architecture and exterior sculpture of the Parthenon. In fact, it's interesting that one ancient Greek writer, Pausanias, only mentions the two pediments and cult statue when he described the Parthenon. He ignored the metopes and frieze completely, which suggests that they weren't very important.³

So, why do we value painting, architecture, and sculpture above the "minor" materials and objects created by the Greeks? Lapatin traces this ideology back to Vasari's writings of the 16th century (see a 1566-68 self-portrait of Vasari on right). Vasari's Lives focused on the achievements of three artistic types: painters, sculptors, and architects. As a result, painting, sculpture, and architecture became "the canonical triad" in art history.⁴ In some ways, it's not surprising that Vasari promoted these types of art: after all, he was a painter and architect himself. Although the effect of Vasari's "triad" was not immediate (gems were still were considered part of the arts for a long time afterward), Vasari's writings took part in "the displacement and demotion of items fashioned from sumptuous materials from the lofty position they held in ancient art and culture (as well as in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance)."⁵

Lapatin's argument is fascinating. He also delves into interesting discussions of how Winckelmann affected our modern perception of Greek sculpture, particularly in terms of what we value today (i.e. unpainted white marble). It's great stuff. I recommend that everyone should get their hands on a copy of this article. Unfortunately, his essay is found in a book that currently is out of print. But I promise that your efforts in securing a copy of this essay will be well worth the effort!

1 Kenneth Lapatin, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Metals: Toward a Historiography of Ancient Greek Minor (?) Arts," in Ancient Art and its Historiography by A. A. Donohue, ed. (Cambridge: 2003): 69-91.

2 Ibid., 71.

3 Colin Cunningham, "The Parthenon Marbles," in Academies, Museums and Canons of Art by Gill Perry and Colin Cunningham, eds. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 53-54. Part of the citation is available online here.

4 Lapatin, 74. It should be noted that Vasari did discuss and laud the importance of gold work and glyptic in the first edition of his Lives (1550). However, the 1568 revision of the text demoted the sumptuous arts and elevated painting instead.

4 Ibid.

"Modern" Gingerbread House

2010-12-11T22:15:00.000-08:00

At a Christmas party earlier today, J and I had visions of creating a 20th century gingerbread house that would look something like this:

Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, Possy-sur-Seine, France, 1929
(image via Wikipedia (ValueYou), under the GNU Free Documentation License, v. 1.3)

Or this:

Frank Lloyd Wright, Kaufmann House (Fallingwater), Bear Run, Pennsylvania, 1936-39

Needless to say, our final product was not nearly as fancy:

Let's just hope that our gingerbread house is as architecturally sound as the Le Corbusier and Wright buildings. Or even more architecturally sound, I should say: Frank Lloyd Wright's building was in danger of collapse at one point. The terraces of Fallingwater began to droop over time and were considered unstable. In addition, "long-term stress on the main level's beams resulted in cracks in the beams, causing the floors to sag."¹ The building was restored in 2002, as part of an $11.5 million restoration project.

You know, maybe it's a little encouraging to know that even Frank Lloyd Wright wasn't a perfect architect. Then maybe I won't be disappointed if my house has collapsed by tomorrow morning!

(If anyone ends up building another gingerbread house that was inspired by a great architectural work, let me know! I'd love to see a picture. I dare someone to try and build a gingerbread house that based off of Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Bilbao Museo.)

1 Fred S. Kleiner and Christin J. Mamiya, Gardner's Art Through the Ages, 12th ed., vol. 2 (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2005), 1017.

Dürer's "Virgin Among a Multitude of Animals"

2010-12-07T22:40:00.000-08:00

School is wrapping up for the quarter, and my eyes are tired of looking at dozens and dozens of student papers. This evening I thought I'd have change of scenery by looking at a watercolor that I discovered recently: Dürer's Virgin Among a Multitude of Animals (1503, shown right). Isn't it lovely? Here are a couple of thoughts about the painting:

I really like the interpretion that this painting is a Christian version of the ancient "Master of the Animals" motif. However, unlike ancient depictions which show deities or heroes showing power over animals (see one example at the end of this post), Dürer depicts the Christ child as the hero (shown at the center the painting).
Given that this is a Northern Renaissance painting, it is unsurprising that the animals surrounding the Virgin have symbolic meaning. Even the stag beetle (shown in the lower left corner, teasing a sleeping dog) is seen as a symbol for Christ (since its horns could subdue "the dragon," or Satan).
Coincidentally (or perhaps not-so-coincidentally), this evening I noticed that there is a stork placed next to the Joseph (located in the middle ground on the right). I immediately became exited, having recently read this post on Three Pipe Problem which examines how storks (as well as cranes and herons) served as symbols of vigilance. (This painting dates just a few years before the Carpaccio and Giorgione paintings discussed in the Three Pipe Problem post; it was particularly fun to find another stork connection from the same time period.) I also read here that storks also have been associated with piety, resurrection, and purity in Christian iconography.
The background of the painting also depicts aspects from the Nativity story: the angel appearing to shepherds, the star in the sky, the visit of the Magi (in this painting, the kings and their entourage have alighted ships and are traveling along a road).
This painting by Dürer was particularly liked by Rudolf II, the emperor of Austria in the late 16th - early 17th centuries. Rudolf II was a great patron of the arts, and he ordered that a print of this painting by made by Aegidius Sadler, the court engraver. Additionally, in 1604 Rudolf II ordered Jan Brueghel the Elder to make a copy of this same Dürer painting. (If anyone knows of an online reproduction for this Brueghel copy, please let me know! I'm curious to see it.)

Dürer's painting is fun, isn't it? Which animal do you like the best? I particularly like the parrot that is perched on the left side of the Virgin.

Crucifix of Gero Conundrum

2010-12-03T22:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, Ottonian art experts, I need help. I'm trying to resolve an issue regarding the Crucifix of Gero (c. 970, Cologne Cathedral, shown left). The most recent editions of Gardner's Art Through the Ages and Stokstad's Art History mention that this statue functions as a reliquary. According to both books, a cavity in the back of Christ's head contains a piece of the Host.¹

HOWEVER, I recently read here that no cavity exists behind the sculpture. "Despite older sources even citing the exact dimensions of such a reliquary opening in the Cologne sculpture, the restoration of the Gero Cross in 1976 revealed that no receptacle exists in the corpus' head."²

What's the real story behind this? Who should I believe? I'm inclined to believe the 1976 restoration news, but it seems incredulous that both major art history textbooks would have missed the "There is no reliquary cavity!" memo that was written almost 35 years ago. Did any further evidence come about after the 1976 restoration? Or should I continue to lose faith in canonical art history textbooks?

One other thought. Despite that there might not be an opening in its back, I think this statue could still function as a reliquary: in the 10th century Archbishop Gero allegedly placed the Host and True Cross in the once-cracked wood of the statue (see footnote #2 below). But I guess there's no way to prove that miraculous story through scientific analysis, is there?

1 Marilyn Stokstad, Art History, 4th ed. (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2011), 448. See also Fred S. Kleiner, Gardner's Art Through the Ages (Backpack Edition: The Middle Ages), 13th ed. (Boston: Wadsworth: 2010), 201304.

2 Søren Kaspersen and Erik Thunø, Decorating the Lord's Table: On the Dynamics Between Image and Altar in the Middle Ages (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), 59 (available online here). This same book also mentions the tradition of how the Crucifix of Gero came to be a so-called reliquary: "The early eleventh century Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg contains a miracle story involving Gero of Cologne, who served as archbishop from 969 to 976. The passage in Chapter Two of Book Three reads: 'Meanwhile, Archbishop Gero of the see of Cologne died. As I have only spoken briefly about him, I will not relate a few things which I previously held back. He had a crucifix artfully made out of wood, which now stands above his grave, in the middle of the church. When he noticed a fissure in the crucifix's head, he healed it, trusting not in himself, but rather in the healthy remedy of the highest artisan. He took a portion of the body of the Lord, our unique comfort in every necessity, and part of the health-bringing cross, and placed them together in the crack. Then, prostrating himself, he tearfully invoked the name of the Lord. When he arose, he found that the damage had been healed through his humble benediction.'" See Kaspersen and Thunø, 45-46 (available online here).

Guernica as Nativity

2010-11-29T23:59:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I engaged in a mini-research project to help a friend. This friend is putting together a slideshow of Nativity images for a Christmas party; he is specifically interested in showing images which depict the biblical scene with clothing/architecture/instruments that are contemporary to the time of the artist. This project wasn't too hard to complete, especially since Northern Renaissance artists loved to depict Nativity scenes in Northern interiors with Northern clothing. Perhaps I'll post some of my Nativity findings in the next few weeks - it was a very fun project.

Anyhow, while compiling images I became curious to see if Picasso had ever created a Nativity scene. Since Picasso was such a prolific artist (with 271 new works recently added to his oeuvre), I thought he would have depicted a Nativity scene at least once. Surprisingly, I didn't find any works titled "Nativity" in my limited research time, but I did come across an interesting argument that was recently published in Nómadas: Revista Crítica de Cincias Socialies y Jurídicas. Pablo Huergo Macón argues that Picasso's iconic painting Guernica (1937, shown above) is a modern representation of the Nativity. Basically, Macón finds that Guernica "is a manger blown up by bombs."¹ Here are some of the traditional images which Macón points out:

Virgin Mary cradling a (Christ) child (far left)
Joseph (shown as a warrior brandishing a sword)
Angel who appears to shepherds (holding a candle in Picasso's scene)
Shepherds (represented by the women on the right side, one in a shawl and one with raised arms)
Stable animals (Macón argues that the bull represents the ox and horse represents the mule)
Star of Bethlehem (light bulb in center, illuminating the scene)

I think the inclusion of the llight bulb puts an interesting contemporary twist on the whole Nativity scene (but I decided that my friend probably wouldn't want to use this image for his Christmas party slideshow! It doesn't exactly scream "Christmas cheer," does it?).

Anyhow, I think Macón's theory is interesting and deserves some attention. Even if this theory isn't perfect, I think it could explain at least one reason why Guernica is so jarring to us: Western viewers can recognize distorted, perverse, and extremely unsettling elements of a traditional Christian theme.

1 Pablo Huergo Macón, "The Other Side of Guernica," Nómadas: Revista Crítica de Cincias Socialies y Jurídicas 23 (2009:3): 1. Found online here.

Thanksgiving Gratitude List: Formal Elements

2010-11-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

It is the Thanksgiving holiday this week in the US, which means that Americans tend to focus on things for which they are thankful. I thought it would be fun to compile a list of the formal elements in art for which I am grateful. In other words, these are all of the physical (formal) aspects of art which I find aesthetically pleasing. To me, these things make art beautiful:

I am grateful for compositions with strong diagonals.

Athena Battling Alkyoneos, Detail of the Gigantomachy Freize from the Altar of Zeus, c. 175 BC

I am grateful for strong light and dark contrasts.

Caravaggio, Madonna of the Snake, 1606

I am grateful for impasto.
Van Gogh, detail of Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889 (Metropolitan Museum)

I am grateful for volume, particularly when it creates
an illusion of the human figure.
(Look at how Pluto's fingers press into Proserpina's body!)
Bernini, detail of Pluto and Proserpina, 1621-22 (Borghese Gallery)

I am grateful for flat planes of solid color.
Gauguin, Self Portrait with Halo, 1889

I am grateful for thick, dark outlines of figures.

Brian Kershisnik, Artist Devoured by a Terrible Beast, n.d.

I am grateful for monochromatic backgrounds.
Whistler, Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Artist's Mother, 1871

I am grateful for the luminescent colors afforded by oil paint.
Robert Campin, detail of the Merode Altarpiece, 1425-28

You can really tell what artistic periods (and centuries) I prefer, huh? What formal elements are YOU grateful for?

"Priceless" by Robert K. Wittman

2010-11-16T23:48:00.000-08:00

I recently finished reading Robert K. Wittman's book Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World's Stolen Treasures. I had waited several weeks (months?) to get my hands on a library copy of this book, and became even more anxious after reading this great review of the book on Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Books.

The wait paid off, though. Not only is this book entertaining and informative, but it also gives a really interesting perspective on art. As an undercover FBI agent, Wittman has to be informed about the historical significance of the art in his cases, but it is also clear that he views art as objects and historical artifacts. There definitely is nothing wrong with this perspective, and it is a logical perspective for Wittman (since he's interested in recovering a physical object that has been stolen).

Anyhow, it was interesting to think about Wittman's apparent "art as object" perspective, since art historians sometimes forget that a work of art is, in its essence, an object: art is paint on a canvas, a block of marble, or metal. I think art historians often "mysticize" or elevate works of art to the point that the objects are exempt from their actual physical properties. Gombrich, for example, tried to humanize art by comparing it to the complexity of "real human beings" (see here). In some ways, I don't have issue with this perspective either, but it's interesting to think about how art historians sometimes divorce themselves from the physicality of the art they discuss. But I digress. The point is: it was interesting to see Wittman approach art from a different (more practical?) perspective than I usually encounter among art historians and critics.

Although I would have enjoyed reading more about the historical background for some of the art pieces, Wittman provided a decent amount of information. (Also on a side note, Wittman also works to recover historical artifacts, such as an original copy of the Bill of Rights. These cases are also interesting, but I assumed beforehand that I would only be reading about stolen fine art.)

I especially was interested in reading about the theft of Norman Rockwell's Spirit of '76 (1976, shown right).¹ This painting was stolen from a gallery in 1978 and was never recovered. The FBI closed the case a few years after the theft, but the case resurfaced in the mid-to-late 1990s, when it became known that the painting had was in the possession of an art dealer in Rio de Janeiro. Wittman was deeply involved in this case by the time of 9/11. Unsurprisingly, the interest in Rockwell and Americana surged after 9/11, due to the rise of patriotism in the American people. Therefore, a whole new dimension and meaning was added to this case, given the 9/11 happenings and interest in Rockwell. And, even more interestingly, Rockwell's Spirit of '76 includes an image of the "Twin Towers" (shown in the bottom right corner of the painting). In fact, the inclusion of the "Twin Towers" helped give impetus to finishing this case and recover the artwork from Brazil: officials realized it would be a great public relations move.²

I'd recommend this book to anyone who likes art crime. I think Americans will find the cases especially interesting and meaningful, since Wittman recovered many objects that are significant to American history. However, there are several European pieces that Wittman also recovers/mentions. Really, though, I think that this book would appeal to most people who are interested in art and art crime.

1 I can't help but add that Rockwell's composition was inspired by Archibald Willard's classic Spirit of '76 ("Yankee Doodle," the linked version dates c. 1875)

2 Robert K. Wittman, Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World's Stolen Treasures (New York: Crown Publishers, 2010), 174.

The Capitoline Wolf is Medieval?!?

2010-11-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

I don't know how I missed this news (it's over two years old), but I thought that I would post it for others who may not have heard. In recent years scholars have questioned whether the "Capitoline Wolf" (an iconic statue of a she-wolf that is related to the mythological founding of Rome, see left) is Etruscan. Winckelmann first attributed this statue to the Etruscan period; he based his reasoning on the way that the wolf's fur is depicted. In turn, it generally became accepted that the statue was created in the 5th century BC.

However, a couple of scholars have questioned this attribution since the 19th century. The most recent critique was published by art historian Anna Maria Carruba in 2006. Carruba noted that in the 1997 restoration of the statue, it was observed that the she-wolf was cast as a single unit - a technique that was common during the medieval period.

Carruba's work eventually led to radio-carbon dating tests on the sculpture. About twenty dating tests were conducted at the University of Salermo, which resulted in the announcement that the she-wolf was created in the 13th century AD! In other words, she was created at least 1,700 years later than we originally thought. Wow. Sorry Winckelmann: it looks like you've struck out again. Ouch.

This is a crazy paradigm shift for me. I've always connected the Capitoline Wolf with the Etruscans (and the Romans by extension, since she is connected with the story of how Rome was founded). I've always known that the Romulus and Remus figures underneath were made during the Renaissance (they were fashioned in the late 15th century AD, probably by Antonio Pollaiolo), but it's crazy to think that the Capitoline Wolf is medieval.

I should note, though, that the attribution of this statue is still far from resolved. Not only can one get a sense of the ongoing debate here and here, but right now the Capitoline Museum still has the Etruscan date on their official website. As for me, though, I'm currently inclined to go with the radio-carbon tests and the several scholars which have questioned the attribution. (And maybe I feel this way because I often question Winckelmann's judgment, even outside of this Etruscan attribution.)

Is this news for anyone else? Maybe I'm just behind the times. What do other people think about this new date?

The Minoans as Hippies (and an Etruscan Thought)

2010-11-10T22:27:00.000-08:00

When I was an undergrad, one of my professors liked to compare the Minoans to the hippies of the 1960s. My teacher isn't the only one who has made this comparison. In fact, recently Minoan lilies were cleverly dubbed "the ancient equivalent of flower power."¹

My teacher pointed out that the Minoans were very interested in nature (as evident in their art, which often depicts animals and plants) and used opium. And I think one could even (jokingly) say that the bright colors in some of the frescoes (like the hills in the Spring Fresco from Akrotiri, Thera, before 1630 BCE, shown above left) are "psychedelic."²

I don't mind the hippie comparison, especially if it can help students to differentiate between the Minoan and Mycenaean civilizations. I do think it's important, though, for students to know that the comparison isn't perfect. For example, the fact that the Minoans had fortifications (despite what Sir Arthur Evans argued) and were possibly involved in human sacrifices suggest that these people weren't all about love and peace.

Speaking of Minoans and the Spring Fresco, I was struck today about how there are some similarities between this painting and a tomb painting from the Etruscan period ("Boys Climbing Ricks and Diving," from Tomb of Hunting and Fishing in Tarquinia, late 6th century BC, shown right). Both paintings depict brightly colored hills (with the mounds divided into multiple colors). In both cases, the hills are adorned with spindly vegetation (the Spring Fresco depicts stylized lilies, but I don't think there is enough detail to identify the Etruscan plant). Additionally, the two paintings have birds darting about in the air. I know that over 1,000 years separate these frescoes (not to mention that they are from different geographic areas - the Minoans were on islands in the Aegean Sea and the Etruscans were on mainland Italy), but I think the similarities are interesting.

1 Mary Beard, "Knossos: Fakes, Facts, and Mystery," in The New York Review of Books (August 13, 2009). Available online here.

2 However, I only make the psychedelic comparison with students as a joke. It has been noted that the bright colors of the rocks are actually quite naturalistic. "The colors may seem fanciful to us, but sailors today who know the area well attest to their accuracy, suggesting that these artists recorded the actual color of Thera's wet rocks in the sunshine, a zestful celebration of the natural world." See Stokstad, Art History, 4th ed. (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2011), 92.

My Week in Assorted Thoughts

2010-11-06T17:42:00.000-07:00

This week I've been thinking about several random art historical facts and ideas. Several of you might have seen some of these links on my Twitter feed, but I wanted to flesh out a few ideas here:

Norman Rockwell included a portrait of Grandma Moses in his painting Christmas Homecoming (1948, see right). You can see Moses on the left side of a painting, wearing an old-fashioned dress. The two artists were friends who lived relatively close to each other at one time. (In fact, you can read parts of a story about Norman Rockwell at Grandma Moses' surprise 88th birthday party here.)
I really don't know that much about Grandma Moses. She never was discussed in any of my art history classes, but I didn't focus on American art from the 20th century. But could she have been excluded from courses and textbooks because she is a folk artist? Out of curiosity, have any Americanists studied Grandma Moses' work in an academic setting?
I was surprised to learn that Johann Winckelmann, one of the early scholars of art history, was murdered in 1768. He was fifty years old. What if Winckelmann had lived a full life? I wonder if he would have retracted any of his ideas about unpainted classical sculpture, "good taste," or how Greek art has "noble simplicity."¹ (For example, scholars in the early 19th century were able to document the traces of paint on certain Greek statues after their excavation. If Winckelmann had lived longer, would he have learned this news and changed his ideas about white marble and beauty?) Maybe it's a stretch, but I like to think about how the Western canon might have been different if Winckelmann had not been murdered.
I've been reading about the Laocoön statue lately, partially because I want to know more about the theory that Michelangelo created the Laocoön (which is a rather far-fetched idea, in my opinion). I've also enjoyed looking at this annotated chronology of the statue: this piece has a pretty rich history!
A comment from a student also led to me to look at a pre-20th century restoration of the Laocoön statue. This restoration depicts the arm of the priest as being fully-extended. (The restored arm (now lost) was the work of Renaissance artist Bandio Baccinelli. For those interested, Vasari wrote a little bit about Bandio Baccinelli's work on the Laocoön here.) It appears that has been a lot of debate regarding how Laocoön originally appeared. As recently as 1989, one scholar argued that the whole composition needs to be more compact and pyramidal in order to be historically accurate.²

How was your week? Were your art historical thoughts as assorted as mine?

1 Johann Joachim Winckelmann, "Reflections on the Imitation of Greek Works in Painting and Sculpture," in The Art of Art History: A Critical Anthology by Donald Preziosi, ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 31-39. For an interesting critique on Winckelmann's theories, see also Kenneth Lapatin, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Materials: Toward a Historiography of Greek Minor (?) Arts," from Ancient Art and its Historiography by A. A. Donohue, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 69-91.

2 Seymor Howard, "Laocoon Rerestored," in American Journal of Archaeology 93, no. 3 (July 1989): 417-422.

Art History Bloggers as "Les Indépendents"

2010-11-02T09:17:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about art history blogging lately, partially because I got to read so many art history posts for this month's issue of the Art History Carnival. Really, though, I've been thinking about blogging ever since reading Alexandra Korey's interview on Three Pipe Problem. Alex discusses how blogging can be seen as a waste of time and a "not serious" endeavor in the eyes of other academics. I can see how one could have this perspective, especially for those who are in tenure-track positions who feel the pressure to "publish [in print] or perish." (Although one begs the question: isn't print perishing?)

As I've been mulling over these thoughts, I've begun to see some parallels between art history bloggers and the French avant-garde artists of the 19th century. Art history bloggers have decided to showcase their work in a forum different from the traditional publishing method in academia (i.e. print journals or academic textbooks). Really, one could argue that we have set up our own "Salon des Indépendents" online, similar to what 19th century artists did to break away from the artistic salon established by the Academy.

We could even make further parallels between blogging and 19th century art (particularly Impressionism). Since (most) blog posts are very short and succinct in nature, they differ from the fleshed-out topics that are examined in academic print. The physical size of blogging posts can be compared with the canvases that some Impressionists used. For example, Monet was interested in non-standard canvas shapes (such as the square), which were rarely used outside of avant-garde circles.¹

The informal writing style of blogs can parallel the choppy, short brushstrokes of Impressionist painters like Monet (see Impression: Sunrise, 1872 above). Maybe that's why our work seems less appealing to those in academia: blogs seem unfinished and unrefined (perhaps just a mere impression of scholarship?). I also think that an informal writing style could compare with the color schemes found in some Impressionist paintings: lighter, pastel colors could be interpreted as less formal (or weighty) than rich, saturated colors.

We can even draw parallels between plein air painting and blogging in a virtual world. In both instances, the artist/writer needs to be immersed in a specific type of environment.

So, what am I saying? Am I predicting that blogging is going to rise up as an avant-garde movement to overthrow the academic publishing convention? Hardly. I don't feel like I can be that prophetic. But it is interesting to think about how art history often values the "underdog" movements in retrospect. Even though the Indépendents/Impressionists were mocked at the time, they ended up being an extremely influential and important art movement over the course of history. And I think it's safe to say that we, as bloggers, are also involved in a really great thing.

1 Anthea Callen, The Art of Impressionism: Painting Technique & The Making of Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 21. Available online here.

November Issue of the Art History Carnival

2010-11-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the November issue of the Art History Carnival! Thanks to everyone who submitted and nominated entries for this issue. I enjoyed reviewing the wide variety of the posts; I would encourage people to keep submitting material, even if their post/nomination was not selected for this issue. Thanks again for letting me host this month, Margaret!

Architecture
Helen Webberly from Art and Architecture, Mainly has done a very interesting post on the Vasari Corridor in Florence: "The Real Ponte Vecchio in Florence."

Zsombor Jékely from Medieval Hungary writes about "Hungarians in the Crusader Castle of Margat." This post also would have been appropriate under the "Art" category, since Jékely discusses the Western 12th century frescoes discovered at the castle chapel.

Art
Heather Carroll from The Duchess of Devonshire's Gossip Guide to the 18th Century discusses the story of a stolen Gainsborough portrait of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire: "The Obsession Causing Portrait."

H Niyazi from Three Pipe Problem suggests a new interpretation for an early Caravaggio painting: "Caravaggio's 'Boy Bitten By a Lizard'"

Susan Benford from Famous Paintings Reviewed: An Art History Blog discusses what she finds appealing in the portrait of Juan de Pareja by Velazquez: "Famous Paintings - Juan de Pareja"

Frank DeStefano from Giorgione et al... gives an interesting discussion on the pentimenti (underpainting) in Giorgione's Tempest: "Tempesta Pentimenti"

Hermes from Pre Raphaelite Art discusses the subject and mythology of the figure Flora in Waterhouse's art: "John William Waterhouse: Flora"

Theory and Criticism
David Byron from Baroque Potion explores themes of viewer experience and physical immersion in art and architecture, using Western and non-Western examples: "Immersion"

Danielle Hurd from The Canon asks questions regarding the reception and role of criticism in the art world: "Dishing it out (art criticism, that is)..."

Museums and Exhibitions
David Packwood from Art History Today explores the role of connoisseurship in the creation of public exhibitions and museum spaces: "Connoisseurship and the Public Eye"

Paul Doolan at Think Shop writes a fun review of a current exhibition at the Beyeler Foundation Museum: "The Beyeler Exhibition: Vienna 1900 - Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele and Their Time"

Congratulations to all who were selected for this issue. For next month's carnival, look for forthcoming information on The Earthly Paradise.

A Halloween Medusa

2010-10-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

Since Halloween is here, I wanted to highlight a creepy painting to delight (and horrify!) my readers. If you think that Peter Paul Rubens only painted rosy-faced saints and voluptuous women, think again. A few weeks ago I came across Ruben's painting Head of Medusa (c. 1617, shown above). This is the creepiest painting by Rubens that I have ever seen. Medusa's dead eyes stare into the distance, while her snakelike hair continues to writhe and squirm. Eek!

Actually, I am reminded of one other Rubens painting which includes some similarly dark subject matter. Miracle of St. Ignatius Loyola (c. 1617, about the same time as the Medusa painting) also has wide-eyed demons writhing in the background. In fact, the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna (which owns both paintings) suggested that there are some stylistic comparisons between the demons and Medusa.

It is thought that when making the Head of Medusa, Rubens was influenced by Italian masters like Caravaggio (who had painted the same subject matter in 1598-99). I tend to agree with the argument that Rubens made this painting for a connoisseur (and perhaps collector) of both paintings and natural objects. Rubens certainly pays keen attention to the various types of snakes, bugs, and creepy-crawly things.

Do you know of any other "dark" works by Rubens? These are the only two of which I am aware, but there may be more out there.

Have a Happy Halloween! (If you haven't submitted a post for the upcoming art history carnival, please send me one today!)

Why Don't I Like New "Masterpiece" Discoveries?

2010-10-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

My friend heidenkind recently brought my attention to this article, which asserts that The Education of the Virgin (17th century, shown right), a painting discovered in the basement of Yale Art Gallery, is not by Velasquez (as was thought earlier this year). I have to admit, I was pretty pleased that the painting was unattributed to Velasquez. Is that strange? I would assume that most people are thrilled when they learn that a possible new work by Velasquez, da Vinci, Michelangelo, etc., has been discovered. And I rarely (if ever) feel thrilled about such news - particularly if the work has immediately been attributed to a great master. Instead, I get pleased when the painting is demoted from any "great master" status.

Lately I've been trying to figure out why I feel this way. Some of you may remember me earlier post along these lines, in which I discussed my skepticism on the plethora of new discoveries. I haven't quite pinpointed all of the reasons for my skepticism/hesitation regarding new discoveries, but I thought that writing this post might help me to organize my thoughts. I think that I mostly resist hasty attributions to great masters because I know a little bit about the politics behind art attribution - it's tempting for a connoisseur to attribute a painting to a great master, since such an attribution would help further the publicity and career of that connoisseur. I'm particularly reminded of Abraham Bredius, the connoisseur who "discovered" the "Vermeer" paintings by the forger Han Van Meegeren. Bredius is lucky that he passed away soon after Van Meegeren's confession in 1945.

Anyhow, there are lots of other motivations for a work of art to be attributed to a great master, and most of them are financial. The owning museum, institution, or gallery will push for such an attribution, since it will be monetarily beneficial. And hey, the connoisseur could also get a nice fat check for such an attribution.

But is this political/financial reason why I don't get excited about discoveries? I also wonder if my might have something to do with the historian side of me. If there are unknown works by great masters, then this forces me (as a historian) to reshape the artist in my mind as a historical figure. And I think I resist such reshaping a little bit. Does that make sense? In some ways, I feel like I know great artists quite well, and having a new work of art means that there is some aspect to their lives and work that was hidden from me. (I guess it's kind of like the artist was doing something "behind my back.") I know, it's a little silly. Yet, at the same time, I love learning new things about artists. So maybe I experience some kind of inward struggle (i.e. the desire to learn vs. feeling deceived) when a new work of art is discovered, and that's why I shy away from such discoveries. I don't know.

Ironically, though, I rarely feel skeptical when archaeologists announce that a new work of prehistoric/ancient art was discovered or excavated. I always think, "Hey, awesome!" and move on with my life. So my skepticism (and emotional attachment?) must be somehow related to the idea that these works of art are attached to early modern "masters" (i.e. individuals). There isn't enough information about specific prehistoric/ancient artists (or even some cultures!) for me to get as defensive and protective as a historian. Instead, I almost always get excited about ancient discoveries.

So, that's what I came up with this evening: political/financial reasons and my silly protectiveness as a historian prevent me from embracing new "masterpieces." What about you? Am I the only person who is continuously skeptical? Do most people get excited about attributions and "masterpiece" discoveries? Do any other historians get protective about an artist's biography/oeuvre?

The Un-Peplos Kore

2010-10-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

Tonight I've been researching why the so-called "Peplos Kore" (c. 530 BCE, shown left) might not be wearing a peplos garment. (A "peplos" is a rectangle of cloth that is pinned at the shoulders and worn with a belt - it gives the effect that the woman is wearing a blouse. And "kore" means young woman; it is a name given to certain female statues made by the Greeks.)

This current "un-peplos" argument is based on recent reconstructions and studies of the figurine. Instead of a peplos, it is thought that the statue is wearing a long robe, cape, and an ependytes (an outer garment which is a metal-like sheath divided into regular, rectangular compartments).¹ The ependytes was an Eastern garment associated with divine power, and therefore suggests that this figurine would have represented some type of goddess, perhaps Artemis or Athena.

This argument has been solidified by the recent reconstructions of the Peplos Kore by German archaeologist Vincenz Brinkmann.² I suppose that now the problem is to try and ascertain which goddess could be depicted. The statue's missing right hand probably held some object to help ascertain her identity (like a bow for Artemis). Brinkmann favors the idea that the goddess is Artemis (although alternate theories have been presented by others).³ Anyhow, here are some possible ideas presented in reconstructions of the Peplos Kore:

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore (as Athena) by Vincenz Brinkmann, 2004

I really like the animals shown on this ependytes, but I can't tell what if a mythological narrative is depicted in the reconstruction. I kind of doubt it. But if anyone wants to have a guess at what might be depicted, you can click here to see better details of this reconstruction.

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore (as Artemis) by Vincenz Brinkmann, 2004

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore by Cambridge University; first painted in 1975, repainted in 1996

Although this last image is of an older reconstruction, I thought I would still include it. As mentioned here, this Cambridge reconstruction supports the idea that the statue represents someone who is offering a gift (which looks like an apple or pomegranate) to the gods (instead of actually representing a goddess, as argued by Brinkmann). She is shown as wearing a meniskos, an umbrella designed to protect the statue against the weather and bird droppings.

I don't know if we'll ever have a concrete idea of what this statue looked like in terms of color and the ependytes design. There just aren't enough paint samples for us to have a completely accurate reconstruction. Plus, it will be hard to know specific details unless we ever come across the kore's missing arm/hand. But it's fun to think of the how this sculpture might have appeared (and who actually was represented!).

1 Richard T. Neer, The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 119. Source available online here.

2 Ibid. You also can read an English review of Brinkmann's publication here (review by by Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway). Be sure to check out the penultimate paragraph and footnote #12 to find out more information about the Peplos Kore argument.

3 See Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway review (Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2004.08.07), footnote #12.