In our modern age, where every person is armed with a camera and computer, you’d think that we would know more. How is it possible that one of the greatest American artists of the last quarter of the nineteenth century has only 24 locatable works out of 88 that were on display in her final exhibition, and potentially hundreds more she made?
Attributed to Richard W. Dodson, American (1812 – 1867) FULL PRACTICE, dated 1867. Depicting a barn with six ratters. London; Published October 1867. By R. Dodson 147 strand. 50 cm x 67 cm.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847 – 1906) was born to Quakers in Philadelphia, PA. Her father, Richard Whatcoat Dodson, was an illustrator, who believed that women should not work as artists, and therefore refused to teach his daughter. She waited five years after his death to enter the Pennsylvania Academy of Art. Soon Dodson was living in Paris, her works regularly shown in the competitive Paris Salon. Despite suffering from what is regularly described in contemporary literature as “fragility,” which inhibited her ability to paint for long stretches, Dodson travelled extensively and completed major commissions for public and private collections. Her work was the centerpiece of the American galleries the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889 (i.e. the same event that gave Paris the Eiffel Tower). And, Dodson was subsequently asked to paint the monumental murals for the Palace of Fine Arts and the Women’s Building at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. When she died in 1906, Dodson’s brother Richard — my hero, albeit a tragic one — spent the rest of his life holding exhibitions in Paris, Berlin, London, Philadelphia, and New York to promote her work. His efforts were largely unsuccessful, probably resulting from a combination of the First World War and subsequent seismic shifts in art taste. So, Richard donated some of Dodson’s more important canvases to major American museums, where only one is on public display. The location of the vast majority of Dodson’s oeuvre is still unknown, unlocated, and forgotten. Two years ago, in a minor East Coast auction, I discovered and funded the restoration of her work Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1888). (More on that later.) Ever since, I have gathered more information on Dodson’s meteoric career and the whereabouts of known works. In sharing what I have learned, perhaps more will be discovered, dusted off, and put on display.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (Undated). Photograph, reproduced from Catalogue of the Exhibition of Paintings by Sarah Ball Dodson (New York, 1911)
Less than five years after enrolling in arts school, Dodson was exhibiting at the Paris Salon. She began studies as private student of Christian Schussele (French/American, 1824-1879) at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Today, Schussele is best known as the design of the United States Medal of Honor. Dodson began working with Schussele just as he was diagnosed with a debilitating illness. Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) would fill in for Schussele when the latter was too weak to tutor Dodson.
From Pennsylvania, Dodson moved to Paris, where she studied privately with the monumental history painter Évariste Vital Luminais (French, 1821 – 1896), who appears to have been a friend of her mentor Schussele. Dodson then matriculates at the Académie Julian, which was distinct for allowing women to study with world-class artists, even as the official École des Beaux Arts did not. She became close with Jules Joseph Lefebvre (French, 1835 – 19111) and the less remembered Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel (French, 1851 – 1913).
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 18847 – 1906) L’Amour Ménétrier (also titled Pupils of Love or Cupid, the Fiddler), 1877. Private Collection.
Dodson’s first publicly-exhibited work was L’Amour Ménétrier (1877) in the Paris Salon of 1877 as “Number 724” of 3,554 paintings shown in the Salon. The work was unusually ambitious for a woman of the era. Typically, women were relegated to the non-figurative sections of the Salon, specializing in still lifes, animalier, and floral works. Dodson was among the and influx of women graduating from the Academie Julian who pushed the expected limits placed upon them by custom and bias.
The painting as subsequently sent to Philadelphia for an exhibition where a local critic, Edward Strahan, wrote:
“What could be more unexpected than that a quiet lady of the Quaker City, imprisoned during early life in the straitest-laced tradition, should suddenly bloom-out, after a short resident in Paris, into a full-blown Louis Quinze spirit, fit to decorate with Boucher-like cupids the bedstead carved by [Charles] Boule!…” (Edward Strahan, The Art Gallery — Exhibition of the Philadelphia Society of Artists,” Art Amateur, Vol. IV (December 1880), 5.
The next known work from Dodson was similarly ambitious and multi-figural: The Invocation of Moses (c. 1882). It is inspired by a dramatic battle described in the Book of Exodus 17, between the Children of Israel, led by Moses, and the people of Amulek. As they fight, whenever Moses hands are raised, Israel prevails. When his hand grow heavy and Moses rests, Amulek’s side progresses. Therefore, Aaron and Hur stand on either side of the Prophet to keep his hand “steady until the going down of the sun,” securing victory. Whereabout of the original painting are unknown; but, the oil study was gifted by Richard Ball — Dodson’s Brother — after her death.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906). Study for Invocation of Moses, ca. 1882. Oil on canvas, 13 3/4 × 13 3/4 in. (35 × 34.9 cm) frame: 17 × 16 1/2 × 1 1/2 in. (43.2 × 41.9 × 3.8 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of R. Ball Dodson, 25.522. (Photo: Brooklyn Museum)
The following year, Dodson was 43 years old, and created her breakthrough work: The Bacidae (1883). In subject and style, it was a departure from previous known works. “Bacidae” is plural the historical bacis or bakis: female prophets and oracles who, from 700 to 500 BCE, were central to Greek life. People would make offerings to the bacidae, who would consult the entrails of animals and stars to dispense predictions, wisdom, and cures.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) The Bacidae, 1883. Oil on canvas. 79 x 63 in. Newfields Collections, Indianapolis Museum of Art.
Dodson shows the Elder bacis sitting on a marble throne with a younger apprentice alongside. On the the trípous — a ritual three-legged stool — is a freshly disemboweled, upturned bird. As the senior bacis voices the interpretation of what she sees, the younger dramatically recoils.
This is a tour de force of figurative competence by Dodson, combined with a mature and dramatic interpretation of classical culture. The work placed her immediately in the upper echelons of academic artists of her time, including Jean-Paul Laurens and William Adolphe Bouguereau. It was first shown at the Paris Salon of 1883, then was sent to New York, where Dodson became a major draw at the 1884 Annual National Academy of Design Competition. (Charles M. Kurtz. “National Academy Notes.” New York: 1884, 82.)
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson. The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885) Oil on canvas. Location Unknown.
As her star rose, in Europe there were increasing demands for Dodson to return to the US. The recent Centennial led Dodson to paint the monumental The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885). The finished work was more than 10 feet long and contained 25 figures. While the work does owe some debt
John Trumbull (1756 – 1843) Declaration of Independence (1819) 12 x 18 feet. United States Capitol Building, Washington DC.
Dodson, as well as all the people viewing her painting, would have been familiar with John Trumbull’s painting of the same subject from some sixty years earlier. While Dodson does owe some debt to the composition, which she has reversed, it is clear that her image is much more dynamic; each of the figures exhibiting individuality without seeming contrived.
Dodson promised to gift the painting to Philadelphia as long as city officials agreed to hang it permanently in Independence Hall, where the event took place. This proviso caused leader to include a group of local historians who, after deliberations, rejected Dodson’s painting on grounds that not all of the 25 figures depicted were present and signed the Declaration on the same day. Deliberations continued for more than 30 years, with one letter, written by her brother six years after Dodson’s death reading:
“I presume nothing yet has been decided about the Declaration of Independence. I have seen several newspaper articles disputing the statements of the older historians that any signatures were attached on the 4th of July, but if that is the ladies sole objection the mere dropping of the date would make the picture fit the case, for signatures were attached at various dates, and in the informed manner portrayed by my sister.” (Richard Dodson, letter to J.E.D. Trask, September 18, 1911, Archives of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.)
The painting was never accepted by the city. To make matters worse, according to contemporary accounts, at some point between 1911 and 1920, the painting was damaged by fire, although it is not clear how extensively. Its current location is unknown.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906) The Morning Stars (Les Etoiles du Matin), 1887 Oil on linen canvas 23 x 30 in. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
In 1887, Dodson had sailed back across the Atlantic, this time to Brighton, England where she would live for the rest of her life. There she painted the ethereal Les Etoiles du Matin (The Morning Stars) (1887) was accepted to the Paris Salon. It appears to be something conceived for a much larger scale, and could have possibly been an early study for monumental murals made for the 1892 World’s Columbian Exposition held in Chicago.
The Woman’s Building at the World’s Columbian Exposition (Chicago,1893)
Dodson was responsible for making a now lost painting, Pax Patrieae (1891) installed as part of an architectual elements in the three-story Women’s Building. (The building was demolished only a few years later.) For the Exposition, Dodson painted the monumental Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1899), which, until recently sold at public auction, was missing for more than 100 years. In fact, the strikingly similar Under the Weeping Ash Tree (1900) painted the year after, was often misidentified as the work shown in the Columbian Exposition.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906), under the weeping ash tree, 1900. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) Meditation of the Holy Virgin, 1889. Oil on canvas. 67 x 45 in. Anthony’s Fine Art, Salt Lake City.
At some point in the 1880s, Dodson travelled to Italy. These two virginal painting, for me at least, are clear evidence of her encounters with Italian Quattrocento artists, especially Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516).
Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516) Madonna and Child (1510) 33 3/8 x 45 1/8 in. Pinacoteca di Brera.
In some writings about Dodson, there is discussion of her becoming a Pre-Raphaelite artist. That infers Dodson had some relationship with Jean Everett Millet, William Holman Hunt, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, et al. But, I was unable to find any meaningful personal connection between these artists. I don’t believe Dodson knew them. If anything, they all share a desire for an alternative visual language the pre-dated the compositional spatial formulas established by Raphael and subsequently built upon by the European academy. Here Dodson channels Bellini, centering the beautifully and naturalistically painted figure in a surreal, unrealistic, and symbolic setting.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847–1906) Le Berceau (The Cradle), 1900-1906. Oil on canvas. 46 1/4 x 29 1/8 in. Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
Dodson’s work at the World’s Fair was a critical success; but, it came with severe physical costs. Over the next 17 years, she remained in Brighton, England. Contemporary visitors to her studio report that Dodson would paint for a few minutes and, exhausted, lay down for several hours in order to recover strength. All her life, she had been described as “fragile” or “weak.” So, it was no surprise to many when she died in 1906 of what one doctor described as heart failure at the age of 69.
For the final years of her life, Dodson had been working on a monumental painting, Le Berceau (1900-1906) left unfinished in her studio, of angels preparing for the return of Jesus Christ.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson, Wild Parsley, 1900, oil on canvas, 14 1?8 x 18 in. (35.9 x 45.6 cm.), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Richard Ball Dodson, 1923.8.2
Following her death, Dodson’s brother Richard organized a series of exhibitions in Brighton, London, Philadelphia, and New York, the latter with the help of the influential Goupil Gallery, for which a catalogue was produced. (You can read the full text here.) It lists some 88 works, including a large number of landscapes, which are beautiful, evocative works that seem to borrow from the same kind combination of observed naturalism and invented symbolist atmosphere. These landscapes seems to have been the most successful sales at the exhibitions, leaving Richard with a large number of important figurative works. These he eventually gave away to institutions throughout the United States. Today, only 24 of those 88 are known.
I bit off more than I could possibly chew. A few months ago, I was asked the Portrait Society of America to do an onstage interview with Jeff Hein, my long-time friend, world-renowned painter, and host of the podcast The Undraped Artist. It was essentially an in-person version of the podcast, which usually features interviews with living, breathing artists. Over the past few years, Jeff has had me on regularly to discuss the dead, historic ones. The result if a free-wheeling combination of contemporary artistic practices and my limited art historical knowledge. (Usually, I don’t embarrass myself too much, sticking to artistic practices to what is definitely known; avoiding speculation.) We wanted to do something different for the Portrait Society. So, I proposed doing a survey of Portraiture from Raphael to Joaquín Sorolla. We only had an hour, for a discussion that could be turned into a multi-day event. But, it went fairly well. You can watch the discussion on the Portrait Society website. (It is behind a pay wall.)
Jeff and I decided to expand that hour into a longer discussion, and post it as a two-part episode for his podcast. This is part one, going from Domenico Ghirlandaio (1448 – 1494) to the Grand-Tour portraiture of Pompeo Batoni (1708 – 1787). Warning: this is not a super scholarly discussion. Think of it more like a conversation between two art-loving friends.
It includes topics like: the introduction of oil painting, the adoption of canvas in addition to panels as supports, Royal portraiture, Dutch tronies, the invention of new pigments, and Grand-Tour portraiture. It is a lot to cover. Part two will come in a couple of weeks. And, in the meantime, I am seriously considering making this a more scholarly project.
Each year since 1924, the Springville Museum of Art (Springville, Utah) has hosted a contemporary art competition called the Spring Salon. Artists from around the country, including John Carlsen, Norman Rockwell, Emile Gruppe, and Maynard Dixon have participated. The contest still receives submissions from all over; but, the majority are from the unusually artistically dense Intermountain West (i.e. Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, and Arizona). There is no barrier to entry. Everything submitted — regardless of medium, style, size, or subject — is considered by (usually) two professionals, usually taken from different disciplines. (This year, the judges were the art administrator and scholar Felicia Baca, currently serving as the Executive Director of the Salt Lake City Arts Council, and Bryan Mark Taylor, the world-renown painter and inventor.) The result is one of the most consistently dynamic contests I have seen anywhere.
What follows is not an exhaustive review of the Spring Salon. (That would be a monumental task.) Instead, I have eight works which stayed with me well after leaving the Museum.
Eric Overton (Utah, 1980) The Steward (2026) Bronze.
Eric Overton’s The Steward (2026) was commissioned for a Northern California vineyard to honor the contributions of Mexican-American farmworkers. Overton came to sculpture as a physician and photographer, which speaks to his understanding of anatomy. The downward gaze and obscuring hat create an anonymity that make this figure an effective everyman. It is reminiscent of Paul Dalou’s Grand Paysan (c. 1899), even down to the gesture of the rolled up sleeve. Despite the similarities, Overton has created something original in its stance and gesture that conjure a sense of strength that made the sculpture feel almost monumental in scale, despite being less than three feet high. More than that, it projects a dignity and humanity that is a true honor to its subject.
Azalea Rees works in a dizzying array of media. This diminutive self portrait — the product of what must have been countless hours of embroidery — is unlike anything I have ever seen. It transforms the medium into something new and expressive.
Cristall Harper (1978) Pure Joy (2023) Oil on panel.
In seventeenth-century Holland, a group of artists known as a the Haarlem Tonalists dedicated themselves to painting their native, overcast landscape in a palette of colors so restricted that sometimes their works only had two or their colors. Consistently one of the greatest magicians of oil painting I know, here Cristall Harper takes her formidable arsenal of skills to a level that could rival Jan van Goyen. Whereas van Goyen works were limited to value transitions on (mostly) a single plane, Harper has established a deep field of vision with the subtlest control of stroke, value, and saturation. Wow.
Leroy Transfield (New Zealand, 1965) Washer Woman (2026) Gilt bronze.
Leroy Transfield has been one of the most consistently surprising sculptors in a region saturated with them. Classically trained, Transfield retains in his sculptures a discipline of anatomy and gravity that cannot be attained without deep knowledge of the human form. Yet, his composition and gesture are never staid, but always fresh and tailored to the narrative of his work, which he details here:
“When I was a boy growing up in New Zealand, my mum and every other household hung their washing on a line. This simple task of hanging out clothes to be dried and cleaned is a banner of every mothers’ hope for her family.” —Leroy Transfield
Colby A. Sanford (1991) Finding the Way Around (2025) Acrylic on panel.
My photo of Finding the Way Around (2025) by Colby Sanford does little communicate the monumental scale of this three-panel work. Years ago, I remember a professor of mine distinguishing German and Italian opera by saying “One is about the battles between gods and men, the other is about everyday life — both about the epic struggles of good and evil.” Over the years, Sanford has become increasingly ambitious in mining his personal life to make beautiful, heroic images of everyday life. Despite the intensely personal nature of his works, Sanford’s images feel universal.
Howard Lyon (Arizona, 1973) Zephyr, Flirting with Flora (2025) Oil on linen.
Howard Lyon is one of the few regional artists with a truly international reputation. That career has been made of many kinds of genres, including photography, illustration, fantasy, and religious painting; but always informed his study of Old Masters. A few years, ago Howard Lyon won the Salon’s top prize for his remarkable painting After the Dance. That painting seemed to trigger a new direction, where Lyon is making increasingly sophisticated works that are based in mythology and draw on the aesthetics of artists like Frederic Leighton, Albert Moore, Lawrence Alma-Tadema, and John William Waterhouse. This work, Zephyr Flirting with Flora (2025) is catnip for an art historian like me. A painting of the God of the West Wind playfully tossing about the clothing of the Goddess of Flowers
David Koch (1963) Marsh Fire (2025) Oil on panel.
For me, this small painting hung at waist level down a Museum hall, is one of the great revelations of the entire contest. (I’m not throwing shade on the Museum, which has the herculean task of hanging hundreds of artists’ works and attempting to make all of them happy; an impossible task.) In 2007 the economics scholar David Galenson published the book Old Masters and Young Geniuses, where he theorized that artists fall into two general categories: those who spend a lifetime developing a mature and effective skillset and young innovators that often hit on a new approaches that, despite their inexperience, have lasting effects on art. (Personally, I think that there are plenty of artists that can be both young and skilled, and mature and innovative.) I mention this because contests tend to celebrate “the new” and not always recognize the iterative, long-term accomplishments of experienced artists whose work we are accustomed to see. David Koch is a perennial participant and multiple award winner of the Spring Salon. This work shows Koch’s skills honed to an extraordinary level: the application of paint conjuring both the ever-changing water’s surface and a series of diagonals that draw the eye from the bottom left to to the setting sun, the very limited palette that nevertheless creates a beautiful contrast of light effects, and the overall balance of abstraction and naturalism…I am in love with this work. In a region teeming with world-class landscape painters, David Koch is one of the great and consistent masters.
Casey L. Childs (Wyoming, 1974) Young Padawan (2026) Oil and gold on linen.
Who else, other than Casey Childs, could take a parent’s nightmare of children on screens and turn it into a hallowed moment?! Of the painting, he wrote:
“The title Young Padawan, inspired by Star Wards, frames this moment as part of a larger idea of learning and becoming. Like a student training in the ways of the Force, he is focused, curious, and completed immersed. The gold patterns surrounding him echo a sense of reverence elevating this everyday experience into something timeless.” —Casey Childs
Part of what makes this work special, is a the raised surface of the work that reflects the light in unpredictable ways. Personally, I would love to see this work hung like an icon and lit by flickering candlelight.
It is this kind of inventiveness, meaningful insight, and sensitive observation, which go beyond just painting what is in front of the artist, that has made Casey Childs one of the world’s most admired portrait painters.
Last month, I was asked by Elaine & Peter Adams of the California Art Club to speak to a group — largely made up of artists and art historians — about Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida (Valencia, 1863 – Madrid, 1921). Sorolla has long been admired by traditional artists for his remarkable skills. A large portion of my Masters thesis and Doctoral dissertation were about how Sorolla was trained in those skills.
The year 2021 marked the 100th anniversary of Sorolla’s death, which was celebrated by around 45 exhibitions in at least four countries. I was able to see 38 of those exhibitions, and hope to include my experiences in a forthcoming book. (Stay tuned.) In the meantime, I used this lecture to talk briefly about some of my conclusions.
It has been nearly 10 years since my last post. I don’t know if anyone reads blogs anymore—or cares what I think. (Is this a koan-like version of a tree falling in the forest?) What I do know is this: I miss having an outlet to share thoughts about art. So whether this becomes a regular practice again or just a place for occasional, self-indulgent reflections, I’m dusting off the ancient Bearded Roman blog.
Maybe I should start with where I’ve been. It has been a busy decade. Here are ten highlights, in terms of art:
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz (Spanish, 1848-1921) Juana la Loca (1878) Oil on canvas. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
1. In 2016, I completed my PhD at the University of London. My 100,000-plus-word, 414-page dissertation—Madrid, Paris, Rome: Spanish History Painting from 1856 to 1897—explores how French academic training intersected with Spanish and Italian models in the instruction, creation, and exhibition of art. (If your sleep medication isn’t working, it’s a solid substitute.) The research took me to more than 40 archives, dozens of museums, and on repeated trips to Spain, France, and Italy. It also resulted in three cases of pneumonia, four bladder infections, and two bouts of shingles. Let no one say, “He didn’t suffer for his art.”
Salt Lake Art Museum, Housed in the Historic B’nai Israel Temple, Opening July 2026.
2. This year, I am founding the Salt Lake Museum of Art. It is not what most would expect from me—no European painting, sculpture, or decorative arts, which have long defined my scholarly and gallery work. Instead, it is a love letter to where I live. Utah has more contemporary artists per capita than any other state in the Union—and among the fewest museums, second only to West Virginia. As a result, many local artists are better known elsewhere than at home. We hope to change that. The museum will feature not only Utah artists, but also significant figures who worked in the region. One of our first exhibitions is the first-ever show of Utah paintings by Albert Bierstadt. I’ve written the catalogue and will share more soon.
3. I co-authored the Dictionary of Utah Fine Artists with Vern Swanson, Donna Poulton, and Angela Swanson-Jones. It includes roughly 4,000 artist biographies, about 800 of which I wrote.
4. I have been a regular guest on Jeff Hein’s Undraped Artist Podcast. Hein—one of the world’s leading figurative painters and a good friend—and I meet about once a month to discuss a historic artist, usually of my choosing. We also record an annual Christmas episode.
5. Alongside Spanish, I have added French to my working languages, opening far more primary sources without translation. Much of this is thanks to ongoing conversations with the brilliant linguist, traveler, and native Breton, Anthony Lollierou.
From left to right: Former Springville Museum Director Rita Wright, Current Director Emily Larsen, Me, & Former Director Vern Swanson.
6. I concluded a thirteen-year board tenure with the Springville Museum of Art. Located about an hour south of the State’s capital, it is home to one of the most — no exaggeration — vibrant arts communities in the world. I am now a board member of the California Art Club, one of the country’s oldest artist-run organizations, for whom I occasionally write and lecture.
7. Over the past decade, I have become a regular juror for several competitions, including the California Art Club Gold Medal Competition and the Almenara Prize.
8. In 2016, I co-founded the Zion Arts Society, a nonprofit, with my friend Eric Biggart. For three years, we produced the Zion Art Podcast and organized more than a dozen exhibitions featuring hundreds of emerging local artists. We paused just before the COVID-19 pandemic, but it appears another friend, Boad Swanson, may revive the effort for a new generation.
Interior of Anthony’s Fine Art & Antiques, Salt Lake City, UT.
9. I am now a partner at Anthony’s Fine Art, a 40-year family-run gallery. The role has me traveling frequently across the United States and Europe to acquire historic works from collections and auctions. I spend roughly half my time viewing thousands of works each week. This has built a growing internal visual database that continues to shape how I see both historical and contemporary art—formally and as an investment.
My children waiting with varying levels of patience for me to finish touring the Bargello in Florence.
10. Over the past decade, I have visited more than 100 museums, seen hundreds of exhibitions, and read extensively in art history and theory. The result: creaking shelves and nearly 100,000 images in my Apple Photos—most still unshared.
In short, I am more aware than ever of how little I know.
That awareness has made me less inclined to offer definitive opinions. I now look back with some embarrassment at earlier posts—some of which I have removed entirely. Chalk it up to the confidence of youth, when opinion outpaced experience. Today, I remain keenly aware of my limitations, but I still intend to use this space to think through ideas that arise in ongoing conversations with artists.
Despite my long absence, people still ask about the blog, which surprises me. I was recently a faculty member at the Portrait Society of America’s Annual Conference, where several artists mentioned it. What surprised me more was hearing from two artists in their 20s who had been reading the archives. When I logged in for the first time in a decade, I found that Bearded Roman still receives around 600 visits a day.
So whether you’re new to these ramblings or an old friend, thank you—for being here, and for your patience.
The term “post-narrative painting” was coined by Susan Siegfried in her landmark book Ingres: Painting Reimagined. At a time when Neoclassical depictions of virtuous actions — popularized by his teacher Jacques-Louis David — dominated French art, Ingres created works that confounded and frustrated the public by “abandoning physical action as a basis of heroism.”1
In this week’s discussion, we use Siegfried’s writing as an approach to understanding the unusual development and career of Jean-August-Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867). As you can tell from the recording, I was just overcoming a nasty flu and nearly lost my voice by the end. (Sorry.) Enjoy.
Unlike his competitors, Théodore Géricault (French, 1791-1824) was not a product of the École des Beaux-Arts. Géricault had less than three years of formal education. As a result, he was unfettered from the Neoclassical aesthetics that dominated the French Academy and public tastes. This lack of formal education had is consequences. Even well into his career, Géricault struggled to confidently master composition and the human figure.
In this week’s discussion, we discussed the development and short career of Géricault. His dramatic and controversial paintings provided an alternative to Neoclassicism, influencing artists for generations.
Attempting to summarize David’s career in 90 minutes is futile. Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825) is one of the most discussed artists in history. His approach to Neoclassicism affected generations of artists. Combining his revolutionary artistry and political activities, makes David a perpetual well of interpretation and intrigue.
As part of an ongoing weekly discussions with contemporary artists, I explored the career of Antonio Canova (Italian, 1747-1822). Today, Canova is considered a major proponent of Neoclassicism. But, for contemporaries, Canova’s interpretations of the antique works were often at odds with predominant theories. We explore major works by Canova and how they were received by his critics, for better and worse.
Note: Each week I hold a discussion with a group of professional artists on the development and career of a major artist. I post a video recording of each discussion. This week’s artist, Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, prompted an unusual amount of controversy. After reflecting on the thoughtful comments made by those who attended, I have decided to write a little reaction of my own here. The video can be found at the end of this post.
“The last Old Master and the first Modern painter” is an oft-repeated phrase used to describe Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828). It captures the un-categorizable nature of Goya’s nearly seven-decades oeuvre, and hints at both his appreciation for the past and influence on those who came after. This week, I led two discussion on the development and career of the Spanish painter. Each gathering was heavily attended by professional artists, mostly traditionalists. I was surprised by the resistance experienced in comments and questions about Goya’s ability to paint.
For that reason, before posting video of the discussion, I would like to write a few words. First, to Modernists, who see Goya almost exclusively as a anti-traditionalist. And, secondly to traditionalists who are often unable to appreciate Goya’s remarkable craftsmanship. He does not belong solely to one team.
A few words about Goya for Modernists
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) San Juan Bautista niño (1812) Oil on canvas. 112 x 82 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
In a 1921 essay titled “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” the poet TS Eliot, railed against the predominant spirit of his time, which he believed, saw originality as the highest value. Eliot did not see originality as innovation. In fact, he believed that innovation was dependent upon a solid understanding and appreciation of tradition:
We dwell with satisfaction upon the [artist’s] difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity. 2
Those who lionize Goya as having broken with tradition often ignore his portraits, religious and historical paintings and, instead, latch on to his experimental and private work, such as the so-called “Black Paintings” or etchings from the Disasters of War. While it is true that these works were revolutionary, they were also not usually intended for public consumption. Goya’s Black Paintings were made for the dining room in his private residence. And, the Disasters of War were not printed until some 35 years after his death. In other words, the artworks that we often see exclusively as representing Goya in art-history materials and courses were not the ones he was best known for in his own lifetime. I am not attempting to diminish the remarkable departure his experimental oeuvre represented at the time or their subsequent influence on artists. Looking only at his experimental works, Goya seems like a man out of time, almost completely divorced from the aesthetics of his time, which is not accurate.
A few words about Goya for Traditionalists
I have come to the conclusion that most artists interested in the classical tradition see Goya as unworthy of study. It is my belief this is not so much about whether or not his work is wanting. Goya is often excluded from the traditionalist lexicon because he was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Hannibal the Conqueror Viewing Italy from the Alps for the First Time (1770-1771) Oil on canvas, 87 x 131.5 cm. Selgas-Fagalde Foundation, Cudillero, Spain
It is true that Goya’s influenced generations of artists seeking alternatives to Academic painting, most notably Gustave Courbet and Eduoard Manet. Yet, it is also true that over Goya’s nearly seven-decade career there were works, even very late in his career (e.g. The Spanish Consittution) that were traditional. As a young man, he worked alongside Anton Rafael Mengs. Under the German painter’s encouragement, Goya made a series of copper-plate etchings of works by Velázquez. Goya then went on to Italy on a kind of private prix de Rome, where he copied Greco-Roman statuary and produced an ambitious, large-scale history painting depicting Hannibal crossing the Alps.
Detail, Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Duke of Wellington (1812-1814) 25 1/3 x 20 1/2 in. Oil on panel. National Gallery, London.
In his portraiture, Goya could have hardly picked less polemical models to emulate:
“I have three masters: Nature, Velázquez, and Rembrandt.”
These are not the words of a anti-traditional revolutionary. Yet, it is my belief Goya has been treated lightly by traditionalists not necessarily because of his own work; but, because the Spanish artist was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Goya’s timeline roughly parallels that of Jacques Louis David, David had established a strong, Neoclassical vision of art that dominated the French Academy and beyond. During the 1790s, while Goya was Professor of Painting at the Academia de San Fernando (Madrid), the taste for Neoclassicism led to heated debates on whether or not students in Spain should be held to new standards in terms of draughtsmanship and substitute their various Old-Master study materials — including artworks by Spanish, Flemish, and French artists — with those by Italian artists that more closely aligned with Neoclassical ideals, such as Raphael and Guercino. We have notes from the meeting where Goya stated his case for replacing pluralism with a nearly uniform style:
Finally, Sir, I cannot find another, more effective method for advancing the Arts, neither do I believe it exists, than to award and protect … the full liberty for genius to flow from those students of Art who want to learn [their instincts], without suppression, and without efforts to bend their inclination toward this or that style in Painting … 3
He was one of four professors at the Academia de Bellas Artes that voted, unsuccessfully, against the Neoclassicization of the Spanish Academy.
Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828) Witches’ Flight (1797-98) 43.5 x 30.5 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
Does this mean Goya was “anti-academic”? I don’t believe so. In fact, I believe that Goya was attempting to preserve the Academy against itself. The strict adherence to towards Neoclassical dogma — one that arguably denied the Naturalism of Hellenistic sculpture — in European academies throughout the nineteenth century led to many schisms and misunderstandings about the nature of the Classical tradition.
If you are traditionalist or a portrait painter, I encourage you to look at Goya’s portraits. Last year, the National Gallery of London hosted the largest gathering of Goya’s portraits ever assembled in one place. It was astounding. I discuss is at length in the above video. (Skip ahead if you must).
Casado’s prescription for coming to terms with Goya
In 1882, the painter José Casado del Alisal was elected to the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando the same school where Goya had taught nearly 100 years earlier. On that occasion, Casado attempted to describe to his colleagues — many of whom were still riding the anti-Goya wave of Neoclassicism and Neoplatonism — the value of Goya and his place within the pantheon of Spanish art:
Such a painter, so personal and impossible to copy, with his confident magnificence, with his strange and sublime eccentricities. He cannot have imitators, neither was he able to found a School. His genius was consummated with him …4
It is my hope that those who are anti-traditional can look at the entirety of Goya’s career and see where the Spanish artist subsumed and projected the traditions he inherited. Equally, I hope that Goya is welcomed with open arms by traditionalists, who may be surprised that they have unfairly ignored or marginalized a great master.
