Forgotten Master: Fanny Fleury (French, 1848-1920)

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Woman Reading (n.d.) 24 1/4 X 17 1/8 in. Oil on canvas. Private collection.

With art historians earnestly looking for prominent female artists, it is surprising that so little is written about Fanny Fleury (French, 1848-1920). With the exception of Rosa Bonheur (French, 1822-1899), Fleury was perhaps the most successful female exhibitor in the history of the Paris Salon, having works accepted consistently from 1869 to 1882, and in many afterwards. She also exhibited at the Salons of Saint-Etienne and Dijon, and received an honorable mention at the Exposition Universelle of 1889.

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Les Enfents de Jean-Marie (n.d.) Oil on canvas. Unknown Collection. Lithograph reproduction of original.

Fleury’s academic credentials are impeccable. She studied with Jean-Jacques Henner (French, 1829-1905) and was later accepted to the École des Beaux-Arts as a student of Carolus-Duran (French, 1837-1917), where she was a classmate of John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925). (Speaking of her work at the 1884 Salon, one critic said Fleury had “equalled her masters,” Henner and Duran.)  Highly regarded by her peers, Fluery was elected an Officer of the Academie and an associate of the Société des artistes français.

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Portrait of an Unknown Woman (n.d.) 32 X 25 3/4 in. Oil on canvas. Private Collection.

Yet, for all her accomplishments in well-documented institutions and events, there is surprisingly little information currently available about the life and work of Fleury. (This is another instance where I am writing about an artists in hopes that it encourages others to contact me with additional information.)

Fleury was born outside Paris in either 1843 or 1848–most sources agree on the latter. It is possible–I stress “possible” for lack of form documentation, yet a great deal of circumstancial evidence–she is the daughter of Joseph Nicolas Robert-Fleury (French, 1797-1890), a successful history painter and on-time director of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris and Rome; and, his son, the painter Tony Robert-Fleury (French, 1837-1912), who was also successful painter and who replaced Bougeureau as the Director of the  Société des artistes français (If anyone can shed additional light, it would be greatly appreciated.) When she married, Fanny Fluery became Fanny Laurent Fleury; but, never included “Laurent” in her signature. So, whether or not there is an actual genetic connection between the three Fluerys, they must have come into contact with one another through the Acadamie.

It has been difficult to piece together a continuum of Fleury’s production with the few works and accounts left to us. It appears that for a time–presumably early in her career–she created a number of still lives.

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Still Life with Flowers (n.d.) 20 1/2 X 17 1/2 in. Oil on canvas. Private Collection

Under Carolus-Duran, Fleury distinguished herself as a portraitist. Her large-scale work Bebe dort (1884) exhibited in the Salon of 1884 along with Madame X by her classmate John Singer Sargent. Both pieces belie the the influence Corolus-Duran, who often combined monumental human figures in contemporary settings.

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Bebe dort (1884) 83 X 57 in. Oil on canvas. Anthony's Fine Art, Salt Lake City, UT

In Bebe dort (1884), a mother–perhaps a self-portrait of the artist–cradles her child, sitting together next to a cradle. Behind the figures, on the wall Fluery places a print of a business being ransacked by a mob. No one would imagine that scene actually being hung in a child’s room. It is a clever use of a picture-within-a-picture, used often by Netherlandish painters in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, to create greater or multiple meanings within a work. The juxtaposition of the two scenes contrasts security and comfort of home with a threatening world.

Fanny Fluery (French, 1848-1920) Bebe dort (1884) 83 X 57 in. Oil on canvas. Anthony's Fine Art, Salt Lake City, UT DETAIL

At some point, Fleury set aside society portraits and dedicated herself to Breton scenes. In 1892, The American Magazine wrote:

Realism has likewise tempted another artists of great talent, Mme. Fanny Fleury. It is to the desolate lands of Lower Brittany that Mmde. Fleury goes for her subjects. She has painted som admirable marine scenes, but excels in depicting types of peasantry . . . every summer she goes to the seacoast, and in some retired cornes, unfrequentd by the tourist, prepares her picture for the next Salon. (The American Magazine, Vol. 34. New York: Frank Leslie Publishing House, 1892; p, 430.)

Fanny Fleury (French, 1848-1920) Pour la Chapelle (n.d.) Oil on canvas. Private Collection. Black and white, photograph from Paris-Salon by Louis Enau

The quality of her work combined with her credentials certainly raise questions about the current dearth of readily-available information on Fleury’s life and the location of her works. All signs point to a productive career. From contemporary records, we know that her works were regularly purchased from Salon galleries, and that her works were found in various French and American museum collections–none of which currently list those works in their public inventories.

Whatever the reason for Fanny Fleury’s undeserved, forgotten status, she will only gain prominence as her works are rediscovered.

Aug 29, 2010 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master | Leave A Comment »

An unpublished work by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema

As those of you who follow my tweets (apologies for the shameless Twitter plug) know, I have been traveling for the past three weeks. I was in Spain for eleven days, France for one, and another five in California. To some it might sound like glamorous, Indiana-Jonesing; but, in reality, I spent most days underground in dusty archives looking for undiscovered, art-historical morsels and nights transcribing nineteenth-century handwriting. Along the way, I came across a number of remarkable works of art, some not seen for more than a hundred years. I plan to share some of them.

I begin with A Scene from Pompeii (1868), a previously unpublished and little-known work by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (Dutch and British, 1836-1912).

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (Dutch & British, 1836-1912) A Scene from Pompeii (1868) Oil on canvas. 130 X 360 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

This morning, I spoke with Vern Swanson, a mentor of mine and author of Alma-Tadema’s catalogue raisonné. Dr. Swanson did not include an illustration of the painting in his book–the most definitive on the subject–because A Scene from Pompeii was unavailable until recently. As one of Alma-Tadema’s most ambitious early paintings, it has been in storage at the Museo Nacional del Prado for nearly 100 years. This year A Scene from Pompeii was hung for the first time in the Prado’s new, permanent wing dedicated nineteenth-century painting and sculpture.

Alma-Tadema’s works, famous for Olympian themes that idealized a bygone empire, may seem more at place in France or Great Britain than in Spain. At the Prado, A Scene from Pompeii makes strange bedfellows with a generation of nineteenth-century Spanish artists who sometimes trained in France, but nonetheless venerated classical realists like Diego Velázquez and José de Ribera.

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (Dutch & British, 1836-1912) A Scene from Pompeii (1868) Oil on canvas. 130 X 360 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Detail.

This painting is one of only a handful of foreign nineteenth-century works in the Prado’s collection. It was donated to the short-lived, Spanish Museo de Arte Moderno in 1887 by Ernesto Gambart, then Spanish Consul to Nice (France). When the Museo de Arte Moderno was absorbed into the Prado a few years later, nearly all of the its collections, including this work by Alma-Tadema, were placed in storage where they have been ever since. Only now, under the  leadership of Javier Barón, Director of Nineteenth-Century Painting at the Prado, are these works being fully restored and finally displayed.

A Scene from Pompeii (1868) dates to a happy and prolific period in Alma-Tadema’s life. Five years earlier, he married his first wife, Marie-Pauline Gressin, in Antwerp. Their honeymoon was spent in Florence, Rome, Naples and Pompeii. For the next several years, he absorbed and transmuted his personal experience with the classical tradition into a series of paintings that quoted Greco-Roman architecture and artworks, such as a bronze reproduction of Aphrodite by the Greek sculptor Praxiteles (4th-century BC), in this work.

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (Dutch & British, 1836-1912) A Scene from Pompeii (1868) Oil on canvas. 130 X 360 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Detail.

Alma-Tadema is often remembered for his British works created after the death of his wife in 1869. These exquisitely detailed scenes sometimes feature dozens of figures painted in jewel-like colors.  However, before 1869, his works regularly exhibited the same restricted, earth-tone palette of A Scene of Pompeii. While this painting shares the trademark precision Alma-Tadema’s larger oeuvre, its composition is unusual. I am not an expert on Alma-Tadema; but, I am surprised by the Baroque proportions of the figures which, unlike other works by Alma-Tadema, fill the canvas to near capacity.

It is always a pleasure to find new works by an artist as well-known and respected as Sir Alma-Tadema. I am sure that the Prado will have more insightful and important things to say about the painting as the new nineteenth-century wing becomes more public.

Apr 01, 2010 | Classical, museums | Leave A Comment »

Two Late Bronzes by Jean Léon Gérôme: Les Rameaux & La Fuit en Egypte

(Dear Readers, I am currently on vacation and will be back and posting regularly at the end of September. Have a great summer!)

Jean Léon Gérôme (French, 1824-1904) Les Rameaux (Christ Entering Jerusalem) 82 by 64 cm. Bronze patinated with polychrome. Private colletion.

(Note: The following was written for the private collector who owns these two bronzes. I enjoyed my research so much, that I thought I would share it here, with his permission.)

At a time when Paris was the center of the art world Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) was one of France’s most decorated artists. Principally remembered as a painter, his greatest contribution may well be his work as a sculptor. The works La Fuite en Egypte and Les Rameaux were both made in 1897, near the end of Gérôme’s career and at the height of his ability.

Born on France’s east coast, Gérôme received the reluctant permission of his father, an accomplished goldsmith, to study at the country’s most prestigious art academy, the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. There he excelled under the direction of Paul Delaroche (1797-1856) and Charles Gleyre (1806-1874). Gleyre’s studio, which placed emphasis on the revival of Greek forms in art, had a lasting affect on his student’s interest in classical subjects and models. Gérôme’s own work would span Classicism, Orientalism and Realism; traces of all three can be found in his later works.

When Gleyre was appointed Director of the French Academie in Rome in 1844, Gérôme followed. There he completed his academic education through close study of Old Master and Greco-Roman works. (Gérôme traveled throughout his career to Greece, Egypt and the Holy Land.) As a result of his studies, his works bore the technical virtuosity of an academic artist combined with personal first-hand knowledge of monuments, foreign landscapes and exotic peoples. La Fuite en Egypte and Les Rameaux directly reflect his study of bedouin costume and animals observed during a visit to the Holy Land.

Jean Léon Gérôme (French, 1824-1904) La Fuit en Egypte (Flight into Egypt) 78 by 63 cm. Bronze patinated with polychrome. Private collection.

Returning to France in 1847, Gérôme enjoyed his first of many successes at the highly competitive Salon de la Société des Artistes Français. That year, the eminent French critic Theophile Gautier wrote: “Let us mark with white this lucky year, unto us a painter is born. He is called Gérôme. I tell you his name today, and tomorrow it will be celebrated.” Works by Gérôme were accepted nearly every year from 1847 to 1903. There they inspired popular novels and music. By the end of his life, Gérôme had been made a member of the Institute de France (1865), a knight in the Légion d’honneur (1867), and awarded the Order of the Red Eagle by King Wilhelm I of Prussia.

Such success merited prominent commissions from the state, as a well as a bevy of patrons, including the Empress Eugenie, who became a close friend. Today, his paintings and sculptures are found in many world’s finest museums including the Musée d’Orsay (Paris), National Gallery of Art (London), National Gallery of Art (Washington, D.C.), Hermitage (St. Petersburg), Art Institute of Chicago, and Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York).

Géróme’s high profile had academic currency. He was hired as one of three studio teachers at the prestigious École des Beaux-Arts. There Gérôme fathered a dynasty of academic painters in France and America, among them Thomas Eakins (1844-1916), Frederick Arthur Bridgman (1847-1928), Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), Pascal Dagnan Bourveret (1852-1929), William M. Paxton (1869-1941) and Julian A. Weir (1852-1919). A lifelong tutor to many, he maintained a close relationship with his students beyond their studies.

In 1889, Gérôme travelled to Florence and Padua with two students: Edouard Detaille (1848-1912) and François Flameng (1856-1923) There he studied the equestrian works of Italian Renaissance masters, including Donatello and Verrocchio. The trip was a book end to the studies he began as a young artist and had first seen the works. He later wrote to a friend about the journey:

I went to Florence . . . I had stayed there as a youth and had not returned since. What a deception! What an eye-opener! I saw crumble–I won’t say all–but almost all my youthful heroes.

Rather than arrogance, here Gérôme displayed a genuine sense of disappointment and the honest assessment that then–in his late sixties–he may have moved beyond youthful lessons and on a level with the masters. It is possible this insight led Gérôme to  look beyond standard models.

Late-nineteenth-century archeologists discovered color residues on Roman and Greek works, proving that the austere white marble we see today was, in fact, covered in bright blues, reds, greens and precious metals. Gérôme learned of the use of polychrome and incorporated them in his own works, including Les Rameaux and La Fuite en Egypte, which both bear the subtle but unmistakable use of polychrome unique to Gérôme.

The sculptures were produced during the last decade of his life, when Gérôme dramatically increased the amount of time and resources spent on his sculptures. In 1890, Gérôme hired Emile Décorchement to work as a full-time sculpting assistant. He also teamed up with the foundry of Siot-Decauville.

Established in the 1890’s, Siot-Decauville’s innovative ability to scale down large bronze models made their foundry especially attractive to Gérôme, who prided himself on fidelity to reality. The remarkable precision visible in Les Rameaux and La Fuite en Egypte were accomplished by Gérôme working with models twice the size of the finished bronzes. In this way, he was able to add details-the animals’ fur, the wilting leaves of Christ’s palm branch, and the gauzy folds of Mary’s bedouin clothing–with larger tools that would have been ineffective in smaller-scale versions.

In the late-nineteenth-century, table-top bronzes were an popular feature of tasteful interior decor. This pair of  Les Rameaux and La Fuite en Egypte were cast in the same year as Gérôme’s painting, La Fuite en Egypte, was submitted to the Salon. According to his standard studio practice, Gérôme’s sculptures, sometimes in unfinished stages, were the inspiration for paintings and vice versa. In this case, it is unknown which work was first.

Jean Léon Gérôme (French, 1824-1904) Les Rameaux (Christ Entering Jerusalem) 82 by 64 cm. Bronze patinated with polychrome. Private colletion.

Les Rameaux captures the moment Christ enters Jerusalem (Matthew 21:1-11, Mark 11:7-10; Luke 19:28-44; John 12:12-19), on what is traditionally known as Palm Sunday, hence the branch in Christ’s left hand:

5 Tell ye the daughter of Sion, Behold, thy King cometh unto thee, meek, and sitting upon an ass, and a colt the foal of an ass.

6 And the disciples went, and did as Jesus commanded them,

7 And brought the ass, and the colt, and put on them their clothes, and they set him thereon.

8 And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way.

9 And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.

10 And when he was come into Jerusalem, all the city was moved, saying, Who is this?

11 And the multitude said, This is Jesus the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.

Palm Sunday marks the beginning of Holy Week, which ends with Christ’s resurrection on Easter Sunday. Gérôme indicates the journey ahead by placing Christ on a slight incline. As he enters the gate, Christ raises his hand in a sign of blessing, often attributed to Christianity, yet believed to be derived from a bircas kohanim (Jewish priestly blessing).

The juxtaposition of Les Rameaux with La Fuite en Egypte brings attention to details otherwise imperceptible. Christ sits on a femial donkey and Mary on a mael. Christ is on an incline, Mary on unvaried, steady ground.

Jean Léon Gérôme (French, 1824-1904) La Fuit en Egypte (Flight into Egypt) 78 by 63 cm. Bronze patinated with polychrome. Private collection.

La Fuite en Egypte depicts a pensive Mary, uprooted from her home and traveling to Egypt with family in tow. According to St. Matthew:

And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.

Despite the tumult inherent in the narratives, Gérôme shows Mary and Christ unfazed by their circumstances. These are not the contorted, pained figures of works often used for public ritual. They are works of private reflection.

When Gérôme created Les Rameaux and La Fuite en Egypte, he was 73. His last seven years were a flurry of activity. On the morning of January 10, 1904, Gérôme was found dead in his studio before a self-portrait of Rembrandt and his own painting Truth. He left a studio full of partially finished and un-cast plasters. Les Rameaux and La Fuite en Egypte were among his last finished works.

According to Ackerman there are at least three sizes of each statue known to have been cast. These were the first and largest versions and, therefore, their production, from start to finish, would have been overseen by Gérôme himself. In addition to their authenticity, Ackerman believed that they were created as a pair and not separate works.  These two bronzes have been in the same family for three generations and are believed to have been purchased directly from Siot-Decauville. If true, these represent a rare combination. There is no similar pair known to exist in any public or private collection.

Jul 12, 2009 | Art, Classical | Leave A Comment »

Forgotten Master: Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898)

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) La canal de Mancorbo en los Picos de Europa (1876) Oil on canvas. 168 x 123 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

While not forgotten in Spain,  Carlos de Haes’ work has been little recognized elsewhere. As a teacher and award-winning artists, Haes is perhaps Spain’s greatest  landscape painter.

Photograph of Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-1898) c. 1870.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) was born in Belguim to Spanish parents. Due to financial troubles, the family was forced to return to Spain in 1835. There, Haes studied with Luis de la Cruz, a Court Painter to King Ferndinand VII and a member of the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando.

In 1850, at the age of 24, Haes traveled back to Brussels to study Flemish landscapes. There he competed and regularly placed in Belgium’s annual Salons. Six years later, Haes returned to Spain.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) Tejares de la montaña del Príncipe Pío (c. 1872) Oil on canvas. 39.2 x 61 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

His international experience carried a great deal of currency in Spanish painting circles, and immediately set him apart from his peers who rarely studied beyond Spain and Italy. His dedication to landscape also changed the Spanish Academy’s attitude towards landscape painting.

Despite having been accepted as a major genre in other European countries, during the first half of the nineteenth century, Spain had not widely  participated in Romantic and Sublime landscape painting. Instead, landscapes were considered a second-rate genre, a necessary part of an artist’s education insofar as it related to the composition of history painting.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) La vereda (1871) Oil on canva. 93.7 x 60.4 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Haes’ work Cercanías del moasterio de Piedra (1858) was the first landscape painting to win a First Place medal at the Exposicion Nacional, Spain’s equivalent of the Paris Salon. The award represented a giant leap forward in the estimation of landscape painting as a stand-alone discipline. Shortly afterwards, Haes was made a member of the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, the nation’s most prestigious art school. His appointment in 1860 to the Academia de San Fernandoand and subsequent teaching there effectively caught Spain up with other schools of landscape painting in Europe. As a teacher, Haes fathered a dynasty of Spanish landscape artists that continues today. Among Haes’s more prominent students are Martín Rico y Ortega (1833-1908), Jaime Morera (1854-1927).

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) La Torre de Douarnenez (c. 1880) Oil on canvas. 39 by 59 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

It could be argued that Haes’ one of most important contributions to Spanish painting was with non-landscape painters. Through him, history painters, whose work enjoyed the widest attention at the Exposiciones Nacionales, developed a new appreciation and approach to landscapes, arguably bringing it on par with their figural work. Artists like Francisco Pradilla, José Casado del Alisal, Placenscia Maestro, were required to take Haes’ course at the Academia de San Fernando considered a serious part of their large history paintings, sometimes producing numerous studies devoid of figures.

In particular, Haes brought to Spain an increased emphasis on three aspects of landscape painting: luminosity, porportion and direct observation from nature.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-1898) Picos de Europa (c. 1875) Oil on panel. 37 x 59 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Traditionally, Spanish artists favored the use of sandy-colored grounds for use in painting. This created a unifying effect in their works, but resulted in the overall dampening of light. While Haes continued to use sand-colored and reddish grounds in his works, he would incorporate large patches of lead white and subdue the quantity of sandy grounds.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) Cercanías de Villerville, Normandy (c. 1877) Oil on canvas. 26.2 x 39 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Very few of Haes’ works exceed 150 by 200 centimeters. This was at a time when history paintings, often exceeding 6 by 10 meters, were competing for top prizes at Exposiciones Nacionales. Haes’ landscapes, though bold in composition and epic in subject matter, maintained comparatively modest proportions. This set a precedent in landscape painting throughout Spain, which more or less continued throughout the first half of the nineteenth century, even when history paintings became more ambitious in size.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) Un bardo naufragado (c. 1883) Oil on canvas. 59 by 101 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Finally and perhaps most importantly, Haes was a proponent of direct observation from nature and led several expeditions. This resulted to an almost nationalistic fervor for Spanish landscape painting, that featured Iberian natural wonders.

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) Desfiladero, Jaraba de Aragón (c. 1872) Oil on canvas. 39 by 60 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Photograph of Jaraba de Aragón, Spain (2005) by Juan Devis (www.panoramio.com/photo/1599391)

Today, Carlos de Haes’ work can be found in nearly every major Spanish museum. However, the largest body and greatest works from his ouvre are held in the Prado Museum and not currently on display. A new wing of the Prado, dedicated to Spanish nineteenth-century art, is planned to open in 2012.

(Click here for a list of works and biography of Carlos de Haes by the Prado Museum.)

Carlos de Haes (Brussels, 1826-Madrid, 1898) Playa de Villerville, Normandy (c. 1880) Oil on canvas. 22 by 40 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Bibliography:

• Carlos de Haes (1826-1898) en el Museo del Prado, cat. exp., Madrid, Museo del Prado, 2002.
• Cid Priego, Carlos, Aportaciones para una monografía del pintor Carlos de Haes, Lérida, Instituto de Estudios Ilerdenses, 1956.

May 31, 2009 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master, Ramblings/Ideas | 4 Comments »

Review: Figures du Corps: Une Leçon d’Anatomie à l’École des Beaux-Arts

Book Cover of "Figures du Corps" Philippe Comar, ed.

Occasionally, I come across a book that was made with me in mind. Figures du Corps: Une Leçon d’Anatomie à l’École des Beaux-Arts is the catalogue of the exhibition by the same name held from October 21, 2008 to January 4, 2009 at the l’École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris. (Painfully, I first learned about the exhibition after seeing this book in a bookshop window in London, which is either a testament to my own ignorance of events like this or a sign that marketing efforts had limited reach.)

The catalogue is an ode to the bewildering and wonderful arsenal of contraptions, tools, plaster casts, photographs, and any other useful aid created to assist artists in the study of human and animal figures.

Skulls of humans and various animals from the Galerie Huguier. École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, 2008.

Resembling part medical research facility and part life-science museum, the Ecole des Beaux-Arts gathered human and animal anatomical examples–ideal, real and atypical–for use in training. 

For artists at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, academic training meant mastering the human figure. As described in a previous post, this training took place over a series of graduated steps, beginning with isolating parts of the human figure, to studying idealized forms in Greco-Roman statues, and, finally, working with live models.

The catalogue includes several examples of classical forms that have been worked over to reveal underlying skeletal and muscular structure. It is evidence of a startling lack of superficiality in their approach to their craft and art. There are numerous accounts of dissections of both humans and animals, and visits from surgeons to discuss recent medical discoveries.

Fourteen hands, and seven human feet (Nineteenth Century) Éecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris

Looking at examples of plaster casts from the book, I was surprised at how many of them were obviously taken from human subjects and not from statues. The catalogue is unclear as to when many of these casts were made and used. Regardless, it is fascinating to see that they went to great lengths to articulate hands and feet in a wide range of challenging positions that were not always quoted from classical forms.

Mannequin d'atelier articulé, fin du XCIII siècle. Signed, "Guillois." École des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

One of the greatest costs in training was the hiring of live models. As a result, contraptions of all kinds–mannequins, photographs, stereoscope images–were made to substitute, or perhaps more accurately, supplement, models. 

Hermann Heid (Darmstadt, 1834-Vienna, 1891) Étude comparée de la forme d'un avant-bras en pronation et de son squelette (1880) 14 by 10.3; 13.8 by 10.3. École des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

One man at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paul Richer (Chartes, 1849-Paris, 1933) was particularly skilled both as a creator of artist aides and as a sculptor himself. 

Paul Richer (Chartes, 1849-Paris, 1933) The Runner, phénakistiscope (1895) 70 by 45 by 15 cm. École des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

Paul Richer (Chartes, 1849-Paris, 1933) Tres in una (1910) 185 by 124 by 60 cm. École des Beaux-Arts, Paris

His work Tres in Una, above, is a terrific example of the late-nineteenth, early-twentieth century combinations realist and classical approaches to art. There is disappointingly little written about Richer in the catalogue, yet he is clearly one of a rare breed, simultaneaously gifted at educational innovation and a talented artist in his own right. For one, I would love to learn more about him, and hope to.

Bust of Decartes, with incorporated skull (1913) Plaster, in three parts. 44 by 27 by 28 cm. École des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

A great deal of the catalogue is dedicated to the anatomical models of animals, especially horses Just as in England, where George Stubbs (British , 1724-1806) led a generation of artists at the Royal Academy to explore and correctly understand the anatomy of horses, the French Academy invested a great deal in equine models.

Collection of various horse anotomical constructions and skulls. Galerie Huguier, École des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

One stunning example of an artist using the models is a study of horse legs, below, by  Théodore Géricault (Rouen, 1971-Paris, 1824). 

Théodore Géricault (Rouen, 1971-Paris, 1824) Étude de membres postérieur et antérieur de cheval, écorchés. (1815) Pen, brown crayon and watercolor. 43.5 by 26.8 cm.

This catalogue makes it possible to comprehend the lengths to which artists would go to learn their craft. For me, it is both an inspiration and a reminder of how much we can learn from them.

François Sallé (France, 1839-1899) The anatomy class at the Ecole des Beaux Arts (1888) Oil on canvas. 218 by 299 cm. Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sidney.

May 24, 2009 | Art, Classical, Classical Training | 8 Comments »

Eve After the Fall by Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892)

Lately, I have been looking at my collection of images by theme, grouping Biblical and mythological subjects in categories. (It becomes helpful to have these groupings, which would normally not be seen in museums, when giving lectures or teaching children.) It was while piecing together my images of Eve that I found several photos I had taken of Eugène Delaplanche’s (French, 1831-1892) work Eve After the Fall (1869).

Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892) Eve After the Fall (1869) Marble. Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

I will never forget the first time I saw it, years ago, at the Musée d’Orsay. Although I was familiar with Eve’s eating of the forbidden fruit and her subsequent expulsion from Eden, I had never considered her feelings and, especially, the moment of realization she must have had after eating the Forbidden Fruit. The sculpture filled me with sympathy for Eve and remorse for my own bad decisions in life. Only great art can do that.

Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892) Eve After the Fall (1869) Marble. Musée d'Orsay, Paris (Side View)

Delaplanche studied under the neoclassical sculptor Francisque Joseph Duret (French, 1804-1865) . In 1864, Delaplanche was awarded the Prix de Rome and, subsequently, went to Italy where he studied Greco-Roman works and the sculptures of Michaelangelo and Bernini. He returned to Paris with an approach his work that combined classical idealism with natural forms. The result in Eve After the Fall (1869), done shortly after returning from Rome, is almost Hellenistic, but much larger in scale than most Greek statues.

Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892) Eve After the Fall (1869) Marble. Musée d'Orsay, Paris. (From Behind)

Eve is beautiful, yet forceful. Her features are idealized, yet her figure, almost drawn into a fetal position from horror, is sinuous, organic.

Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892) Eve After the Fall (1869) Marble. Musée d'Orsay, Paris (Side View)

All of the elements of the story are here: the discarded, bitten fruit from the Tree o Life, the serpent coiled around the tree, and Eve, full of horror and realization of her transgression.

Eugène Delaplanche (French, 1831-1892) Eve After the Fall (1869) Marble. Musée d'Orsay, Paris (Detail of Eyes)

Delaplanche went on to do a number of works and recieved a number of prizes. Unfortunately, like many of his contemporary sculptors and unlike many contemporary painters, little has been written about his work and life.

Dec 18, 2008 | Classical, Forgotten Master, Sculpture | 1 Comment »

A Rediscovered Archive of Spanish Drawings: The Academia de San Fernando de Bellas Artes in Madrid

Anonymous (Spanish, c. 1870) Satyr with his cymbals or Sátiro tocando los platillos. Graphite on paper. 61.6 BY 48.3CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

(All of the drawings in this post are by eighteenth and nineteenth-century students of the Academia de San Fernando. I am extemely grateful for the help of the brilliant Angeles Vian Herrero, Director of the Library of the Facultad de Bellas Artes of the Universidad Cumplutense in Madrid. These and many more drawings are available at a new website she has created for them. For larger versions of each image in this post, please click each work.)

Juan Adán Morlán (Spanish) Desnudo masculino de espaldas con una pierna apoyada en un escalón. (a. 1741-1816) Pencil and pastel on paper, 54.4 BY 39.3CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Anonymous (Spanish). Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Nineteenth-century art academies all over Europe used drawing as the foundation for art education. As I have noted before on this blog, Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867), once said “Over three quarters of what constitutes painting is comprised of drawing. If I had to put a sign above my door I would write: ‘School of drawing,’ and I’m sure that I would produce painters.” (It was not until the mid-1860s that oil painting was taught at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, where Ingres had been the director from 1825-1841. His approach to artist training was adopted in Spain’s most important school for artists, the Academia de San Fernando de Bellas Artes in Madrid.

Anonymous (Spanish). Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Anonymous (Spanish, c. 1850) Study of nude female. Graphite on paper. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

The Academia de San Fernando de Bellas Artes was founded in 1752. Based in Madrid, it was one of several art academies in Spain (other cities with academies included Barcelona, Valencia, Zaragosa, and Seville). By the mid-nineteenth century, the Academia de San Fernando had become the dominant art academy in Spain and the model for art education throughout the country.

Anonymous (Spanish, c. 1890) Desnudo masculino en pie y de perfil apoyado en una vara. Graphite and pastel on paper. 61.9 BY 47.9CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

The Academia de San Fernando, founded in 1751, was heavily influenced by French-trained artists. One family in particular, the Madrazos, dominated the Academia de San Fernando for most of the nineteenth century. José de Madrazo (Spanish, 1781-1859), court painter for Ferdinand VII, was sent to Paris to study with Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825). José’s son, Francisco de Madrazo y Kuntz (Sapnish, 1815-1894) was trained by Jean-August Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867) in Rome, and would serve as the Academia de San Fernando’s director from 1866 to 1894. José’s other son, Pedro (Spanish, 1816-1898), was the director of the Prado Museum, as well as a prominent art critic. All three were influential in setting standards and tastes for the Academia.

G. Ponman (Spanish) Female figure from a Greek Relief Sculpture or Figura femenina (copia de un relieve griego). Pencil and pastel on paper. 62.9 BY 47.7CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Miguel Ocal (Spanish) Desnudo masculino de espladas y en pie apoyado en una vara (1858) Graphite on paper. 61.4 BY 47.4CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

As in Paris, students in Madrid’s arts academy studied, on average, for four years. Some went on to receive scholarships and study at the Spanish School in Rome. (Established in 1873, the Spanish sent winners of an annual competition on the equivalent of the French Prix de Rome.) Students at the Academia began by drawing from castes of isolated portions of statues. Then, they were allowed to study from full statues of classical origins, either from castes made of the Spanish Royal collection or from collections in Rome or Paris. Advanced students, were allowed to study from live models, who were often placed in the poses of classical statuary or from scenes in Old Master paintings. As the century progressed, classical poses increasingly gave way to more natural poses and depictions of the human figure.

Anonymous (Spanish). Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Miguel González de La Peña (Spanish) Desnudo masculino sentado sobre volúmenes en forma piramidal con la cara hundida entre las manos. Graphite on paper. 62.2 BY 48CM. Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

The majority of the works featured here are of nude men. This is because, in nineteenth-century Spain, there were strong cultural taboos against female nudity, even classical nudes. As a result, Spanish artists privately hired female models for their studio work as opposed to using them in official schools.

Anonymous (Spanish). Colección de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

Some of the works perserved in archives are anatomy studies. Many of theses seem to be copied from books while other appear to be made from looking at live models and perceiving underlying muscle and bone structure. This is interesting because models were expensive. Using them for anatomical studies shows how important the Academia considered these studies.

Dec 01, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas | 3 Comments »

Beauty Holding Back Time by Donato Barcaglia

Donato Barcaglia (Italian, 1849-1930) La Giovanezza che Tenta di Arrestare il Tempo, or Beauty Holding Back Time. White marble. 89 BY 59IN.

Yesterday, I visited Sotheby’s in London to preview its nineteenth-century painting auction. Before I could get to the paintings, I was stopped and dumbstruck by La Giovanezza che Tenta di Arrestare il Tempo, or Beauty Holding Back Time, by Donato Barcaglia (Italian 1849-1930).

Barcaglia created the work when he was only 27. It was his “coming out” or graduate work, made at the end of his studies and, therefore, meant to showcase the accumulated skills of his years in the Roman Academy. An instant popular and critical success, Beauty Holding Back Time travelled to Florence, Philadelphia, and Milan before being collected by Michael Alexander Wilsone Swinfen Broun (1858-1948), a Colonel in the British Army, and taken to England.

The breadth and depth of Barcaglia’s artistic arsenal, especially at such a young age, is impressive. He exhibits command the material by conveying a large variety of textures (e.g. young skin, old skin, clothing, feathers, hair, wood, metal) and making it appear to defy gravity. As was common for Academic painters and sculptors from the period, Barcaglia mixes his understanding of the ideal, or antique, human form in his depiction of Youth, with Naturalism, as seen in the wings of Father Time.

According to a sculpture dealer in London I know, Beauty Holding Back Time is the most important nineteenth-century statue to reach the market in nearly 25 years. It is estimated at only £150,000 to £200,000. I write “only” because, if it were a painting of similar importance by Gerome or Bouguereau from the same period, it would be estimated at well over £1 million.

Nov 10, 2008 | Art, Auctions, Classical | Leave A Comment »

Forgotten Master: Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927)

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) was 17 years old when Alexander II freed the serfs of Russia. The Tsar’s Emancipation Manifesto of 1861 was an acknowledgement of democratic changes in Western governments. The decree changed the political and economic landscape of Russia, forcing landowning aristocrats to pay for labor and contributing to a rising middle class.

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) Early Snow (c. 1880) Oil on canvas.The social and economic changes in Russia spilled into the arts.

Art academies in St. Petersburg and Moscow catered to the classical tastes of old Russia, represented by the aristrocracy. Shortly after the emancipation of the serfs, a group of artists, named Peredvizhniki, or The Wanderers, believed it was time “take art to the people.” With their first exhibition in 1870, The Wanderers rejected the classical ideals taught in official school in favor of Realism. They painted earthy, everyday peasants and took their exhibitions to rural areas of the country where a wider public could appreciate it.

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) The Crippled Serf (c. 1878) Oil on canvas.

Polenov was an adopted as a member of The Wanderers, yet maintained his ties with the Russian Academy. He studied in the Imperial Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg from 1863-1871. Polenov was perhaps the most traveled Russian artist of his generation. During his studies, he was pensioned in Italy and France, where he experienced first hand the contemporary movements of Realism and Impressionism. He returned with a love of plein air, and was one of the first to introduce the approach to other Russian painters. Using the technique he created numerous landscapes of his native countryside.

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) Old mill (1880) Oil on canvas.

From 1877-1878, Polenov served as a military artist in the Russo-Turkish war. Shortly thereafter, he dedicated his work to religious scenes, especially from the New Testament.

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) Christ and Woman Taken in Adultery (1886-1887) Oil on canvas. The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

His painting, Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (a. 1886) is considered by many to be his masterpiece. It is drawn from the Gospel of John, Chapter 8, verses 1-11, where a woman caught in the act of adultery is taken to Christ. Hoping trick Christ, a group of his enemies brought the woman to him:

4 They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.
5 Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?
6 This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.
7 So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
8 And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.
9 And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.
10 When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?
11 She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.

In preparation for the painting, Polenov had made sketches of people, architecture, and landscape in the Middle East and Greece, where he travelled from 1881-1882.

Vasily Polenov (Russian 1844-1927) The Parthenon, Temple of Athena Pallas (c. 1881) Oil on canvas. The Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia.

During his lifetime, Polenov was widely acclaimed for his work by both the Russian Academy and those that had broken from it. In 1893, he was made a fellow of the Imperial Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg, and taught at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture until his death in 1893.

Vasily Polenov (Russian, 1844-1927) Christ overlooking Jerusalem (c. 1885) Oil on canvas. The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

Today, Polenov’s home in Borok, near Moscow, has been made a museum and placed in the national trust.

Nov 02, 2008 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master, Ramblings/Ideas | 2 Comments »

The Discovery of Velázquez by Thomas Eakins

Since I am now here in Madrid I do not regret at all my coming. I have seen big painting here. When I had looked at all the paintings by all the masters I had known I could not help saying to myself all the time, its very pretty but its not all yet. It ought to be better, but now I have seen what I always thought ought to have been done & what did not seem to me impossible. O what a satisfaction it gave me to see the good Spanish work so good so strong so reasonable so free from every affectation. It stands out like nature itself. [sic.]
-Thomas Eakins, in a letter to his father, Benjamin, dated December 2, 1869.

Saying that everything he had seen before “was pretty” but “not enough” is surprising. Eakins had just left the studio of one of the greatest painters of his day, Jean-Leon Gerome (French, 1824-1904), and lived in Paris, then capitol of the art world.

Eakins’ trip to Spain was a watershed for his personal development, and an indication of the draw Spain had for many painters working in Paris.

Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) Self-portrait (1902) Oil on canvas 30 BY 25 IN. National Academy of Design, New York.

At the time Eakins visited Spain–during of the Winter of Spring of 1869 and 1870–it was considered a backwater, years behind civilized Europe in the arts and economics.

Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) Self-portrait (a. 1630) Museo de Bellas Artes de San Carlos, Valencia.

Yet, Eakins and a number of other important artists (e.g.. Eduoard Manet, Mary Cassat, John Singer Sargent) traveled to Spain works by Spanish masters in the Prado Museum. In 2003, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, featured an exhibition on French artists in Spain. Titled Manet and Velázquez and with 200 works, the exhibition discussed a newfound love of Spain that grew out of the French invasion by Napoleon’s armies in 1808 and the Mariage of Napoleon III to, Eugénie de Montijo, a Countess of Spanish Royal blood.

Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) The Weavers (1657) Prado Museum, Mardid.

Eakins travelled to Spain shortly after the country’s government was overthrown. Despite the chaos, he was able to visit the Prado Museum and a number of galleries throughout the country.

He was especially impressed by the work of Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660). Eakins claimed Velázquez’s painting, The Weavers, was “the most beautiful piece of painting I have seen in all my life.”

“Here is how I think the woman tapestry-weaver was painted . . . [Velázquez] drew her withouth giving attention to the details. He put her head and arme well in place. Then he painted her very solidly without seeking or even marking the fold of the draperies, and perhaps he sought his color harmonies by repeated painting over, for the color is excessively thick on the neck and all the delicate parts . . .”

This kind of careful attention to technique was absorbed into Eakins’ own work.

Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) Carmelita Requeña (1869) Oil on canvas 26 1/6 BY 17 1/8 IN. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

According to M. Elizabeth Boone, author of Visitas de España: American Views of Art and Life in Spain, 1860-1914, it was shortly after seeing these that Eakins made his first original painting: Carmelita Requeña . In it, Eakins mimics Velázquez’s subtle use color and shadow, using very closely-related tones and small gradations of light to dark.

Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) The Crucifixion (1632) Oil on Canvas. Prado Museum, Mardid.

Besides, The Weavers, Eakins was inspired by Velázquez’s Crucifixion, painting a version of his own.

Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) The Crucifixion (1880). Oil on canvas.

In the past decade, a great deal has been done to re-assert the influence of Thomas Eakins and France on American painting. With that in mind, it would seem necessary to explore the role of Spanish painting on these painters.

Sep 20, 2008 | Art, Baroque, Classical, Historical, Ramblings/Ideas | 6 Comments »

Forgotten Master: Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905)

“Not a day without drawing,” was a motto often repeated by Menzel and recalled by his students at the Royal Academy of Art in Berlin.

Portrait of Adolf von Menzel (a. 1880) Image published in Newcomb, A; Blackford, K.M.H.: Analyzing Character, 1922. Photographer Paul Thompson.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) The Artist’s Sister, Emille, Sleeping (c. 1848). Oil on paper. 46 BY 60CM. Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

Aug 21, 2008 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master, Ramblings/Ideas | 4 Comments »

The Ideal versus the Observed in Nineteenth-Century Painting

[This post was inspired by a conversation I had with the talented and thoughtful painter Joseph Brickey. For more on his work, visit his website here.]

Over three quarters of what constitutes painting is comprised of drawing. If I had to put a sign above my door I would write: “School of drawing,” and I’m sure that I would produce painters.

-Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867) (Henri Delborde. Ingres. sa vie, ses travaux, sa doctrine. Paris: Henri Plon, p. 123)

Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867) A Young, Seated Nude Male. (c. 1850) Graphite on paper. Musée du France, Paris.

Previously on this blog, I have received comments questioning the sincerity, artistic integrity or creativity in nineteenth-century, academic painters and contemporary artists attempting to model them.The criticism is based on a belief that drawing accurately is not artistic (right-brain), but, in essence, an act of left-brained practice. In other words, a camera could do the same as the artist. I absolutely agree that an artist should not be a camera.

However, nineteenth-century, academic painting was not based on mimicking nature, but on observation combined with the ideal, sometimes described as the “antique.”

In France and much of Western Europe, the first half of the nineteenth century was dominated by an artistic philosophy that emphasized the dominance of line, or contour, over color. Drawing was considered the underlying structure of a painting and, therefore, was the principle skill taught in the major academies. In fact, it was not until the mid-nineteenth century that the Ecole des Beaux-Arts included oil painting as part of its curriculum. (Previous to that time, artists would learn oil painting in the ateliers of a master to whom they would be assigned in tandem with their studies or after graduation from the Ecole.)

Eugene Delacroix (French, 1798-1863). Study of a Man, Soldiers and a Dog. Graphite on paper. Musée de France, Paris, France.

In his journal, Eugene Delacroix (French, 1798-1863) planned a study program and dictionary for artists writing:

The first and most important thing in painting is the contour. Even if all the rest were to be neglected, provided the contours were there, the painting would be strong and finished. I have more need than most to be on my guard about this matter; think constantly about it, and always begin that way. (Delacoix’s Journal, April 17, 1824)

To modern eyes and to many artists who are attempting to resurrect the academic methods of the nineteenth century, the emphasis on drawing could be interpreted as an ability to correctly copy or mimic what the eye sees. This is an incorrect belief. Nineteenth-century academic drawing was only partially observational. In practice, it was a combination between observation of nature and classical construction based on an understanding of ideal form.

Charles Gleyre (Swiss, 1808-1874). Seated Woman. Graphite on paper. Louvre, Paris.

This combination of the ideal and the observation of nature was often objected to by the Impressionists. Claude Monet (French, 1840-1926) studied with the academic painter Charles Gleyre (Swiss, 1808-1874) and recalled an experience where the two perspectives on drawing clashed. Monet was working from a live, nude model and, on seeing his work, Gleyre reacted:

‘It is not bad,” he said, “but the breast is heavy, the shoulder too powerful and the foot too big.”

“I can only draw what I see,” I replied timidly.

“Praxiteles borrowed the best parts from a hundred imperfect models, to create a masterpiece,” Gleyre replied dryly. “When you make something, you must think of the antique!”

That same evening, I took Sisley, Renoir and Bazille to one side: “Let’s get out of here,” I said, “This place is unhealthy, it is lacking in sincerity.”
(Gustave Geoffroy. Claude Monet, sa vie, son temps, son oeuvres. Paris: Les éditions G. Cres et Cie, 1927, p. 26-27)

Again, academic painters were not interested in being cameras or making accurate copies of what they saw. Academic painting was deeply ideological and conceptual. It was based on the need to construct the human figure after the ideal. In this way, many artists today, including art historians, would be surprised to know that ideologically, academic painters had more in common with the avant garde Suprematism and Constructivism in the purity of geometry and line than the Impressionist did with those same movements.

An appreciation of nineteenth-century, academic painting–and, for that matter, many Old Masters–begins with an understanding of the ideology of the ideal and as the basis for painting.

Aug 12, 2008 | Art, Classical, Historical, Ramblings/Ideas | 6 Comments »

Forgotten Master: Frederick Arthur Bridgman (American, 1847-1928)

Frederick Arthur Bridgman, c. 1900

Bridgman was a born in Tuskegee, Alabama and died in Rouen, France in 1928. Joining other talented American painters, such as Thomas Eakins, he studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris in the studio of Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) from 1866 to 1870. Bridgman regularly participated in the Paris Salon and, in 1907, he was awarded the Légion d’Honneur. During his long and prolific career, Bridgman traveled to Morocco, Algeria, Egypt, Turkey and Syria to paint and document local customs.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. Aicha, a Woman of Morocco (1883) Oil on canvas. 21 1/2 BY 10 1/2IN. Newark Museum, New Jersey.

Some may object to labelling Bridgman as a “forgotten” master. His paintings regularly turn up at auctions and he is familiar to many nineteenth-century painting dealers and collectors. I submit that he is forgotten for two reasons: first, his work is rarely recognized on its own merit and second, his tendency to be self-promotional has deterred others from telling his story.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. After the Bath. Oil on canvas. 31 BY 25 3/4IN. Private collection.

After nearly a century of obscurity, Orientalist painters have found their way into the limelight. Paintings by Bridgman, Max Ernst (Austrian, 1891-1976), and John Frederick Lewis (British, 1805-1876) have sold for higher prices at auction and, recently, been the subject of a major exhibition at Tate Britain. According to conversations I have had with auctioneers at Sotheby’s and Christie’s in London, increased interest has been driven by Middle-eastern collectors who often see orientalist paintings as the sole visual record of their nineteenth-century cultures.

As a result, interest in Bridgman’s paintings is rarely driven by an appreciation for his skill or creativity. Rather, Bridgman is grouped into a genre. To my knowledge, since his death, there has not been a biography or single exhibition in a major museum dedicated exclusively to Bridgman.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. Abu Simbel (1874) Oil on canvas. 20 BY 30IN. Private Collection.

In the 1870s, Bridgman traveled to Algeria on a painting expedition. In addition to canvases, Bridgman took copious notes that, eventually, became a feature article in Atlantic Monthly Magazine. The article, along with reproductions of paintings from his trip have recently been reprinted in book format.

Frederick Arthur Bridgeman. Crossing an Oasis, with the Atlas Mountains in the Distance, Morocco (1919) Oil on Canvas. 13 BY 19 1/4IN. Private collection.

After World War I, Bridgman settled in Normandy, France. Although he continued to paint, his paintings were no longer shown publicly. He died in 1928 in near obscurity.
Links

• A blog dedicated to Bridgman with several images.
• Frederick Arthur Bridgman at the Anthenaeum includes over 35 images of Bridgman’s paintings available for free use.
• A longer biography on the artists taken from the book Les Orientalists de L’École Américaine by Gerald M. Ackerman.

Books

• Winters in Algeria by Frederick Arthur Bridgman
• Orientalists by Kristian Davies
• The Orientalists by Lynne Thornton

Aug 05, 2008 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master, Ramblings/Ideas | 1 Comment »

The Paris Salon or “Exhibition of Living Artists”

Francois Joseph Heim (French, 1787-1865) Charles X Distributing Awards to Artists Exhibiting at the Salon of 1824 at the Louvre (1827) Musée du Louvre, Paris

In his book, The Judgment of Paris, Ross King compares Salon attendance to today’s most visited museum exhibitions:

[The Salon was] one of the greatest spectacles in Europe, it was an even more popular attraction, in terms of the crowds it drew, than public executions. Opening to the public in the first week of May and running for some six weeks, it featured thousands of works of art specially—and sometimes controversially—chosen by a Selection Committee. Admission on most afternoons was only a franc, which placed it within easy reach of virtually every Parisian, considering the wage of the lowest-paid workers, such as milliners and washerwomen, averaged three to four francs a day. Those unwilling or unable to pay could visit on Sundays, when admission was free and the Palais des Chaps-Élysées thronged with as many as 50,000 visitors—five times the number that had gathered in 1857 to watch the blade of guillotine descend on the neck of a priest names Verger who had murdered the Archbishop of Paris. In some years, as Many as a million people visited the Salon during its six-week run, meaning crowds averaged more than 23,000 people a day*

*To put these figures into context, the most well-attended art exhibition in the year 2003 was Leonardo da Vinci: Master Draftsman, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Over the course of a nine-week run, the show drew and average of 6,863 visitors each day, with an overall total of 401,004. El Greco, likewise at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, averaged 6,807 per day during its three-month run in 2003-4, ultimately attracting 574,381 visitors. The top-ranked schibition of 2002, Van Gogh and Gaugin, at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, drew 6,719 perday for four months, with a final attendance of 739,117.

(Ross King. The Judgment of Paris. New York: Walker and Company, 2006. p. 17)

Comparing the Paris Salon to modern-day museum exhibitions is probably unfair. In the nineteenth century–before the advent of photography, radio, and movie theaters–painting was truly the most public art form. A more appropriate comparison would mostly likely be comparing Salon attendance to movie ticket sales. (How about comparing Ernest Meissonier’s painting Friedeland, the painting sold for the highest price in the nineteenth century and a Salon blockbuster, with Batman Begins?)

Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891) 1807, Friedland (c. 1861-1875), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

If that is true, it would also be appropriate to consider the Paris Salons as some of the most culturally significant and telling events of the nineteenth century. Recently, while undertaking a research question, I was surprised to learn that there is little published about the Salon as an intitution previous to or after the Salon de Refusées in 1863.

Aug 04, 2008 | Art, Art Fairs, Classical, Exhibitions, Historical, Ramblings/Ideas | Leave A Comment »

Manet versus Bouguereau: The 100 Year Prediction

William Adolph Bouguereau. Pieta (1876) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 148CM. Dallas Museum of Fine Arts, Dallas, Texas

At the 1878 Universal Exposition in Paris, Edouard Manet was asked which of all the painters then living would be best remembered in 100 years. His answer: William Adolph Bouguereau.

Manet (1832-1883) and Bougeureau (1825-1905) represented two polar movements in painting. Manet, regularly controversial in his work, had been the leader of the Impressionist movement and Bougeureau was the darling of the Academic tradition supported by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

Thanks to Google Trends and Amazon.com, it is possible to get some indication of whether or not Manet’s prediction, at least in comparison to his own work, has come true.

Over the past few years, Google has been tracking the number of searches done specific keywords. Because Manet and Bouguereau have unique names, it is fairly easy to narrow down searches relating to them as opposed to other painters (e.g. Ingres is the names of the painter and a Fortune 500 company.)

Google Trends of Manet searches from 2004 to 2008.

Google Trends of Bouguereau searches from 2004 to 2008.

At the time of this post, a standard search on Google.com produces 4,870,000 results for Manet and 1,140,000 for Bouguereau. An Amazon.com search produces 12,721 books for Manet and 1,071 for Bouguereau.

The comparison of these two artists and their popularity through these methods is hardly comprehensive. But, it is one indication that Manet is more popular than he is prophetic.

Maybe he was misquoted and meant 200 years. I’ll follow up with another post then.

Jul 29, 2008 | Art, Classical, Historical, Ramblings/Ideas | 4 Comments »

“Warsaw Street Types” by Józef Rapacki (1871-1929)

Via BibliOdyssey is a series of drawings by the Polish painter and illustrator Józef Rapacki.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

Rapacki was born in Warsaw, Poland and trained in Munich, Germany. In the late-nineteenth century, many Eastern European painters, including Muckansy and Mucha, used academic schooling in Germany as a gateway to the rest of Europe.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

In addition to Germany, Rapacki traveled through Italy. Very little is printed in English or Polish about his life and work, though his paintings and drawings occasionally surface at international auction houses.

Though little is known, it is obvious that Rapacki has a solid grasp on anatomy and proportion. He has moved beyond the basic studies of academic training and is combining classical understanding of form with direct observation from nature.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

This series of lithographs depicts street figures observed by Rapacki in Warsaw. These and more works by him are published online at the Polish National Library’s website.

Jul 23, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas | 2 Comments »

Forgotten Masters: Resurrecting an Appreciation for Artists Worth Remembering

Julien Dupre, French, 1851-1910. The Gleaners (1880). Private Collection. Dupre is one of many artists that should be better remembered.

With the intent of helping to resurrect appreciation for some of the great and less-remembered artists of the past, I plan on regularly writing about what I will call “Forgotten Masters.”

Many nineteenth-century artists still sit in obscurity, not for lack of brilliance, but due to the shifting winds of culture at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries. The meteoric rise of Impressionism and other artistic movements left many academic artists, still at the peak of their talents, in the dust.

As we have distanced ourselves from changing fashions of those times, painters like Ingres, Gerome, Bouguereau, Eakins, Leighton, and Alma-Tadema have become more well known and received the recognition their works deserve through major exhibitions, scholarly books, and, finally, coffee-table books (the ultimate evidence that an artist has “made it”).

Yet we have only scratched the surface of nineteenth-century painting. According to a friend of mine, Dr. Vern Swanson, there were over 300,000 painters working in France in the nineteenth century.

300,000!

(For that number to sink in, here is an exercise: name as many French-Impressionist painters as you can. I come up with about 12 off the top of my head.)

Two websites, in particular, have been key in offering information and images of these artists:

If you have any nineteenth-century artists that you feel have been neglected and would like to see me post on them, please feel free to write me: mjc “at” beardedroman.com. Because my research is currently focused on Spain, many of the artists I will begin with in the series will be Spanish.

Starting tomorrow, look for posts tagged and titled “Forgotten Master.”

Jul 09, 2008 | Art, Classical, Forgotten Master, Ramblings/Ideas | 2 Comments »

Neuroesthetics: The Science of Art and the Brain

Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) The Triumph of David. Oil on canvas. 118.4 BY 148.3CM. Dulwich Gallery, Dulwich, UK. Poussin is remembered for his highly structured paintings that influenced generations of artists looking for a more scientific approach to their painting. Three geometric analysis of this work are included in this article.

Over the past decade a new field of neurology has emerged, Neuroesthetics, with the intent of mapping the brain’s reaction to the fine arts.

The term “neuroesthetics” and the field was pioneered by Dr. Semir Zeki, who is the first Professor of Neuroesthetics at University College London, founder of the Wellcome Department of Cognitive Neuroscience at University College London and the Minerva Foundation at UC Berkley, where he is an adjunct professor. The website of the Institute defines its work as seeking “to establish the biological and neurobiological foundations of aesthetic experience.”

The notion of scientifically quantifying art might seem opposed a central purpose of art, which is subject to individual experience with an original work of art. In his long essay, What is Art?, Leo Tolstoy said it another way:

The activity of art is based on the fact that a man, receiving through his sense of hearing or sight another man’s expression of feeling, is capable of experiencing the emotion which moved the man who expressed it. To take the simplest example: one man laughs, and another, who hears, becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another, who hears, feels sorrow . . . And it is on this capacity of man to receive another man’s expression of feeling, and experience those feelings himself that the activity of art is based.

(Leo Tolstoy. Aylmer Maude, trans. What Is Art? Bridgewater: Baker & Taylor, 2000. p. 48)

Tolstoy’s way of describing art seems like a set up for a scientific experiment.

A scientific approach to art is not new. Many artists, most notably those of the Renaissance, approached art with a rigorous scientific mindset. The fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian schools of painting, especially in Florence and Rome, were concerned with geometry and the Golden Mean and were epitomized by the works of Leonardo Da Vinci and Raphael. European artistic training and up until the end of the nineteenth century, included classes in geometry and scientific theory. Impressionist and Divisionist artists, though rejecting traditional art, embraced new discoveries in color theory. In the twentieth century, the Futurist art movement applied current scientific understanding to effectively portray speed and movement on a canvas. Rothko was intensely concerned about the affect of color on the brain and was concerned about where his paintings would hang in case they would have an adverse results on the viewer (e.g. he believed that red was good for dining areas). I could think of a number of other examples.

The point is: science and art have been bedfellows for some time. So, it follows, why don’t we use science to futher improve our understanding of art?

In 2004, Dr. Zeki and his colleague Dr. Hideaki Kawabata published a study titled Neural Correlates of Beauty in the April 2004 J Neurophysiol journal of the The American Physiological Society. The study reports on an experiment where ten woman, with at least one college degree, were asked to rate paintings on a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being beautiful and 1 being ugly. (Note that the test controlled for a subjective experience with each painting, allowing personal preference and not scientific judgment to intervene.)

Each woman was placed in an MRI scan and, then, shown the paintings they rated in random order. The brain patterns of the women were mapped to determine whether or not the brain has has beauty or ugliness centers.

The conclusion of the study states:

The results show that the perception of different categories of paintings are associated with distinct and specialized visual areas of the brain, that the orbito-frontal cortex is differently engaged during the perception of beautiful and ugly stimuli, regardless of the category of painting, and that the perception of stimuli as beautiful or ugly mobilizes the motor cortext differentially.

(A PDF of the the full, published study, along with other studies by Dr. Zeki, can be found on the Wellcome Institute’s website: neuroesthetics.org/research.php.)

In other words, setting aside a personal interpretation of beauty, the brain has established neuro-pathways that are triggered when looking at a beautiful or ugly work of art.

As the field of Neuroesthetics expands it may eventually influence the art world. As an art historian, I am curious about what makes a work of art or an artist have a lasting impact. To find out art theorist often uses a highly subjective and, therefore, uneasy mix of soft science. Having a more scientific approach to what makes a painting work, would be a welcome tool in my belt.

The effect of this kind of research on working artists could be useful or damaging, depending on the intent of the artist. If an artist wants to learn what affects her work is having on her viewers– and, therefore, understand how to better hone those intended results–it seems very useful to use the ideas supported by neuroethetics. On the other hand, the last thing I would want to purchase it market-tested works of art. Thankfully, this doesn’t seem to be the intent of Dr. Zeki’s work.

Dr. Zeki has a blog, which he regularly updates: profzeki.blogspot.com. As the founder and leaders of the field of Neuroethetics, it is a good place to learn about his latest thinking.

Jul 08, 2008 | Art, Baroque, Classical, Historical, Impressionism, Ramblings/Ideas | 2 Comments »

French Academic Drawings with Examples by Ingres (1780-1867)

Three quarters of what constitutes painting is comprised of drawing. If I had to put a sign above my door I would write: ‘School of Drawing,” and I’m sure that I would produce Painters.

-Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Studies for “The Grand Odalisque,” 1814. Graphite on three sheets of paper, 10 BY 10 1/4IN. (25.4 BY 26.5CM.). Département des Arts Graphiques, Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Grand Odalisque, 1814. Oil on canvas, 35 1/4 BY 63 3/4IN. (89.66 BY 162CM.) Private collection.

Drawing was the fundamental teaching of the French art education system, a model that spread to the rest of the world.

In its original, seventeenth-century coursework, students submitted to a daily regimen beginning with copying modeles de dessin, plaster casts, and individual body parts. After years of practicing from inanimate objects, talented students were allowed to draw directly from nude models and compete for government commissions for work on the merit of their drawings.

Drawings Produced from 1800 to 1850

In the process of their study and work, nineteenth-century artists created specific kinds of drawings with distinct purposes. Because there was no widely recognized market, drawings were not made for the purpose of sale. Instead, the public purchased paintings or prints. However, this did not mean that the drawings were considered to be valueless. In the tradition going back centuries, David and Ingres kept stored and labeled drawings, and sometimes used them for instructional purpose.

Most of the drawings included in this post are by the prime example of academic drawing of the period: Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1780-1867). Ingres was the undisputed leader of the École des Beaux-Arts after the death of David. Ingres was David’s star pupil and had been awarded the Prix de Rome from the French Government, allowing him to study directly from classical works in Rome. He returned to Paris in 1841 and dominated teaching at the École.

EDUCATIONAL DRAWINGS

Individual parts of the body, from the plaster cast

Anonymous study of plaster foot. Musée d’Orsay. Paris, France.

Before students were allowed to work on the human figure, each was required to produce convincing two-dimensional reproductions of plaster casts made from ancient statuary. Greek and Roman works were considered representations of ideal beauty, and were often created using complex mathematical equations in pursuit of the Golden Mean.

The intent of this approach was to firmly establish a foundational concept of the human body in each student’s practice before he or she encountered wide-ranging variation in the natural human figure.

From the Nude

From the early Renaissance to the mid-nineteenth century, mastering the human body was considered the supreme challenge and goal of academic painters.

This foundation was especially necessary for commercial success in France, where the most lucrative commissions came in the form of patriotic history paintings comparing the new French Republic to classical democracies in Greece and Rome.

The live drawing sessions were overseen by the head teacher of the École. In the beginning of the century, David arranged the school’s schedule around live model drawing.

The art critic Etienne-Jean Delécluze described the approach of Jacques-Louis David, who is responsible for the trajectory of the École in the first half of the century:

“in the eaves . . . facing the Pont des Arts . . . the model was posed twice a week, or rather every ten days, at the time. For the first six days the model was posed nude; the last three days, a model for the head only, and the studio was closed on the tenth day.”

These drawings did not relate to any particular painting, but were understood to assist the painter in his mastery of the human figure.

Years after receiving his first lessons in drawing the nude from David, Ingres was one of the most prominent portrait painters in Europe. In a surviving drawing, we can see that even when working with a fully-clothed sitter, Ingres used his understanding of human anatomy to understand the structure of the body beneath the clothing.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. Study for the “Portrait of the Baronne James de Rothschild,” c. 1848. Graphite on paper, 8 BY 5 1/8IN. (20.4 BY 13CM.). Musée Bonnat, Bayonne.

I’m fairly confident that Ingres died not tell the Baronne that he was imagining her in the nude.

PREPARATORY DRAWINGS FOR PAINTINGS
There were, broadly speaking, three classes of drawings created by artists trained in the École in the process of making a painting: the première pensée, the esquisse peinte, and the croquis. Again, Ingres will be used as the example.

The première pensée
Drawings were seen as the beginning of the painting process. An artist’s first idea, or première pensée, would be captured in a rough sketch with the intent of developing composition. Successive drawings would develop the idea found in the original and create a clearer or more thoughtful expression of what had only originally been sketched. Detail such as figures, stance and gestures come into focus.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Study for “The Odalisque with a Slave,” 1839. Pen and ink on paper, 6 1/4 by 7 1/4IN. (16 BY 18.5CM.). Musée Ingres, Montauban, France.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Odalisque with a Slave. 1839.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Study for “The Odalisque with a Slave,” 1839. Pen and ink, white pastel, and gouache on paper, 6 1/4 by 7 1/4IN. (34.5 BY 47.5CM.). Louvre. Paris, France.

The croquis

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Study of Hands and Feet for “The Golden Age,” (1862), graphite on paper. Louvre, Paris, France.

Throughout the drafting process, areas of the painting that pose particularly difficult challenges (e.g. hands, feet, linen folds, facial expressions) are drawn sometimes multiple times and in multiple positions. In this way the adage of “measure twice, cut once” was applied to painting. In this way the artist could test multiple approaches to individual areas of the painting without jeopardizing the entire work.

Jun 27, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas | 5 Comments »

Surprised by Alphonse Mucha in Madrid

I went to Madrid to continue research on Spanish painters, and left with an obsession for the Czech painter Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939).

Photograph of the CaixaForum building’s vertical garden.

While walking to a cafe next to my hotel, I stumbled onto an exhibition on Mucha. Titled Alphonse Mucha: Seduction, Modernity, and Utopia, the exhibition is a joint effort between CaixaForum and the Mucha Foundation. It will be on show at CaixaForums new building, located across the street from the Prado, until August 31.

The CaixaForum is the cultural wing of the Caixa Bank. Banks in Spain are required by law to use a percentage of their profits for cultural purposes. As a result, many important exhibitions, like this one, have come to Spain in the past few years. As a rule they are free to the public, and are almost always accompanied by beautiful catalogs. Unfortunately, these catalogs, like the one accompanying the Mucha exhibition, are almost never available in stores or online.

Photograph of Alphonse Mucha (1906)

Alphonse Mucha was born in Moravia (the modern-day Czech Republic). At the age of 25, he began studies at Academy of Fine Arts in Munich. Two years later, he would move to Paris and study at the prestigious Academie Julien in France.

Eventually, he would become friends with Gauguin and participate in Symbolist art shows with Bonnard, Grasset, Toulouse-Lautrec, Mallarmé and Verlaine. His participation in Symbolism, which has underlying metaphysical and religious beliefs, went hand in hand with his participation in Freemasonry.

Mucha was initiated in the Masonic Lodge of Paris in 1898 and continued to practice Freemasonry until he died, including references to it in many of his works.

One of my favorite moments in the exhibition came from a group of school children visiting at the same time I was. Their teacher asked them: “Does anyone know what a Masonic Lodge is?” The students seemed puzzled and no one was able to answer the question. Lesson: Don’t expect a group of students in a country where 94% of the public is Catholic to know much about Masonry.
Besides being an important Symbolist, Mucha was one of the most influential players in the development of Art Nouveau, for which he is most remembered.

His Work

Alphonse Mucha. Madonna of the Lilies. (1905) Oil on canvas. Mucha Museum, Prague

One of the great discoveries of this exhibition for me was Mucha’s ability to paint in oils. Had I only seen his posters, which often use a limited palette and solid colors separated by black lines, I would not think these paintings were his.

Alphonse Mucha. The Apotheosis of the Slavs. (1926) Oil on canvas. Private collection

In contrast to the posters, the oils are full of light and use a generous palette. His ability to gradate from one color to another is extraordinary. While looking at The Apotheosis of the Slavs (1926), I thought of late-fifteenth-century paintings by Bellini, where he was just beginning to use oil rather than tempera, egg-based paints. Almost overnight, Bellini was able to make smooth shadows and gradual changes in color that were previously impossible. Mucha seems to crown nearly five hundred years of oil painting with a symphony of color that seamlessly glides from one bright color to another.

The Slav Epic

Photograph of Alphonse Mucha at the opening of the Exhibition of The Slav Epic. (1919) Klementinum, Prague.

In 1911, Mucha had returned to Prague–never to return to Paris–and began creating his magnum opus: The Slav Epic. In over fifteen years of work, he created 20 paintings measuring nearly 18 by 20 feet each. Ten of the paintings depict historical events related specifically to the Czech nation. The other ten depict spiritual and mythological events in the history the Slavic race. The paintings, now in Prague, were missing for thirty years. Unbeknownst to his family, Mucha had rolled them up and hidden them from Nazi occupiers.

Alphonse Mucha. The Abolition of Serfdom in Russia. (1914) Tempera on canvas. Mucha Museum, Prague

Strangely, Mucha began his epic portrayal of his people at about the same time that Joaquín Sorolla had begun Visions of Spain, which was done in a similarly large scale.

Alphonse Mucha. Holy Mount Athos. (1926) Tempera on canvas. Mucha Museum, Prague

In can’t wait to go to Prague to see the large canvases myself, and to learn more about Alphonse Mucha.

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Jun 24, 2008 | Art, Classical, Historical, Ramblings/Ideas, museums | 1 Comment »

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Painting Study by Lord Frederick Leighton

Lord Frederick Leighton, Study for Captive Andromache (1888); White and black chalk on brown paper

Lord Frederick Leighton, Captive Andromache (1888), DETAIL

Lord Frederick Leighton, Captive Andromache (1888). Click here for a larger image.

I was researching another artist when I stumbled across the website for Leighton House Museum, dedicated to preserving the memory and collection of the painter Lord Frederick Leighton. The Museum has digitized its collection of his drawings.

Leighton was appointed President of the Royal Academy in London in 1878. His highly realistic approach to this sketch reflects the values of the Academy in his day.

As can be seen above, the woman in his sketch is much younger than that appearing in the final version of the painting. The purpose of the sketch was to explore the drapery and not the woman’s features, which accounts for the lack of detail in the face and limbs and the detail in the fabric that faithfully appears in the final work.

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The play Andromache by Euripides is well-worth reading. Here is a link to an online summary. Here is a link to the full play.

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Apr 30, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas, museums | Leave A Comment »

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Are we training artists or publicists?

Disclaimer: This post briefly discusses the work of an artist that some may find offensive.

Rembrant, Self portrait in his studio (1629)

The recent, morally-objectionable work of a Yale University student has some questioning the current state of art education in this and other US universities. It makes me wonder if schools are training artists or public relations experts.

The student, Aliza Shvarts, “preformed repeated self-induced miscarriages” after inseminating herself with sperm from volunteers. The “performance” was part of an undergraduate art project meant to raise questions about abortion, society, and the female body.

The Yale Daily News interviewed Shvart in an article titled “For senior, abortion a medium for art, political discourse.” (Side note: If abortion is considered a “medium,” what else can be considered part of an artist’s toolkit? Car wrecks? Assault? Suicide?) From the article:

The display of Schvarts’ project will feature a large cube suspended from the ceiling of a room in the gallery of Green Hall. Schvarts will wrap hundreds of feet of plastic sheeting around this cube; lined between layers of the sheeting will be the blood from Schvarts’ self-induced miscarriages mixed with Vaseline in order to prevent the blood from drying and to extend the blood throughout the plastic sheeting.

Schvarts will then project recorded videos onto the four sides of the cube. These videos, captured on a VHS camcorder, will show her experiencing miscarriages in her bathrooom tub, she said. Similar videos will be projected onto the walls of the room.

Shvarts is quoted as saying: “I think I am creating a project that lives up to the standard of what art is supposed to be.” She also stated, “I hope it inspires some sort of discourse.”

“It inadvertently raises an entirely different set of questions: How exactly is Yale teaching its undergraduates to make art? Is her project a bizarre aberration or is it within the range of typical student work?“ wrote Michael Lewis in a recent article for the Wall Street Journal, discussing Shvarts’ work.
Lewis, a Professor of Art at Williams College, goes on to explore a series of issues central to how anyone begins to assess art:

It is often said that great achievement requires in one’s formative years two teachers: a stern taskmaster who teaches the rules and an inspirational guru who teaches one to break the rules. But they must come in that order. Childhood training in Bach can prepare one to play free jazz and ballet instruction can prepare one to be a modern dancer, but it does not work the other way around. One cannot be liberated from fetters one has never worn; all one can do is to make pastiches of the liberations of others. And such seems to be the case with Ms. Shvarts.

Amen. Futher on, he writes:

Immaturity, self-importance and a certain confused earnestness will always loom large in student art work. But they will usually grow out of it. What of the schools that teach them? Undergraduate programs in art aspire to the status of professional programs that award MFA degrees, and there is often a sense that they too should encourage the making of sophisticated and challenging art, and as soon as possible. Yale, like most good programs, requires its students to achieve a certain facility in drawing, although nowhere near what it demanded in the 1930s, when aspiring artists spent roughly six hours a day in the studio painting and life drawing, and an additional three on Saturday.

Given the choice of this arduous training or the chance to proceed immediately to the making of art free of all traditional constraints, one can understand why all but a few students would take the latter. But it is not a choice that an undergraduate should be given. In this respect — and perhaps only in this respect — Ms. Shvarts is the victim in this story.

Double Amen.

Two weeks ago, my wife and I had dinner with a professor of art at a top-25 ranked US university. I am not a professor of art nor an artist. I am an art historian accustomed to studying artist studios and schools a hundred years old or older where artists used to train. I wanted to find the answer to a seeming contradiction: how can universities teach art in an climate where anything seems permissible? What standards are used by educators to determine whether or not a student is making progress or if he or she is even good?

In answering my questions, the professor stayed away from terms like “good” and “bad,” preferring to refer to students as being “unique” and “individually inspired.” He summed up the teaching method as making sure students “hit what they are aiming at.” The professor was repulsed by my ideas regarding classical training as being necessary for artistic excellence. He believed such training was optional. In some cases, he considered training as intolerant of and damaging to nascent artistic talent. In other words, unhindered artistic talent is the goal. Consequently, untrained immaturity is confused with unsullied innocence. Not only should artists not be taught, but teaching can be damaging and morally repugnant.

I wondered what Yo-Yo Ma, who is currently part of a large, non-classical orchestra project, would say about squashing his capacity or freedom through rigorous training.

As William F. Buckley, Jr. once said referring to a similarly confusing turn of logic, I wanted to “knock something off the table to make sure that gravity still functioned.”

A culture where standards are absent leads to what I call “the artistic arms race.” When there are no standards for judging what is good or bad (or skilled versus unskilled), art is judged by the attention it receives. Courting controversy becomes the standard method for success. Controversy then equals quality. The skills necessary for creating art are more aligned with Public Relations than with trained artistic talent.

I am not saying that there are no standards in all or even most universities. Dr. Lewis, who wrote the Wall Street Journal article, teaches art at a US university. He obviously has standards.

I know living artists who are extremely gifted and work hard to develop those gifts. I like some of their art and I don’t like others’. This is not a question of producing art that the majority of people like–though that would be nice too. It is not about dumbing down art or lowering standards.

For me, this is about progress. Can art progress without rigor or discipline? Science is progressing, answering questions that it was asking in decades past and coming up with new questions. Is art progressing or is it rotting?

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Apr 28, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas | 3 Comments »

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American Artist Interview with the Painter Jacob Collins

Male Figure by Jacob Collins (Graphite and white chalk on paper, 2001) From Jacob Collins’ website.

If there is one living painter who combines talent, practiced craft, and high intellect, it’s Jacob Collins. Based in New York City, he is one of a small group of contemporary painters looking back at the tradition of Academic painting.

Thinking Man by Jacob Collins (Oil on canvas, 30 X 20 in., 2004). From Jacob Collins’ website.

Last year, I had the opportunity to spend a weekend with Jacob. His passion is electrifying. With it, he has opened three schools for the training of new artists in traditional academic techiniques, such as rigorous draftsmanship, first from plaster casts and, then, nude models. He is uncompromising in his approach to his own work and instills the same in his own students. The results can be seen in his own work.

Fire Island Sunset by Jacob Collins (Oil, 2004, 24 X 38 in.) Private Collection. Illustrated on the American Artist Magazine website.

Allison Malifronte of American Artist Magazine recently talked with Jacob. The interview pincipally focuses on his latest school, The Hudson River School for Landscape, based on the group of artists from the nineteenth century by the same name. Here is an excerpt from Malifronte’s conversation. (Note “AA” refers to American Artist Magazine, not a twelve-step program.):

AA: If you could offer an aspiring landscape painter one piece of advice, what would it be?

JC: Last year I read Asher B. Durand’s “Letters on Landscape Painting,” and I was struck by the advice he gave to aspiring landscape artists to draw the individual pieces of the landscape for as long as it takes to understand them before putting it all together. He recommended perhaps even years of drawing branches of trees and rocks, outcroppings, and clusters of trees with a sharp pencil, seeing them as the alphabet of the landscape. I was impressed with his analogy that trying to paint a landscape without learning this alphabet was like trying to write a novel without learning the letters and words of language.

(For the full article, click here.)

As lover of art, I appreciate this kind coverage of Jacob Collins. It shows that there is a greater diversity in current art production than glossy magazines and blockbuster contemporary exhibitions would lead many to believe. And, Malifronte’s interview focuses on the craftsmanship of Jacob’s work. Her questions do a wonderful job of capturing what drives his passion on ground level, not just a 10,000-foot view of his work. This is an approach that makes American Artist Magazine such a valuable resource for not only artists, but for art historians, dealers, and collectors of art. (No, they did not pay me to write that.)

As an art historian, it allows me to understand what is happening in the mind of an artist looking back at the nineteenth century that doesn’t survive in remaining nineteenth century journals. I have read Eugene Delacroix’s journals (and others’), and I do not feel that he wrote much of his working method down in a context that we can easily piece it together. This could be because he lived in a culture where much of his approach was ubiquitous and mundane. The shortening of Jacob’s name in the article to “JC” may be most appropriate because he is resurrecting not just the art, but the understanding–and, therefore, the appreciation–of it.

For more paintings by Jacob Collins, I highly suggest visiting his website here. It has a large collection of images of his work. (My only complaint is that there is not more recent work available on it.)

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Apr 08, 2008 | Art, Classical, Ramblings/Ideas | Leave A Comment »

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Masters & Pupils: The Artistic Succession from Perugino to Manet (1480-1880)

Cover of the book by Gert-Rudolf Flick

Many would be surprised to learn that Manet, considered by many to be the first artist of the modern period, was the last in a long line of teachers going back to Perugino. In his book Masters& Pupils: The Artistic Succession from Perugino to Manet 1480 to 1880, Gert-Rudolf Flick traces the artistic genealogy of Manet connecting him to Carracci, Raphael and many of the greatest artists in Western history.

From the inside flap:

The line of descent that connects Perugino with Manet is made up of just eighteen artists. Some are household names such as Raphael and David. Others, for example, Horace Le Blanc and Louis Boullogne, have fallen into obscurity. All are connected by a common bond: the belief that art could be taught and learned, and that skill and knowledge would be passed on from an older artist to a younger. With Manet, the succession came to a halt, marking the end of a great tradition but also the beginning of the modern art wold, in which the desirability of teaching art has been thrown into question.

Flick traces the genealogy with an in-depth exploration of each artist in the line–eighteen in all–together with examples of each artist’s work.

These days, we do not talk much about the dynastic traditions carried down from one artist to another. For example, we talk of philosophical connections between Warhol and Banksy, but not where they studied. The idea of training an artist seems counter to the freedom inherent in our conception of “artistic expression.” How can an artist be trained by someone and, then, be expected to create something worthwhile?

The idea that tradition and training stifles an artist’s god-given talent may have begun with Manet. Together with other artists of his day, he had an antagonistic relationship with the art establishment in Paris.
In the last half of the nineteenth century, the annual Paris Salons were the premiere showcase for painters. Over 20,000 people would visit the Salon daily. Artists whose work appeared in the show were much more likely to be commercially successful. For every painting shown in the Salon ten were rejected.

A group of elite people, a mix of government appointees and past winners judged the Salon and accepted or rejected paintings. These judges were often teachers in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and would reward their own students. It was a system that had tremendous stakes for artists who felt artistic merit was often subject to nepotism and rigid decisions. (For a very entertaining and accurate description of this struggle in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, I suggest reading Ross King’s The Judgment of Paris: The Revolutionary Decade that Gave the World Impressionism.)

It was, I believe, this institutional favoritism–teacher favoring student–in the academic system that led to the ultimate downfall of the master and pupil system. It bred a resentment in Manet’s generation, ultimately resulting a series of artistic movements (e.g. Impressionism, Divisionism, Futurism, etc.) that opposed academic training. By rejecting the system and encouraging others to do the same, Manet laid the foundation for its destruction.

Flick remains even-handed in his approach to the topic; not casting doubt on the idea that artists are born not trained. Reading the book, it is difficult to not come to the conclusion that the system should have been reformed rather than lost.

While it is true that there are many talented artists today, few of them can participate in a system that allows them to instill that talent in another generation. As a result, each generation discovers painting for themselves. This leads to a lot of fresh ideas, but severs them and us from the experience that leads to deeper understanding.

If Newton “stood on the shoulders of Giants,” where do the artists from Manet to today place their feet? That is the question that haunts this book and one that we need to have a serious debate about.

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Apr 06, 2008 | Art, Baroque, Classical, Historical, Impressionism, Ramblings/Ideas | Leave A Comment »

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