The Spring Salon Catalogue: An Experiment in Art Criticism
Recently, I was asked to judge the annual Springville Museum of Art Spring Salon. The contest has taken place for nearly 90 years, with over 2,000 annual submissions exclusively from full-time artists.
Cover for the First Annual Spring Salon Critical Catalogue. (We based the design on the official catalogue for 1874 Salon for the Société des Artistes Français, also known as the Paris Salon.)
For a full PDF catalogue, click below:
- Full Catalogue LARGE size (30 mb)–featuring higher quality images of each work.
- Full Catalogue, REDUCED size (2 mb)–Due to the reduction, some images my not appear in true color.
I thought it would be fun to create a nineteenth-century-style critical catalogue for the event, in the tradition of the catalogues that used to be made for the Paris Salons. So, I teamed up with a good friend and thoughtful writer, Philipp Malzl, to write on selected works from the contest. Neither of us have worked as critics before. But, we don’t know about any models for the kind of art criticism we would like to see.
Each review is brief–some are a sentence, others three paragraphs. Our intent was to create something readable and entertaining for a large audience–artists and non-artists–and not for an elite audience. At the same time, we wanted to educate by tying contemporary art into a larger tradition that is often ignored or not understood by many contemporary artists and critics who only know art as far back as the beginning of the twentieth century.
I haven’t sent it out to many people yet. This is what I would consider a “preliminary draft.” I wold be very interested in knowing what you think about it.
I don’t know if anyone else is doing anything like this right now, especially for contemporary art in the classical tradition. If this catalogue is truly insightful, I hope it is the first of many.
Reader Question: What’s on my nightstand?
Fernando Álvarez de Sotomayor y Zaragoza (Spanish, 1875-1960) Retrato del padre Villalba (Portrait of Father Villalba) 86 X 100 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
___
Recently, I received an email from a BeardedRoman reader asking me for list of books on my nightstand. I thought I would post my answer here. And, I would love to know what is on your nightstand too.
I regularly get book recommendations from readers, and I love it. Through their suggestions and my own research projects, over the years I have built a large library. (At last count, I have nearly 1,500 books.) I have books piled by bed and all around my house. No, I have not read all of them–some were only bought for a single, useful chapter. Other I have read multiple times.
The books I have listed below are literally the ones that have been by my bed. I have my finger in every one of them and have been bouncing between them all for weeks. They don’t necessarily relate to any current work I am doing–that’s another pile. These are what I am reading for fun. As I made the list, I was surprised at how many were directly related to art history. (No wonder I am boring at parties.) But, as you can see from the list, my second love is poetry.
Books on my nightstand. (Or, more accurately, the ones piled around my bed.)
____
After naming the book and the author, I have written a very brief personal impression of each book.
- Titian: The Last Days by Mark Hudson. There are few straight biographies of Titian. Most that I have read are a scholarly studies of the artist’s works combined with political and social commentary that would not be anything like reading the biography of, say, Benjamin Franklin. I’ve learned something about time an place from Hudson’s book; but, overall I have struggled to get through it. Hudson seems to be as interested in talking about himself as he is about Titian.
- French Art in Nineteenth-Century Britain by Edward Morris. This is a great study of the relationship between the French and British at a time when the great international arms race was the arts. France was winning and the British couldn’t help but admire the art it.
- Hopes and Fears for Art by William Morris. Morris was the philosophical and moral leader of the Arts & Crafts movement that was a reaction against industrialization. This is an impassioned lecture he gave in defense of his movement.
- Master of Shadows by Mark Lamster. This biography of Rubens is one of the best books I have read on any subject in a long time. Weaving together Rubens with the political and artistic dramas of his time, it is clear that the artist was as much a diplomat as a painter. I fell in love with Rubens again; both his art and his humanity.
- A Theory of Craft: Function and Aesthetic Expression by Kenneth R. Trapp. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with the role of craftsmanship versus concept in art. Does the way somethings is made matter; or, is it the final product that counts?
- The End of the Salon: Art and the State in the Early Third Republic by Patricia Mainardi. A very good discussion on how one of the most important institutions in the history of art fizzled out.
- The Craftsman’s Handbook (Il Libro dell’Arte) by Cennino d’Andrea Cennini, trans. by Daniel V. Thompson, Jr. Perhaps one of the most widely-read handbooks for artists, this book is a lot of fun to read. Cennini wasn’t always accurate; but, he does give an important insight into the practical considerations of making art in 15th-century Florence.
- The Materials of the Artist and their Use in Painting by Mac Doerner. So much of art history is about social and political history. I am anxious to learn more about the objects and how they were and art made.
- Consider the Lobster and Other Essays by David Foster Wallace. A recommendation from a friend, I cried while reading his essay on Dostoevsky.
- Velázquez by Aureliano de Beruete (Foreword by Léon Bonnat). Bonnat wrote the foreword just after being made Director of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. His first sentence: “I was brought up in the worship of Velázquez.”
- Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures by Michael Baxandall. Baxandall shatters me with almost every sentence. He has changed the way I’ve thought about paintings. Example: ” . . . to say we ‘explain a picture as covered by a description’ can conveniently be seen as another way of saying that we explain, first, thoughts we have had about the picture, and only secondarily the picture.”
- Emulation: David, Drouais, and Girodet in the Art of Revolutionary France by Thomas Crow. An amazing recreation of the events and journals of three of the most influential painters of the nineteenth-century. Very thoughtful.
- A Face to the World: on Self-Portraits by Laura Cumming. I wish I had written this book! Cumming writes about why artists make self-portraits and why we love looking at them.
- Essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I have been reading his essay “The Poet” over and over again. It’s like scripture: each reading gets more meaningful.
- Seeing through Paintings by Andrea Kirsh and Rustin S. Levenson. A chemical analysis by two scientists on how art is made.
- The Infinity of Lists by Umberto Eco. Ever want to know how many demons have ever been named in Western literature? The basic premise of the book is that there is a history of list making in Western literature. From the Bible and Homer to Joyce, the lists say something about our culture. It’s a surprising and entertaining read.
- Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy by Michael Baxandall. My favorite quote: “Art was too important for artists.”
- Seven Days in the Art World by Sarah Thornton. This is an mind-blowing, anthropological travelogue of the people who make, buy, and sell modern and contemporary art. Thornton is able to sit down with people and get candid reactions that made we alternatively laugh and want to reach through the page and strangle her interviewees.
- The Art Instinct: Beauty, Pleasure and Human Evolution by Denis Dutton. A discussion on why humans like art.
- Tiepolo Pink by Robert Calasso. Late in his career, Tiepolo did a series of 36 bizarre etchings that are rarely seen or discussed. This is a book about them.
- The Sight of Death: An Experiment in Art Writing by T. J. Clark. For several months, Clark works at the Getty Museum and sees the same paintings by Poussin day after day. This is his journal on impressions he had looking at them. It is amazing! The things he sees, the ideas he has, and the way he looks at these paintings have changed me. I want to be more like Clark. He is as much a poet as art historian.
- Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste by Pierre Bourdieu. While it is a few decades old, Distinction’s basic premise is: your education and birth are the predominant indicators of why you like the music, food, and art you do.
- Painters and Public Life in Eighteenth-Century Paris by Thomas E. Crow. Great study on how artists joined the age of mass media.
- Ingres: Painting Reimagined by Susan L. Siegfried. I just got this, and haven’t read much. But, it promises to be a new and controversial look at Ingres. Siegfried’s goals are to examine in depth Ingres’ history and genre paintings, which are largely ignored or dismissively categorized.
- Ballistics: Poems by Billy Collins. I have all of Collins’ books of poetry.
- Los Versos del Capitan (Captain’s Verses) by Pablo Neruda. I lived in Chile. Reading Neruda lets me slip back there, if only for a little while.
- Death in the Afternoon by Earnest Hemingway. This is a non-fiction book about bullfighting. As a result of studying Spanish painting, I have to know more about it. Bullfights (corridas) and bullfighters (toreros) are just part of the culture. I went to a bull fight last year at Las Ventas in Madrid. Since then, I’ve been trying to understand what happened and how I feel about it.
- Blizzard of One by Mark Strand. I have not even cracked it open yet.
Sargent and Velázquez
Note: Right now there are two remarkable exhibitions taking place: The Sacred Made Real, about religious Spanish sculpture, a loan of John Singer Sargent’s painting The Children of Darley Bolt (1882) to the Prado Museum, where it hangs next to Velázquez’s Las Meninas (c. 1656). I know I have written about Eakins and Velázquez before, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Spanish Master’s influence on nineteenth-century artists. For me it is a source of endless curiosity and one of the more unexplored aspects of the period.
John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925 ) Crucifix (1879) Oil on canvas. Private Collection.
When John Singer Sargent travelled to Spain in 1879 his approach to painting fundamentally and irrevocably changed. There his understanding of painting was forever infused by the restrained palette, virtuosic brushwork and reverence for nature learned principally from Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660).
Sargent travelled to Spain at a time when France, the center of the international art world, had rediscovered Spanish masters. King Louis-Philippe’s Galerie Espagnole (1835-1853) and the marriage of Emperor Napoleon III to Eugenie Contador, a Grandée of Spain (1853), brought a newfound appreciation to the Spanish Golden Age and its artists that excited a generation of artists working in Paris.
Édouard Manet, Léon Bonnat, Jean-Léon Gêrome, Thomas Eakins, Julian Alden Weir, William Merritt Chase, and many others travelled to Madrid to copy works found almost exclusively in the Prado Museum. Chief among the artists copied by foreigners was Diego Velázquez, considered a new, viable alternative to French classical models that dominated Academic painting.
Sargent was a student at the prestigious and exclusive École des Beaux-Arts, when his instructors Carolus-Duran (French, 1837-1917) and Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) suggested that his development as an artist would improve dramatically from a visit to Spain. Sargent visited the Prado Museum multiple times from October to November in 1879. The official Registry of Copiers records Sargent copying The Crucifixion (c. 1632), Las Meninas (c. 1656), and Las Hilanderas (c. 1644) by Velázquez.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 by 290 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
As court painter to Philip IV of Spain, Velázquez was employed by the most powerful country on earth. However, unlike many other Baroque painters of his time, whose grandiose works were showcases of extravagant colors, exotic creatures, and obscure subjects,Velázquez’s work features everyday people in everyday settings. Even his few religious and mythological works are notable for not idealizing their subjects.
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fd/Nicolas_Poussin_052.jpg
The French discovery of Velázquez came at a time when artists were breaking from a long-standing tradition of Classicism, which shunned Realism in favor of idealized subjects and painterly technique that obscured the artist’s hand. In Paris, Sargent’s education was considered the best in the world. It emphasized compositional formulas based on the Greco-Roman tradition as interpreted by French masters such as Nicolás Poussin (French, 1594-1665) and, later, Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825). Their approach to art required rigorous draftsmanship that often resulted in statuesque, figures in classical landscapes or architecture. This interpretation of classicism was the official style in Europe for nearly 300 years. The rigidity of Academic painting limited the kinds of subjects artists could produce for competition and patronage.
José de Ribera (Spanish, 1591-1652) El sueño de Jacob (1639) Oil on canvas. 179 by 233 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
When Louis-Philippe opened his Galerie Espagnole in 1835, works by Velázquez, José de Ribera (Spanish, 1591-1652) and Francisco Zurburán (Spanish, 1598-1664) were introduced to the French public for the first time. Working at the same time as the founding fathers of French art, these Spanish artists offered an alternate classicism that emphasized nature.
The study of Velázquez’s work changed a generation of French artists’ approach. Unlike many Academic painter, Velázquez was unafraid to leave distinguishable brushstrokes on his canvases. Thick strokes of paint are clearly visible, demonstrating both his virtuosic skills–capable of reproducing an astonishing array of textures–and making the painting more of a three-dimensional work. His palette is limited, almost exclusively earth tones. When Velázquez did use color, it was muted, rather than garish; and, therefore, subjects appear more lifelike. Whether painting mythological figures, royal portraits, or multi-layered religious narratives, Velázquez captures the natural surroundings and features of his subjects without idealizing them. As a result, he exalts and dignifies the truth while simultaneously making them more approachable.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) Martínez Montañés ejecutando el busto de Felipe IV (c. 1635) Oil on canvas. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
In Crucifixion, Sargent paints one of Velázquez’s most repeated subjects: the crucified Christ. It is important to note that, rather than the actual cricified Christ, both Velázquez and Sargent painted wooden crucifixes. Velázquez was influenced and mentored by the Spanish sculptor Juan Martínez Montañés (1568-1649).
Juan Martínez Montañés (Spanish, 1568-1645( Cristo de la Clemencia o de los Cálices (c. 1604) Seville, Spain
Known as the Michelangelo of wood, Montañés created hundreds of religious sculptures that are still in use in religious festivals. The crucifix in Velázquez’s La venerable madre Jerónima de la Fuente (c. 1620) and Sargent’s Crucifixion are both based on Montañés models.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) La venerable madre Jerónima de la Fuente (c. 1620) Oil on canvas. 160 by 110 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
In his Crucifixion, Sargent captures a private moment of meditation on Christ’s sacrifice. The crucifix hangs on a chapel wall while light streams from an upper window.
John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925 ) Crucifix (1879) Oil on canvas. Private Collection. Detail.
Using a wooden crucifix, rather than a realistic Christ, emphasizes the religious experience of the viewer, rather than Christ’s experience on the cross. This is a meditation on what reflecting on the crucifixion means to the viewer well after the event has taken place. Sargent capitalizes on this reflection by using Velázquez’s technique of broad visible brushstrokes. This allows the mind of the viewers to fill in the details and, therefore, participate in the subject in a way that incites the imagination like no detailed rendition could. Sargent also adopts Velázquez’s use of ochres. The nearly monochrome palette draws greater attention to Sargent’s remarkable brushwork, which like Velázquez, is unabashedly visible, at times broadly defining Christ figure and at others using miniscule strokes.
These hallmarks of Velázquez’s technique were studied and absorbed by Sargent. He transmuted them into his own French education and used the two to become the world’s most sought-after portraitist and, arguably, the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century.
Marie Antoinette (1876) by the Unlikely Lord Ronald Gower
Henry Scott Tuke, R.A. (British, 1858-1929) Lord Ronald Gower (1897) Oil on canvas 24 by 20 in. National Portrait Gallery, London.
The youngest son of the powerful Duke of Sutherland, Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) was educated at Eton and Cambridge. He distinguished himself as a popular politician, serving in the British Parliament from 1867-1874. Following his political career, Gower became an unlikely, critically-acclaimed sculptor and an historical writer. In the words of his mother, the Duchess of Sutherland, Gower had “a certain unpractical side of his character.”
Gower’s first serious attempt at sculpting was, ironically, for his mother’s grave in 1868. He collaborated with Matthew Noble (British, 1818-1876) who was hired for a memorial befitting the Duchess. Noble was the son of a stonemason who studied sculpture in London. Chronically ill from childhood, Noble nonetheless exhibited regularly at the Royal Academy’s annual exhibition until he died at the age of 58. Though Gower mentions Noble as a major influence in his artistic development, the ex-politician was largely self-taught.
Untrained and unmotivated by financial gain, Gower was derisively considered a “gentleman sculptor.” Despite all this, his work received international critical and popular praise. Gower’s sculptures were accepted to the Paris Salons of 1880 and 1881, the Paris International Exhibition of 1878, and numerous competitions at the Royal Academy, placed alongside sculptures by Alfred Leighton.
Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) Marie Antoinette (1876) Bronze. Height: 46 in. Private National Gallery, London.
The first public sculpture by Lord Gower was Marie Antoinette (1876), completed two years after his retirement from politics. Eight years later, Gower published Marie Antoinette: An Historical Sketch (1885). Both the sculpture and the book were part of a larger late-nineteenth-century reexamination of Marie Antoinette’s reputation. Gower’s works joined a chorus of scholars who asserted that the Queen was a scapegoat of unrestrained revolutionary fervor.
During French Revolution of 1889, angry mobs gathered around Versailles and successfully captured King Luis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette. The King was quickly executed, while the Queen was kept under arrest, where she refused to eat or move. In the weeks that followed, révolutionnaires cast Marie Antoinette as the personification of Royal excess and frivolity. Her fate became a national debate. During a two-day show trail, filled with unsubstantiated accusations of gross immorality, Marie Antoinette refused to defend herself, saying “If I have not replied it is because Nature itself refuses to respond to such a charge laid against a mother.” Fearing rising sympathy for the deposed Queen, the Revolutionary Tribunal cut short her trial. A mother of four and 37 years old, Marie Antoinette was publicly and summarily beheaded on October 16, 1789 at 12:15 p.m. The incident was famously captured by Jacques-Louis David, a passionate supporter of the revolution–in his humiliating sketch of the Queen on the platform of the guillotine.
Jaques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825) Marie Antoinette one the Day of Execution (October 16, 1793) Pen and ink on paper. 150 by 100 mm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
Lord Gower’s sculpture of Marie Antoinette (1876) preceded his biography by nine years, indicating the subject had preoccupied him for some time. Gower depicts the deposed Queen being led to the guillotine. With hands tied behind her back and hair shorn to elicit further humiliation, the deposed Queen walks forward, resolutely and unbowed.
The work is not a technical masterpiece. Anatomically it is more stylistic than correct. Like so many of the the artists featured on this blog, there are very few examples of Gower’s work available for public view and almost no images to speak of. However, Gower’s last work, Hamlet (1888) is perhaps his best and most memorable.
In 1883, the city of Stratford-Upon-Avon commissioned Lord Gower to create a memorial to the city’s most famous citizen: William Shakespeare. Gower worked for five years at his own expense. (In his memoirs, Gower claims it cost him an average of £500 per year, which he never charged the city.)
Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) Hamlet (1888) Bronze. Life-size. Stratford-upon-Avon, United Kingdom. Photo via Wall Flower Gone Wild, Flickr.
Though he lived another 28 years, Lord Gower declared the monument his last work and never sculpted again.
I’m back. I hope you are, too.
It has been an embarrassingly long time since I last posted. Several of you have written, asking if I had finished or been finished.
Thank you.
Each note of encouragement and bewilderment at my absence has propelled me forward. I plan on spending the next couple of weeks responding with mountains of gratitude. (The surprising news is that, despite my absence, readership of BeardedRoman has increased by nearly 30 percent.)
It’s been a epic year for BeardedRoman; one that has prematurely peppered my chin with grey hairs. Four principal things that have kept me away:
Main Library. University Colllege London, London, UK
1. I started a doctorate at the University of London.
Anthony Alexander (Born March 2009)
2. My second son was born. (My wife did all the hard work.)
Pneumonia is not a recommended method for weight loss.
3. Pneumonia crippled me for almost three months. I’ve fully recovered and am running at full capacity.
Christmas at the Christensens 2009
4. We moved from London back to the United States–just in time for Christmas–and have been setting up a house, buying cars, getting back to work and experiencing a perpetual family reunion ever since.
Moving forward, I hope to not repeat my prolonged absence. If you’re still here, I’m grateful.
75th Annual Grosvenor House Art & Antiques Fair
Sir John Everett Millais (Brittish, 1829-1896) For the Squire (1882) Oil on canvas. The Fine Art Society, London. (Detail). See the end of this post for more on the painting.
It’s been over for a week, but I feel compelled to post pictures from my visit to the Grosvenor House Art & Antiques Fair. Before it ended, I was able to spend several hours with dealers and buyers one of the longest-running and grandest art fairs in Europe.
Despite the gloom and doom supposedly hovering over the art world, there was a great deal of optimism from both dealers and collectors at the Fair. I came on the next to last day, and nearly everyone of the dealers of nineteenth-century or traditional art I talked with had sold a large number of his or her inventory. This was not the case with contemporary art dealers I met. Though not scientific, to me it indicates the slow and steady, if not always sexy, appeal of working with established genres.
Bust. Cahn Basel St. Moritz, Antiquities dealers.
While there were world-class ceramics, furniture, modern art , works of silver and ancient relics, I was principally focused on nineteenth-century academic works. The photos from my visit, therefore, are a terribly unbalanced representation what was on view. Sorry.
Another thing to keep in mind: As in past review of fairs, I have taken photos of these images in person, at the fair and the results are sometimes surprisingly and sometimes less than ideal.
Thédore Géricault (French, 1791-1824) Two Galloping Horses. Pen and brown ink and brown wash, over an extensive underdrawing in black chalk. 35.3 by 48.4 cm. Stephen Ongpin Fine Art.
The first work that caught my eye was a remarkable sketch (above) by Géricault. Known for his obsession with horses–entire coffee-table books having been dedicated to them–its still startling to see one in person, and how much he can conjure with so few few lines.
Sir Edward John Poynter (France, 1836- Great Britain, 1919) Lesbia and her Sparrow (1907) Oil on canvas. 50.8 by 38.1 cm. Richard Green, London.
Someone once told me a joke: “Question: What do you call the crumbs that fall from Richard Green’s table? Answer: Cake.”
The implication was that Richard Green Galleries is remarkably consistent in getting the best of the best. Most dealers and collectors would be satisfied to have the slightest portion of what this London dealer offers.
Previous to arriving several people had suggested that if I saw one work at Grosvenor, it should be the Green’s Lesbia and her Sparrow (above). A cult following of British Olympic painters (e.g. Leighton, Tadema, Godward, and Poynter) has come fruition in the pas three decades. Poynter is one of the group’s finest, and this is one of his gems.
Lesbia was the great love of the Roman poet Gaius Valerius Catullus (c.84-52 BC) and the subject of 25 of his surviving poems. Poynter chose one in particular as the subject for this painting:
Sparrow, my girl’s darling
Whom she plays with, whom she cuddles,
Whom she likes to tempt with finger-
Tip and teases to nip harder
When my own bright-eyed desire
Fancies some endearing fun
And a small solace for her pain,
I suppose, so heavy passion then rests:
Would I could play with you as she does
And lighten the spirit’s gloomy cares!
(cited in My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead, ed. Jeffery Eugenides, Harper Perennial, London, 2009, p. x).
Poynter began his career working in stained glass and cabinetry. This probably contributed to his heightened use of color and remarkable ability to imitate various materials, a skilled often needed wood graining.
Sir Alfred Munnings (British, 1878-1959) A portrait of Frederick Henry Prince (1859-1953), Master of the Pau Foxhounds (1924) 96.5 by 114.3 cm. Richard Green Galleries, London.
Sir Alfred Munnings described Frederick Henry Prince (above) as “one of the most amazing characters I had ever met . . . a grown up boy.” This painting was commissioned by Prince, showing him at one of his favorite activities and the kind of scene Munnings had made his name producing: sporting pictures. If you are not familiar with Munnings’ work, you can be forgiven. Due to the way his paintings are sold–at sporting auctions and not nineteenth-century art auctions–outside of Great Britain, Munnings has not received the recognition his skill merits.
Everything in this painting is world class: the figures, the composition, observation of nature, and the economy of materials (note in particular the tails of the dogs; some only consisting of a single stroke.). Munnings is a genius.
Gijsbrecht Leytens (Antwerp, 1586-1656) Winter landscape with people strolling on the banks o a frozen river where children play. Oil on panel. 72 by 105 cm. Private collection, for sale by De Jonckheere Fine Art.
Leytens is one of those great Flemish painters following in the wake of the Brueghel dynasty. There were so many wrote compositions mass-produced in enromous artist studios. Works that are able to transcend the typical formulae to create something original and compelling. The light and darks Winter landscape . . . (Above, and pitifully captured by my camera) made this work visible from far away. Upon close inspection it has all the charm of cabinet paintings from the period that were often meant to be viewed with a magnifying glass.
George Smith (British, 1829-1901) The Will Found. Oil on canvas. 29 by 44 in.
Behold the power of narrative painting. A family has lost the recently-deceased patriarch’s will, and a scoundrel–seen exiting stage right–trying to take advantage of the resulting ambiguity. After searching through numerous documents–in the foreground and on the table–the will is held high and the rightful, and obviously deserving, inheritors are vindicated. Mustached evil is chased out the door by the family dog, the embodiment of fidelity.
Though I haven’t found it yet, it is highly likely that George Smith produced The Will Found to be a print. Prints and contracts with printers were often more lucrative for painters than the sale of the original work. Such was the case with Holbien in the eighteenth century.
James Webb (British, 1825-1895) Sunset over Dordrecht Harbour. Oil on canvas. 28 3/4 by 49 in.
There is disappointingly little written about James Webb, who regularly exhibited at the Royal Academy. The preponderance of his output was in watercolor, not oils. Yet, he shows an astounding facility and painterliness in this work.
James Webb (British, 1825-1895) Sunset over Dordrecht Harbour. Oil on canvas. 28 3/4 by 49 in. (Detail)
Look at this beautiful passage of clouds!
Frederick Lord Leighton (English, 1830-1896) The Sluggard (c. 1885) Bronze. 52.5 cm. Robert Bowman Galleries, London.
Robert Bowman is one of the world’s great dealers and experts of nineteenth-century sculpture. For several years he maintained both contemporary and nineteenth-century galleries. However, a few years ago, he downsized by closing his nineteenth-century gallery and showing those works almost exclusively at fairs like Maastricht and Grosvenor.
This year Bowman had several works by artists like Leighton and Rodin that can be seen in larger scale versions in museums around the world. Seeing The Sluggard (above), at this small size gave me a completely different eperience than the larger-than-life version I am used to seeing at the Royal Academy in London. While I find the larger version imposing and dynamic, this appears more delicate bring out a kind of beauty I hadn’t seen in the other. Also, the patina of this smaller work is beautifully rendered.
Camille Claudel (French, 1864-1943) L'Abandon (c. 1905) Bronze. Robert Bowman Galleries, London.
Claudel’s piece L’Abandon (above) was given a place of prestige at Bowman’s booth; and, it deserves all the attention it gets. According to Bowman:
This 1905 rare bronze . . . is the earliest edition ever seen on the open market. This is the second of an edition limited to 18, the first cast having been kept by the owners of the foundry.
Claudel, was 18 years old when she met and began a 15-year affair with August Rodin, aged 42. Understandably, Rodin had an enormous influence on her work. Bowman relates that the statue borrows from and reverses the gender roles of Eternal Spring (1881) by Rodin and is based ” on the eponymous 5th century Hindu legend in which the heroine, Sakoutala, loses the affection of her beloved prince only to regain it once more.”
Edward Hodges Baily (English, 1788-1867) Psyche (c. 1850) White marble. Robert Brown Galleries, London. (Detail)
Baily is the sculptor of the iconic statue of Lord Nelson, standing atop the column in Trafalgar Square in London, perhaps the most seen statue in the country. The monument to Nelson was completed in 1843, and Psyche (above) statue was finished the same decade.
Psyche, unlike the statue of Lord Nelson, is meant to be seen at an intimate range. The delicate butterfly is held in beautifully articulated fingers that include minute details of fingernails and lines in the palm.
Edward Hodges Baily (English, 1788-1867) Psyche (c. 1850) White marble. Robert Brown Galleries, London.
The statue is the epitome of idealistic beauty and looking at it, even briefly, can drop your blood pressure by several points.
Anonymous (Flemish) St. Martin dividing his cloak for a beggar (c. 1380) Wood with some original polychrome. 81 by 43 by 26 cm. Joanna Booth, London.
Directly across from the Bowman Galleries stall was the that of Joanna Booth, a dealer in mediaeval and archaic works of art. St. Martin dividing his cloak for a beggar (above) is a remarkably fully-realized piece. This single angle of the work does not adequately capture the full effect it has in person. The beggar with a wooden leg, the bold gesture of the Saint cutting the cloth, and the interesting choice to make one so much larger than the other, the author’s mastery in depicting varied textures. . . here it looks almost like a cartoon caricature; but, in person, it takes on a majestic air that is humbling.
Tomoléon Lobrichon (French, 1831-1914) The Toyshop Window. Oil on canvas. 44.5 by 33.5 in. Walker Galleries, North Yorkshire.
For me, going to museums is exhausting, but I rarely get weighed down at fairs like Grosvenor. This is due in part to the kind of paintings, like The Toyshop Window (above) rarely, if ever, shown at museums. Museum are after a kind of gravitas in their paintings. Unfortunately, this makes a whole category of paintings, full of charm and humor, absent from public exhibitions. Like eating heavy foods all the time, I get museum indigestion. Sometimes, I want dessert or, at least, a sorbet, to cleanse my palate.
Sir John Everett Millais (Brittish, 1829-1896) For the Squire (1882) Oil on canvas. The Fine Art Society, London.
I wanted to begin and end this post with my favorite work from the exhibition: For the Squire (above) by John Everett Millais. Millais’s works rarely appear in the private market; and, when they do, it is not often in the form of a fully-realized canvas. It is the kind of work that will never be featured in a show due to the lack of drama. It has all the so-called sentimentality that turns many off to the period.
For me there is a purity of spirit, an innocence in this work that is communicated in a way that only painting can. The narrative–the delivering of a letter–is the lightest of pretexts for painting this little girl. Unlike the style that characterized his early Pre-Raphaelite works, this painting is not consumed with details. (The background, fabric, and hair are more suggested than copied.) Done when he was 53, it seems the product of a mellowed Millais.
–
There are many, many more works not included in this post that I have uploaded to my Flickr account. (In some cases, a work is followed by a photo of its label. That’s my way of remembering what I’ve seen and where I’ve seen it.)
Darwin & Dyce: A Meeting of Art and Science
William Dyce (Scotland, 1806-1864) Pegwell Bay, Kent - a Recollection of October 5th 1858 (1859-1860) Oil on canvas 63 by 89 cm. Tate Britain, London. (Currently on loan to the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.)
Artists and art historians in the classical tradition like to point out the close relationship that art and science enjoyed from the Renaissance. Mathematical perspective, anatomical study of human and animal figures, geology, and meteorology all played serious roles in the fine arts.
This week the exhibition“Endless Forms: Charles Darwin, Natural Science and the Visual Arts” opens at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England. It features a number of contemporary reactions in the fine arts to the publication of Darwin’s Origin of the Species (1859). One of its most stunning works is by the Pre-Raphaelite painter William Dyce (Scotland, 1806-1864).
Dyce was an ardent Anglican who had painted several religious works. In 1858 he traveled to Southeastern England. There it had become fashionable for professionals and amateurs alike to dig ancient urchins, plants, and brachiopods from the chalk cliffs of Kent. At the time, there was no widely accepted scientific or religious theory to explain the fossils. It was not until one year later that Dawin published his own ideas and ignited a firestorm.
During the firestorm, from 1859 to 1860, Dyce painted Pegwell Bay, Kent – a Recollection of October 5th 1858. The title is a double entendre, referring both to his own memory of the scene and the collective rediscovery of relics from the dinosaur age. At first glance it looks like a typical, nineteenth-century landscape filled with well-bred people. Therein lies one of its great strengths: the commentary that behind something seemingly so ordinary there is a much greater issue at stake.
The painting itself has all the hallmarks of the best Pre-Raphaelite works: brilliant coloring, meticulous detail, careful observation, and poignancy of theme. For me, it is one of the great paintings of the 1850s, and one of the least known.
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.
La Academia dei Desidorosi: A Pre-cursor to the Nineteenth-Century Academy
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609) Study of a Left Hand (c. 1575) White and black chalk on blue paper. 27.1 by 39.1 cm. Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris.
There is a growing phenomena of painting and sculpting studios working to resurrect models of art education from the past. Some of the schools I am thinking of include the Grand Central Academy of Art in New York, The Florence and Angel Academies of Art in Florence, and the Los Angeles Academy of Figurative Art in California. There are many more. As an enthusiastic supporter, I have come to know some of the artists who have founded and attended some of these schools. In almost every case, these artists refer to a handful of foundational books that have influenced their approach.
The bible of most seems to be the late Albert Boime’s book, The Academy and Painting in the Nineteenth Century. In it, Boime takes bird’s-eye and ground-level views of studio practice in the French Ecole des Beaux-Arts from its foundation in the seventeenth century to its height of influence in the nineteenth century. It is a foundational text and deserves a great deal of attention.
Those who have read Boime’s work may be surprised at how many different classical academic models there were in the nineteenth century and before. Knowing the plurality of approaches and their strengths and weaknesses may help anyone attempting to reinstate aspects of the classical tradition today.
Throughout the next year, I hope to explore various models of classical arts education. Today, I begin with the Academia dei Desidorosi, credited with being the first art academy to include life drawing a regular part of its curriculum.
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609) Pieta (c. 1599) Oil on canvas. 155 by 148.2 cm. Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte, Naples.
The Academia dei Desiderosi (roughly translated as “those desiring perfection”) was founded in the Northern Italian city of Bologna by brothers Agostino (1557-1602) and Anibale Carracci (1560-1609) with their cousin Ludovico (1555-1619). From the late-sixteenth to the early seventeenth centuries, the Desiderosi was a training ground for some of the the period’s most influential painters, including Guido Reni (1575-1642) and Francesco Albani (1578-1660). Drawings produced by the Academia and its artists were highly sought after by other academies. In fact, many were collected and used for instruction by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609) Study of Two Rowers (c. 1600) White and black chalk on grey paper. 24.8 by 38.6 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
At the time, Bologna was small, but influential. A rich agricultural center, it also had one of the oldest universities in Europe. The Carracci brothers were unusually well-educated at a time when most artists were illiterate and considered craftsmen. Both Agostino and Annibale had begun legal training before setting it aside for art. They could read and write and had a good working knowledge of Latin. Agostino, especially, was well regarded for his understanding of philosophy, poetry, mathematics, and, even, mechanics (e.g. clocks and machines).
Guido Reni (1575-1542) St Sebastian (c. 1617-1619) Oil on canvas, 170x 133 cm. Museo del Prado, Spain.
The Academia dei Desidorosi claims among its members some of the most important painters of the time, including Guido Reni (1575-1642) and Francesco Albani (1578-1660). Unlike many nineteenth-century academies, the Desidorosi did not draw a distinction between teachers and pupils. Instead, the Carracci considered themselves first among equals and participated in all exercises. The Desidorosi only accepted experienced artists. Most members were in their mid-to-late twenties. This approach differed from most studios and academies of the time like the older, well-established Roman Academia di San Luca, which accepted students as young as eight years old.
School of the Carracci (Attributed) Artists Drawing a Clothed Male Model. (c. 1590) Red chalk on paper. Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris. (Click for high-resolution image.)
The study of the human figure was central to studies at the Academia dei Desidoerosi. Until the nineteenth century, life drawing was almost exclusively done with male models. The use of female models was considered immoral, and in most of Italy, Germany, France, England, and Spain, was illegal. Instead, artists relied on classical statuary, contour drawings of the female figure or simple substitution of the male for the female. (Some attribute the masculinity of of Michelangelo’s women to the lack of female models, believing that he and others simply put breasts and long hair on the male form. Though, I believe this is an oversimplification, it may have some truth.)
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609), Attrib. Study of Male Model. Black and white chalk on white paper. Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris.
Live models were hired. But, also, students posed for one another. In some instances, the Carracci brothers took the then unusual step of inviting a “Dr. Lanzoni”–little is known of his real name or role in the community–to dissect corpses for the benefit of students. (Autopsies of the rich and noble were then common as a way of assuring the cause of death was not foul play.)
Agostino Carracci (1557-1602). Study of Male Model (c. 1575) Black and white chalk with pen on paper. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
In addition to live models, the Academia used drawing books and examples from the Antique (Greco-Roman statues, reliefs, coins, and architectural drawings). According to Gert-Rudolf Flick:
The Carrracci also relied on the use of drawing-books for instruction, a format that subsequently became fashionable in its own right. Most of these drawing-books were produced by professional artists, and reflected current studio practice and art theory. A drawing-book can be defined as a pedagogical work in which the visual instruction dominated the verbal, and is thus quite different from treatises such as Alberti’s De Pictura or (more obviously) Vasari’s Vite, or even from anatomical texts and books on perspective. The drawing-books in question contain numerous sheets filled with parts of the human body such as ears, noses, legs, and feet, depicted from different points of view: front, three-quarter and rear. (Gert Rudolf-Flick. Masters & Pupils: The Artistic Succession from Perugino to Manet, 1480-1880. London: Hogarth Arts, 2008. p. 106-107)
Agostino Carracci had a large collection of busts, statuettes, Old Master drawings, engravings and contemporary medals that students were allowed to copy and study.
Studies were not focused exclusively on the human figure. The Desidorosi believed that the overall goal was a closeness to nature, which was defined more widely as humans, animals, plants, and the rules of architecture.
Certain hours were set aside for theoretical questions, perspective and architecture, all of which Agostino was especially adept at demonstrating in condensed form in a small number of maxims as can be seen in some of the writings by him that I have in my possession. (Gert Rudolf-Flick. Masters & Pupils: The Artistic Succession from Perugino to Manet, 1480-1880. London: Hogarth Arts, 2008. p. 111)
Regular visits to the countryside where paintings and drawings were made directly from nature. For studies in perspective and architecture, the Carracci relied on Sebastiano Serglio’s Libri di Architectura (a pdf of books three and four can be found online here) and trips to local churches and notable homes, guided by Agostino and local professors.
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609) Figures entourant des médallions de la galerie Farnese. (c. 1597) Pen and chalk on paper. 36.1 by 49.9 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
When in 1595 Annibale and Agostino were commissioned to paint the palace of Cardinal Odoardo Farnese, they left the Academia to the management of their cousin Ludovico. Some information is available on the Academia during this period, and it is evident that the brothers were the main force of Desidorosi and, without them, it did not have the same energy or longevity. The academy, while carried on by Ludovico and, then other students, never again attracted the same attention or produced the same quality of artists.
Picasso in London: “Not a Slave to the Canon”
Photograph of Pablo Picasso (c. 1955)
After seeing The Raft of the Medusa by Eugène Delacroix (French, 1798-1863) Théodore Géricault (French, 1791-1824), a friend recorded Picasso saying: “That bastard! He was good.”
The exhibition, Picasso: Challenging the Past, currently on show at the National Gallery in London, is a well-documented testament to the artist’s admiration for artists that he made posthumous collaborators in his work, among them Goya, Velázquez, Poussin, Ingres, and El Greco.
Tom Mills. Picasso: Challenging the Past at the National Gallery. (February 2009) From a 360-degree photograph. Click photograph to go to original on www.360cities.net.
Lest visitors think that Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) had betrayed or diluted his innovative impulses, the introductory paragraph to the exhibition–boldly written on the wall near the entry–states “he certainly was not a slave to the canon.” Thus, a confusing tone was set, turning up throughout the exhibition, that simultaneously attempted to admire Picasso’s admiration for “traditional” artists while, in some cases, denying them admiration.
Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) Nude Woman in a Red Armchair (1932) Oil on Canvas. 130 by 97 cm. Tate Museum, UK.
An example was the exhibition’s treatment of Ingres. Making a comparison between the National Gallery’s Portrait of Madame Paul-Sigisbert Moitessier by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867) to Picasso’s Nude Woman in a Red Armchair, the exhibition claimed that Ingres, like Picasso “idealized eroticism,” and that “the more one looks at Ingres, the less plausible his work seems.” According to the film accompanying the exhibition, Ingres’ arms and fingers appear to have no bones, and figures seem dramatically out of distortion, as if they were anticipating Picasso’s work. It seemed like revisionism. (See my previous post on Ingres’ careful attention to the human figure.) It was as though Ingres could not be appreciated on his own terms, but only on Picasso’s.
Jean August Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867) Portrait of Madame Paul-Sigisbert Moitessier (1856) Oil on canvas. 120 by 92.1 cm. National Gallery, London
Seeing Picasso’s works, I don’t necessarily think that he would have shared this perspective. There is no denying the copious amounts of time he spent reworking Diego Velázquez’s (Spanish, 1599-1660) Las Meninas or the Rape of the Sabines by Nicolas Poussin (French, 1594-1665). This is what makes Picasso great: his simultaneous departure from and use of classical themes. As I walked through the exhibition I was remineded of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comment: “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.” Despite the startling variety of his output–one piece reflects his classical training, another is nearly completely abstract, a work full of color, and another nearly void of spectrum–Picasso confidently comes across in each painting.
Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) Las Meninas, after Diego Velázquez (1957) Oil on canvas. Picasso Museum, Spain.
The exhibition seemed organized for those who already love and acknowledge Picasso as part of the canon. As such, it was, at first, difficult for me–someone who still struggles to relate to his works–to approach. However, the more I looked directly at the works, the more approachable they became. Despite the exhibition’s sometimes revisionist treatment of “the canon,” it was an ideal primer to his oeuvre. Deciphering Picasso’s translation of Las Meninas by Velázquez, for example, kept me occupied for at least 30 minutes and provided numerous insights into Picasso’s pictoral devices. It was a Rosetta Stone for Picasso.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) Las Meninas (The Maids of Honor) or the Royal Family (1656-57) Oil on canvas. Museo del Prado, Madrid, Spain
A mentor of mine is fond of saying that “art is very personal.” Personally, Picasso is a shock to my natural inclinations. However, I admire his genius and, with the help of this exhibition, found myself thinking: “That bastard! He was good.”
Recent Articles about Art Worth Reading
Julius LeBLanc Stewart (American, 1855-1919) Reading Aloud (c. 1833) Oil on canvas 28 by 51.5 inches (Private Collection)
Lately, I’ve had too many good things to read with too little time to read them. Below, are a few articles that have made impressions. If you know of any more, please share them:
- Oh, Tell Me the Truth about Beauty. (Prospect Magazine) A reivew of Beauty (Oxford University Press) By Roger Scruton, a philosopher, with practical thoughts on the importance of beauty today.
- Why the Dickens Do We Despise Victorian Art? (Daily Mail Newspaper) An article by the author and TV documentor Jeremy Paxman. He has produced a new film with an accompanying book discussing late-nineteenth-century British history through the eyes of its painters (e.g. Leighton, Alma-Tadema, Millais, Watts, Waterhouse).
- How Art Killed Our Culture. (Guardian Newspaper) A critical look at Pop Art’s influence on cultural decline. Well written and, depending on your feelings about Pop Art, either justified or another grossly overstated attempt to scapegoat something with our current financial predicament.
- For Madrid’s Prado, a New Building and a New Guidebook. (International Herald Tribune Newspaper) An account of the exciting new espansion to one of the world’s best–if not the best–museums. The new wing will focus exclusively on nineteenth-century painting.
- Does art make good collateral? (Telegraph Newspaper) In times of limited cashflow, many art collectors are putting up their art in lieu of other assets. An exploration of whether or not doing so is a good idea.
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922): The First Classical Realist?
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) The Barber of Suez (1876) 80 by 58.42 cm. Oil on canvas. Private collection.
During the last quarter of the nineteenth century, few French painters have been as influential and forgotten as Léon Bonnat (1833-1922). He was trained in the Academic tradition and eventually became Director of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, yet he was a champion of controversial painters, such as Gustave Courbet, and a lifelong friend of Edgar Degas, who was closely associated with the anti-academic Impressionist movement. Trained in Madrid and Paris, he was a bridge between two artistic cultures, which he combined in his own work and his mentoring of a generation of painters that included Thomas Eakins and John Singer Sargent. His relationship with Spanish art would have far-reaching implications for nineteenth-century painting by legitimizing Spanish Masters, particularly Velázquez and Ribera, whose work had a great deal in common with French Realism in its depiction of the human figure.
Because he destroyed all his own personal correspondence, what we know about Bonnat is usually gleaned from his students and the public records. In his wonderful book, The Revenge of Thomas Eakins, Sidney Kirkpatrick writes:
Bonnat went to great effort to capture the realism of this model, sometimes requiring his subjects to sit fifty or more times before completing portraits. The essential words to describe Bonnat’s paintings, as well as his reaching style–as more of his students reported–were “truth and logic.” . . . Bonnat’s personal struggles as an artist also resonated with Eakins. Writing to his father, Eakins related how Bonnat, as a young art student, had been deeply troubled by his teacher’s wanting him to paint the same way he did. Bonnat couldn’t oblige. “He was better than his teacher, although he [Bonnat] was doing such bad work [at the time],” Eakins went on. “His teacher told him he would have to stop painting, and then he went to [another teacher who] . . . told him to go and be a shoemaker, that was all he was fit for. A few years more and he was as big as the biggest of them.”
Bonnat was born to a middle-class family in Bayonne. In the border region near Spain, the city is in traditional Basque territory. Bonnat’s family, in particular, was comfortable enough with Spain to make a move to Madrid in 1847, where his father opened a modest book store.
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) Study of female nude. Musée d'Orsay
In 1837, the Prado Museum was opened to the general public and, later, enlarged as part of major redevelopment of the Madrid. Regular visits to the museum were compulsory for students of the nearby Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando. There students were required to study Italian, Flemish, and Spanish Old Master works. Above all, and in order of importance, Velázquez, Murillo, Ribera and Zurburán–all well represented in the Prado’s collection–were considered models for nineteenth-century Spanish students.
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) Job. Oil on canvas.
Sometime between 1847 and 1855, Léon Bonnat was accepted and studied at the Academia. There he worked first under the instruction of José de Madrazo y Agudo (1781-1859), a student of Jacques Louis David (French, 1748-1825) and, then, his son, Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz (1815-1894), who had a life-long relationship with Jacques Auguste Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867). These painters were commanded enormous respect and influence in nineteenth-century Spanish art.
In 1853, Bonnat’s father died, prematurely ending his studies and requiring his family to return to Bayonne. There Bonnat quickly secured a 1,500-franc scholarship from the local Municipality to study at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Within a year, at at the age of 20 he had moved to Paris and entered the studio of Léon Cogniet (1794-1880).
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) The Martyrdom of Saint Denis (c. 1880) Fresco. Parisian Parthenon, France.
By 1857 Bonnat had submitted three portraits to the annual Salon, all of which were accepted and initiated a life-long career of portraiture, which ensured a steady paycheck and a stream of important clients that included Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, the Empress Eugene, and the official images of four successive French presidents. Also in 1857, Bonnat competed for and won second place in the coveted Prix de Rome. Despite having lost state patronage to study in Rome, he was accepted to the French School in Rome and paid his own way. Studying there from 1858-1861, he produced three large-scale history paintings, Le Bon Samaritain (1859), Adam et Eve découvrant le corps d’Abel (1860) and Le martyre de Saint-André (1861), which were each sent to and accepted in the annual Paris Salon.
Almost immediately upon his return from Rome, Bonnat was welcomed into the French Academy and the upper echelon of respectable French art culture. In 1863 and 1864, two of his works are acquired by Princess Mathilde and Empress Eugénie, respectively. He was awarded the Légion d’Honneur (1867), made a member of the Salon jury (1869)–a position he would hold until his death–a member of the Institute de France (1881), a professor of at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris (1888), awarded the Grand Croix (1900), and made Director of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts (1905).
Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) Adam and Eve Mourning the Death of Abel (c. 1860) Oil on canvas.
Despite having accrued significant and real recognition from the Academy, Bonnat courted controversy. As a young painter in 1863, he supported new reforms in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts that opened the very conservative school to, among other things, allow students to be instructed in oil painting. Beginning in 1869 as a member of the Salon Jury, Bonnat became a proponent for the controversial work of Eduoard Manet and Gustave Courbet. He was also a lifelong friend of Edgar Degas.
As I did research for this post, it occurred to me that, like Bonnat, many contemporary artists are struggling with the combination of the Classical Tradition and Realism in their work. The former emphasizes the ideal and the latter the real, often with particular emphasis on imperfection. I think that so-called “Classical Realists” would do well to look at the work of Bonnat, who combined a love of Ingres with a reverence for Ribera. They would benefit more looking at his paintings than from William-Adolphe Bouguereau (French, 1825-1905), for example, who was a strict Classicist.
Nineteenth-Century Meddling: St. Mark by Frans Hals
Frans Hals (Flemish, 1580-1666) St. Mark. Oil on canvas. 27 by 20 3/4 in. (68.5 by 52.5 cm). Colnaghi Gallery, Munich.
Most of the people who read this blog have a positive opinion of nineteenth-century art culture. They might be surprised to know that, in many cases, the nineteenth century was not kind to Old Master paintings. It was common for collectors to “improve” paintings by hiring painters to update or adjust them. Many paintings didn’t survive the century and others were transformed.
Frans Hals (Flemish, 1580-1666) St. Mark. Oil on canvas. 27 by 20 3/4 in. (68.5 by 52.5 cm). Colnaghi Gallery, Munich. Previous to restoration (Left) and after restoration (Right).
That was the case with St. Mark by Frans Hals (Flemish, 1580-1666), which is currently on sale and view at the Barnheimer Fine Old Master Gallery in Munich. (Asking price is $7.7 million.) In 1972, the painting failed to sale at a Christie’s auction were it was atributed to Luca Giorando (a bizarre assumption). In 1973, the painting was sent to a restorer, who removed a small patch of paint and discovered Hals’ signature. It was a surprise because Hals, who is best known for his portraits, rarely painted religious scenes.
Frans Hals (Flemish, 1580-1666) St. Mark. Oil on canvas. 27 by 20 3/4 in. (68.5 by 52.5 cm). Colnaghi Gallery, Munich. (Detail)
Sometime in the nineteenth century, a collector thought the painting would be better were it to look more like other Hals’ portraits. Thus, a painter was hired to add lace collars and cuffs, which covered the apostolic robes and the lion, a traditional symbol for St. Mark.
The Prodigal Son in Modern Life Series by James Tissot
James Jacques Joseph Tissot (1836-1902) The Prodigal Son in Modern Life: The Return. Oil on Canvas (c. 1882) Muse?e de Nantes, France. (Click for high-resolution image.)
After such a long absence, I thought it fitting to make this post’s topic reflect both my sincere repentance at not having actively updated the blog and my hopes that I’ll be forgiven by those who have been patiently waiting for any sign I was still alive.
I have been in deep-research mode, and have a number of exciting things to share. Next week, I’ll begin off-loading a number of the projects I am doing on the blog and, hopefully, reignite a dialogue with many of you.
Tissot’s Prodigal Son in Modern Life
James Tissot (French, 1836-1902) is largely remembered for his scenes and portraits of the upper-middle class, but, during the 1880s he had a religious awakening and produced a number of works inspired by the New Testament. In 1885, he had what he referred to as an “epiphany” and “revelation” that lead him on a pilgrimmage to cathedrals in France and to create a series of 35 scenes from the life of Christ.
James Jacques Joseph Tissot (1836-1902) The Prodigal Son in Modern Life: In Foreign Climes. Oil on Canvas (c. 1882) Muse?e de Nantes, France. (Click for high-resolution image.)
During this religious decade Tissot did multiple version of the Prodigal Son. This particular series is titled “The Prodigal Son in Modern Times” and consists of three paintings all set in contemporary English life. They were exhibited at a one-man show at the Dudley Gallery (London) in May of 1882 and accompanied by watercolor sketches of the same paintings and etchings that were later reproduced widely in England.
James Jacques Joseph Tissot (1836-1902) The Prodigal Son in Modern Life: The Departure. Oil on Canvas (c. 1882) Muse?e de Nantes, France. (Click for high-resolution image.)
Shortly after the show, Tissot returned to France and took the three original oils with him. They remained in his studio until his death in 1902 and were, then, offered to the Louvre, which would not take them. Instead, the three paintings were taken by Musée de Nantes, located in Tissot’s hometown, where they remain today.
Restoring a Masterpiece: CSI for the Art World, Only Happier
Artwork is not often built to last or to move, yet we insist on both. Some time ago, I worked with a collector of eighteenth-century French paintings who regularly shipped works to his home in Utah. Moving paintings from a relatively humid Western Europe to the American desert compounded other problems associated with older works of art. Paint decays over time, causing colors to lose their original hues. Glazes age, darken colors and yellowing the overall work. But, perhaps more dangerous that all of these is the lack of–or dramatic increase in–humidity. Works on panel (i.e. wood), in particular, tend to crack, buckle or completely detiorate. Solving these problems can cause collectors to recruit a CSI-like team of experts to stabalize restore and conserve a work.
(Dim your computer screen to emulate CSI filming.)
In trying to explain this to another collector, I was very happy to find this video, published by the Indianapolis Museum of Art on the restoration and conservation of a major work in its collection: Madonna and Child with St. Nicolas of Babi and St. Justina by Sebastiano Mainardi (San Gimignano, 1460-1513). Painted with oil on wood, the altarpiece was moved to the US in the early twentieth century. At the time, in order to stablized the large panel of wood it was painted on, a complex lattice of wood–called a “cradle”–was fastened to the back. Cradles were a typical solution to stabalizing wood panels throughout the nineteenth century. Though well intentioned, they prevent wood from breathing and cause it to buckle and crack, which then leads to problems with the paint on its surface. The solution, as demonstrated by the video, can stretch the capabilities of modern technology.
Happy Birthday Jan Van Goyen
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) Dunes (1629) Oil on canvas.
Today, in 1595 Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) was born. Van Goyen is one of my favorite painters. Looking at his works has given me a great deal of pleasure and time for reflection. So, it is with enormous gratitude that I wish him a happy birthday. As a leading member of the Haarlem Tonalists, who were known for landscapes with a severely limited palette and flat, head on depiction of the land and sky, Van Goyen influenced the way landscapes would be done for generations to come. In hindsight, his work–and those of his contemporaries–is not influential today but extemely revealing of his time and place.
Van Goyen began his career in Leiden, which was a Dutch (Holland) territory near the Flemish (Flanders) border. At the time, Flanders was controlled by vCatholic Spain. Holland, on the other hand, was Protestant and controlled by a cooperation of cities and elected officials, who were, as a whole, backed by England.
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) View of Dordrecht from the Oude Maas. Oil on panel.
Flemish and Dutch paintings from the time reflect completely different approaches to art and life. Flemish paintings are hot in coloring and borrow heavily from Spanish and Italian artists. Rubens was born in Flanders and, therefore, was a citizen of the Spanish Empire. As a result, he had the freedom to travel and study in Italy and Spain. Eventually he was employed by the Spanish crown to supply Catholic buildings in Flanders with his large narrative paintings.
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) River Landscape with a Windmill and a Ruined Castle (1644) Oi on panel.
Just north of where Rubens was working, Dutch artists could not rely on the Church or Crown for commissions. Instead they sold to a rising middle class of merchants and traders. The competition between painters to sell their art led to hyper-specialization of work. Some, like Willem Claesz Heda (Dutch, 1594-1680) worked exclusively on still lives. Franz Hals (Dutch, 1580-1666) specialized in portraiture. Van Goyen was known for seacapes and landscapes. By comparison the work of their Flemish neighors,these painters’ work appears cold.
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) View of the Hague in Winter (1645) Oil on panel.
Some have speculated that Van Goyen’s art was extremely democratic, in that it focused on the land which, in Holland, unlike Flanders, was owned by the people. For his subjects, Van Goyen depicted the land or sea with a large stretch of sky above. Usually there are small groups of sailors or farmers hurrying about their work. These figures are dwarfed by the land in a way that makes them look like the accessories to the landscape and not the other way around. His people are made of a few thin stroke that often become transparent over time, revealing the landscape beneath. (He always painted the landscape first, adding the people later.)
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) View of the Merwede Before Dordrecht (c. 1630) Oil on canvas.
A friend of mine is an art historian who once worked as a Old Masters painting restorer. She was once tasked with cleaning a Van Goyen, and was surprised to learn that his skies, which have the appearance of a dull, metallic blue, often contain no blue, but are usually made up of grey and yellow. This was typical of work by him and other Haarlem Tonalists, a group that included Pieter de Molyn (Dutch, 1595-1661), Jan Porcellis (Dutch, c. 1584-1632), and Salomon van Ruysdael (Dutch, c. 1600-1670).
Jan Van Goyen (Dutch, 1596-1656) Landscape with Dunes (c. 1630) Oil on panel.
The restriction of the pallete to a few colors in his landscapes had a unifying effect that allowed small amounts of color–a stip of yellow sand or a green tree–to stand out much more than if they were competing with other colors. Limited coloring also had the benefit making paintings quickly. Van Goyen made thousands of paintings. (There are always one or more available in each major Sotheby’s or Christie’s Old Masters auction.) As opposed to Flemish painters who received large sums of money for large projects, Dutch painters created many small paintings that were small affordable sums. According to Simon Schama, who wrote the wonderful book The Embarrassment of Riches on Dutch art culture, even relatively poor shop owners in Holland owned paintings.
The Most Wanted Painting (The Flemish Were Not Far Off)
Vitaly Komar and Alex Melamid. Most Wanted Painting, America. (1995) Digital composite image.Vitaly Komar and Alex Melamid. Most Wanted Painting, America. (1995) Digital composite image. (Note George Washington in the center of the work.)
What if we made art according to surveys? What if artists, like many politicians, relied on polls? This week, the public radio show This American Life features an interview with two digital artists, Vitaly Komar and Alex Melamid, who received a grant from Chase Manhattan Bank to determine the attributes of the most and least wanted painting. To do this, Komar and Melamid conducted a number of online surveys allowing participants to choose their favorite elements from famous works. The result has been called the “most wanted” painting.
Having read through study, it is difficult to determine the level of professionalism in its methods. The results were only published online and were never peer reviewed. Regardless of its integrity, it is an interesting exercise.
Vitaly Komar and Alex Melamid. Most Wanted Painting, France. (1995) Digital composite image.
Of the dozen countries represented in the study, all of them, with the exception of Holland, preferred realistic landscapes. The Dutch, for reasons unexplained in the study, value abstract art, which, for most other countries, is the “least preferred” type of painting. The contents of the “most wanted” are surprisingly uniform:
- landscape
- mountain on the left
- tree on the right
- wild animals
- gathering of people
- famous political figure
- strong blues
The elements read like a description of any number of sixteenth-century Flemish paintings.
JOACHIM PATINIR (Flemish, 1480-1524) Landscape with Saint Jerome (c. 1516-1517) Oil on board. 74 BY 91 cm. Prado Museum, Madrid.
Several years ago, I had a conversation with one of London’s foremost dealers of Old Masters paintings. He told me that, of all paintings, landscapes were the most popular in his gallery. When asked “Why?” he responded: “I suppose it is because they are the least controversial. They can be enjoyed without taxing the viewer. And, they do not make any overt political or value statements that need to be defended.”
JAN BREUGHEL, THE ELDER (1568-1625) Saint John preaching in the wilderness (c. 1615) Oil on copper 25.5 BY 35 cm.
No doubt there are many reasons to love these paintings that have little to do with political correctness. Personally, I love works by Patinir and Jan Breughel. They were often small and, rather than hung on a wall, meant to be looked at while holding them on a lap with with a magnifying glass. The paintings are full of rich detail, distant views, and multiple paths. These are works that can be looked at again and again, each time with a new discovery.
The idea that painting could be put together by committee flies in the face of our belief in the lone genius painter. However, in their public radio interview the authors of “The Most Wanted Painting” study are quick to point out that the notion that our ideas about a creative genius are just as clichéed and inaccurate as our judgment that painting by polls are somehow unable to create good art. Though I am not suggesting art should be created by polling, I would suggest an adjustment to anyone attempting to repeat and improve upon the “most wanted” painting.
Several years ago, Malcolm Gladwell, author of many books and a writer for the New Yorker, gave a lecture on “What we can learn from spaghetti sauce.” In it, he profiles a food scientist that found that instead of trying to satisfy the American palette with one perfect spaghetti sauce–the unreachable Holy Grail for food production industry-we should be looking for the perfect sauces. According to taste testings, Americans fell into one of three categories of spaghetti sauce. The same proved true for coffee and a number of other foods. As a result, most companies produce a limited variety of each category of food to meet the needs of each general group’s taste.
If I were a gambling man, I would bet that the same would be true for the “most wanted” painting. Perhaps someone reading this would be able to convince Chase Manhattan Bank for a second grant.
Technical Difficulties
Anna Lea Merritt (American, 1844-1930) Eve, After Eating the Forbidden Fruit (c. 1890) Oil on canvas
For the past week, I have been unable to post on the blog due to a combination of technical difficulties. I have had to hire a private firm to help me solve them. The problems are almost resolved, and new posts should be coming in the next couple of days.
Thank you for your patience.
Drawing Is Not the Only Way to Paint (e.g. Velázquez)
Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 290CM. Prado Museum, Madrid. (Click image for larger version)
In several of my posts, I have pressed the importance of drawing. But it is important to know that not all the greats drew. One artist, in particular, who did not was Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660). Simply known as “Velázquez,” he was the greatest painter in the history of Spain and admired everywhere by academic and non-academic painters alike.
As mentioned in a previous post, Leon Bonnat, who became Director of the Ecole des Beaux Arts, regularly sent his students to Mardrid to study Velázquez’s works. Thomas Eakins said he was the “greatest painter who ever lived.” Painters as diverse as Millet, Manet, Sargent, Degas, Courbet, and Whistler admired and studied Velázquez’s paintings. They alll may have been surprised to learn what modern technology has taught us about Velázquez’s working method.
We know of only about 100 paintings by Veláquez, 45 of which are kept in the Prado Museum in Madrid. There, they have undergone chemical analysis of his pigments and a barrage of tests to show what lies under the paint. In the book Velázquez: The Technique of a Genius, Jonathan Brown and Carmen Garrido publish some of these findings.
Velázquez does not seem to have started with a fixed idea for a composition, but rather preferred to see what happened as he worked, making adjustments as he painted . . . The contours of figures overlap as their position in the composition changes or as elements are added or subtracted. Even within the forms of individual figures changes can be observed. The positions of hands and sleeves are adjusted, collars and lace are shifted, as are other parts of costume.
Landscape and neutral interior backgrounds were added, generally speaking, after the contours of the figures had been established.
(Jonathan Broan and Carmen Garrido, Velazquez: Technique of a Genius. (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1998), p. 18.)
One of my favorite paintings by Velázquez, The Forge of Vulcan, is a good example of this improvisational approach. Originally, the head of Vulcan, the older man in the left-hand side of the painting, was turned away from Apollo.
Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan, detail. (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 290CM. Prado Museum, Madrid.
To the left of Vulcan’s head, we can see a dark patch of brown paint where the back of his head used to be. In addition to this change, Velázquez enlarged the canvas. Over time, the pieces that were glued on became separated from the original piece and lines on the left and right of the canvas have become visible (See the first image.)
Not having drawn out the composition before hand, Velázquez created more work for himself. At the same time, it allowed him to go where his creativity led.
Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan, detail. (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 290CM. Prado Museum, Madrid. (Click image for larger version)
The results are stunning.
Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan, detail. (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 290CM. Prado Museum, Madrid. (Click image for larger version)
Obviously, drawing isn’t everything.
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.
Consider a Contrast: Young Contemporary British Artist versus Nineteenth-Century Academic Student
Katy Moran (British, 1975) Volestere (2007) Oil on canvas. Currently on view at the Andrea Rosen Gallery, London.
Anonymous (Spanish, c. 1890) Study of an Adult Male. Chalk on paper. La Facultad de Bellas Artes, Universidad Complutense, Madrid. Created as part of student exercises at the Spanish School in Rome.
Today, I was looking through a collection of nineteenth-century Spanish Academic drawings–which I will explore at greater length in my next post–when I decided to take a break and read today’s Financial Times. In its “Collecting” section, the newspaper features the work of two “prodigious young British artists who capture the fractured experience of comtemporary life.” The contrast between the two sets of artists, nineteenth-century Spanish students and young contemporary British artists, could not be greater.
In her article “The P-Word,” critic Jackie Wullschlager writes about the painting Strange Solutions by Katy Moran (British, 1975), saying: “Vestiges of landscape or portrait forms persist alluringly. I detected a thick, snowy avenue . . . which briefly reminded me of Monet, and a human figure is suggested in deft gestural outline at the heart of the rococo brushwork . . .”
If art is a medium of communication and the artist is the communicator, then we are either playing a very poor game of telephone with Moran or the artist hopes that, like Navajo codebreakers, critics will interpret what they mean. For her part, Wullschlager will not commit to any ideas or feelings inspired by the work; not even being sure as to whether or not the works are portraits or landscapes. Instead she says it “reminds” or “suggests” something. I could go on, but my point, unlike the artists’ intent, is clear: this does not communicate, it confuses.
By comparison, the skills being taught to the Spanish student who created the “Study of an Adult Male,” are steeped in a tradition of clear communication. The artist is learning the vocabulary of the human figure, its structure and its range of motion. As a result, this artist will be able to place the figure in a wide array of narratives.
Much has been written about nineteenth-century academic training. For the most part, Modern to Contemporary artists and art historians dismissed the Academy and its strict teaching as oppressive to creative abilities and limited in its ability to communicate. As a result, they regularly discuss the Academy as if it were Goliath and the Impressionsists were David. All who followed David’s example of opposing the Academy were numbered among the Chosen People and all others were, by comparison, Philistines. But, I ask, is this evident in the fruits of either philosophy? Which generation of young artist seems more limited in its ability to communicate?
As my father often says, “Art is personal.” Personally, I am more stimulated and provoked to deeper thought and feeling by clear communication than by vague suggestions.
Feriarte 2008: Visiting Spain’s Largest Annual Art Fair
Manolo Valdés (Spanish, 1942) Infanta Margarita (2002) Bronze. 123 BY 100 BY 70 CM. Dealer: Francesc Llopis, Barcelona. In this work, Valdés quotes from a portrait of Infanta Margarit by the seventeenth-century Spanish painter Diego Velázquez.
According to Victor Bardia, Feriarte is Europe’s largest annual Fine & Decorative Art fair. Bardia is one of the event’s principal organizers. I met him and his son, David Bardia, at their gallery, Victor I Fills, during my last trip to Madrid. At that time, Bardia extended an invitation for me to return for the Fair. I’m grateful he did.
I’ve been to a number of fairs over the years and was skeptical Spain’s fair could be larger than others. If it was, I assumed, it must be of lesser quality. Having walked at a casual pace for three hours, I thought I had seen all there was only to pass through a door that revealed another space, filled with more exhibitors and larger than the last. In total, I spent nearly eight hours on my feet, talking with dealers and collectors. For the most part, I was impressed by the quality of pieces, which were at least comparable, and often superior, to those of other fairs like Olympia or BADA in London.
Each dealer I met, with the exception of one–a German gallery that specialized in Russian and German turn-of-the-century art–was based in Spain. The majority of exhibitors had galleries in Madrid, Barcelona or both. Works at the fair, which ran from November 15 to 23, were overwhelmingly Spanish, or from former Spanish territories (e.g. The Netherlands, Naples) with small but impressive selection of works by Italian artists. There was a surprising dearth of Latin American and other foreign works of art, perhaps reflecting a lack of foreign buyers at this year’s fair.
More than one dealer told me that compared to previous years, visitors were down by one half or two thirds. These are difficult times for art fairs and dealers. In other words, it was a buyers market. I was often surprised by low prices for objects and paintings that, less than a year ago, I had seen at much higher prices in the same galleries. For the occasion, dealers were bringing out their best pieces. The quantity of works was astounding–an art historian’s dream.
Pere Borrell del Caso (Italian, 1835-1910) Two Laughing Girls (1880) Oil on canvas. 69 BY 69CM. Dealer: Gothsland, Barcelona.
Two Laughing Girls by Borrell is a wonderful example of the kind of academic painting taught and practiced in late-nineteenth century Rome. Though Paris was undeniably the center of the art world a number of painters work and studied in the Eternal City.
Pere Borrell del Caso (Italian, 1835-1910) Two Laughing Girls (1880) Oil on canvas. 69 BY 69CM. Dealer: Gothsland, Barcelona. DETAIL.
Borrell brilliantly draws the girls into our space by incorporating ornamentation from the neoclassical frame into the painting. The last two centimeters of the canvas are a combination of gesso and gold leaf over which he has painted one the two girls leaning her elbow on a Greek key patterned frieze. Seeing the piece, I wondered if Borrell had seen works by Dutch painters like Gerrit Dou, a contemporary of Rembrandt, who played similar visual tricks with his canvases.
Christ crowned with thorns (Spanish, Sixteenth Century) Pine with gesso and gold. Dealer: Alcora Antiguedades, Madrid.
With so many religious works, at times the fair seemed like a destination for pilgrims. God, the Virgin, and Saints were everywhere, covered in gesso, gold and pastel-colored oil paints. A number of the exhibitor’s stall were set up as small houses of worship, with some even burning incense.
Spanish pieces like Christ crowned with thorns reflect skills brought the country by workmen from the Netherlands. Through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, The Netherlands were Spanish territory. A number of Netherlandish artists moved to Spain, infusing a northern realism–as opposed to classical idealism–into Spanish sculpture and painting.
Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973 ) Torso of a Young Man (1897) Oil on canvas. 50 BY 40CM. Dealer: Gomez Turu Gallery, Barcelona.
Having made his name in abstract painting and Cubism, some people are surprised to learn that Picasso was trained as an Academic painter. He studeid at the academy in Barcelona, where he produced a number of figure studies in charcoal and a few oil paintings. Some can be seen as the Picasso Museum, installed in his former home in Barcelona. His ability to accurately render the human figure, especially in chalk, is impressive.
I was surprised to see one of his academic oils available at the fair. The work is evidence of his early propensity towards breaking down objects into basic forms. The shadows in Torso of a Young Man are sharp, clearly delineating muscles and separating the figure from its background. To me, the head and the body appear to belong to different figures, which is, perhaps, a choice or, more likely, a reflection of his inexperience. (He was only sixteen when it was painted.)
A Roman Youth (Rome, First Century AD) White Marble.
Once overseen by Julius Caesar and the birthplace of the Emperor Hadrian, Spain was one of of Rome’s most important provinces. Besides the obvious inheritance of a Latin language, Spain retained a number of Roman works of art and architecture. A few Feriarte stalls were dedicated exclusively to ancient sculpture and architectural pieces (e.g. fountains, doorways).
José de Ribera (Spanish, 1591-1656) Saint Jerome hearing the trumpet of the Final Judgement (c. 1630) Oil on canvas. 176.5 BY 129.5CM. Dealder: Artemisia, Madrid.
It’s not every day that a Ribera could be yours. Considered one of Spain’s greatest painters, Ribera’s oeuvre is represented in nearly every major European museum. Ribera was born in Valencia but moved to Naples, which was a Spanish territory at the time. Naples was home to a number of influence painters, such as Giordano and Caravaggio, who established a taste for religious paintings with earthy, realistic people.
Many of Ribera’s works are contemplative with figures deep in thought or asleep. In this, he has captured a fleeting moment, when the Saint receives his assurance of a place in heaven. Saint Jerome, a fifth-century compiler of the Bible, was a favorite subject of Ribera. (Maybe it would be more accurate to say Ribera’s patrons loved the way he painted Jerome, making it a regular request.) I’ve seen perhaps eight versions of Saint Jerome by the painter. I was particularly taken by the brilliant light in this one. The arrival of the angel above Jerome’s head brings light on the elderly man’s torso. Up close, his chest and belly are a soup of oily paint that, despite their fluidity, are convincincly skin like.
Rug (Turkish, Sixteenth Century) Dealer: Rica Basagoiti, Madrid.
Both this and the image from the previous post of a tree trunk in front of a rug were on display in the stall of Rica Basagoiti from Madrid. Once rugs were considered the most luxurious items in a collection. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the Spanish and Dutch put rugs like these on their tables, rather than on the ground. Walking on them would have been considered the height of conspicuous consumption.
The display of these rugs by Rica Basagoiti seemed to return these rugs to a level of prestige that was appropriate to their era. In the above image, a large magnifying glass is placed several feet from the rug, making the richly-preserved colors jump out at anyone passing by.
José Jiménez y Aranda (Spanish, 1845-1928) Legendary Soldier (Paris, 1890) Oil on canvas. 15 BY 12CM. Dealer: Luis Carvajal, Madrid.
Jiménez was a Spanish painter who had moved to Paris, where he regularly participated in the annual Salons–one of the few Spanish painters to do so. His work careful attention to detail and tendency to paint figures in period costume are reminiscent of the French painter Meissonier, who was popular in Paris at the time.
Though this is a small work, it shows off Jiménez’s arsenal of skils and powers of observation. The figure seems to be well relaxed and effortlessly painted, but close inpection reveals countless tiny strokes. The light coming through the window casts a series of complicated shadows. I found myself wondering how much easier it would have been to have the light coming from a different direction or having the window at his front rather than his back.
Ivory tankard (German, a. 1675) Ivory with silver fixtures. Dealer: FERMA, Madrid
By far, my favorite piece from the Fair was this German tankard, which stands nearly 25 centimeters in height. Made of several ivory sections seemlessly pieced together, it is a wonder of craftsmanship and artistry. Rather than discuss it at length, I believe a lengthy look at it provides a kind of refinement and appreciation beyond words. (Each image can be clicked for a much higher resolution image.)
Ivory tankard (German, a. 1675) Ivory with silver fixtures. Dealer: FERMA, Madrid. DETAIL.
Ivory tankard (German, a. 1675) Ivory with silver fixtures. Dealer: FERMA, Madrid. DETAIL.
Ivory tankard (German, a. 1675) Ivory with silver fixtures. Dealer: FERMA, Madrid. DETAIL.
For more pictures of the tankard, and a number of other pieces that I saw at Feriarte, visit my Flickr page.
Bearded Roman in Madrid
Photo of upturned tree trunk placed with 18th-century Persian rug. Seen at Feriarte Madrid
This week and next, I’m in Madrid, where a number of impressive exhibitions and fairs are taking place, including:
- The 32nd Annual Feriarte: One of Europe’s largest Fine & Decorative Art Fairs.
- Rembrandt, History Painter: An exhibition of painter’s narrative works the Prado Museum.
- Between Gods & Men: A rare look at two major ancient sculpture collections, from Dresden and Madrid, on show at the Prado Museum.
- Sorolla Museum in Madrid: My report on a visit to the home and private studio of the Valencian painter who befriended Zorn and Sargent.
- El Escorial: The country palace of Spain’s Hapsburg Royalty, which contains major works from their collection
All this coming over the next week in a series of posts.
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.