In our modern age, where every person is armed with a camera and computer, you’d think that we would know more. How is it possible that one of the greatest American artists of the last quarter of the nineteenth century has only 24 locatable works out of 88 that were on display in her final exhibition, and potentially hundreds more she made?
Attributed to Richard W. Dodson, American (1812 – 1867) FULL PRACTICE, dated 1867. Depicting a barn with six ratters. London; Published October 1867. By R. Dodson 147 strand. 50 cm x 67 cm.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847 – 1906) was born to Quakers in Philadelphia, PA. Her father, Richard Whatcoat Dodson, was an illustrator, who believed that women should not work as artists, and therefore refused to teach his daughter. She waited five years after his death to enter the Pennsylvania Academy of Art. Soon Dodson was living in Paris, her works regularly shown in the competitive Paris Salon. Despite suffering from what is regularly described in contemporary literature as “fragility,” which inhibited her ability to paint for long stretches, Dodson travelled extensively and completed major commissions for public and private collections. Her work was the centerpiece of the American galleries the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889 (i.e. the same event that gave Paris the Eiffel Tower). And, Dodson was subsequently asked to paint the monumental murals for the Palace of Fine Arts and the Women’s Building at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. When she died in 1906, Dodson’s brother Richard — my hero, albeit a tragic one — spent the rest of his life holding exhibitions in Paris, Berlin, London, Philadelphia, and New York to promote her work. His efforts were largely unsuccessful, probably resulting from a combination of the First World War and subsequent seismic shifts in art taste. So, Richard donated some of Dodson’s more important canvases to major American museums, where only one is on public display. The location of the vast majority of Dodson’s oeuvre is still unknown, unlocated, and forgotten. Two years ago, in a minor East Coast auction, I discovered and funded the restoration of her work Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1888). (More on that later.) Ever since, I have gathered more information on Dodson’s meteoric career and the whereabouts of known works. In sharing what I have learned, perhaps more will be discovered, dusted off, and put on display.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (Undated). Photograph, reproduced from Catalogue of the Exhibition of Paintings by Sarah Ball Dodson (New York, 1911)
Less than five years after enrolling in arts school, Dodson was exhibiting at the Paris Salon. She began studies as private student of Christian Schussele (French/American, 1824-1879) at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Today, Schussele is best known as the design of the United States Medal of Honor. Dodson began working with Schussele just as he was diagnosed with a debilitating illness. Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) would fill in for Schussele when the latter was too weak to tutor Dodson.
From Pennsylvania, Dodson moved to Paris, where she studied privately with the monumental history painter Évariste Vital Luminais (French, 1821 – 1896), who appears to have been a friend of her mentor Schussele. Dodson then matriculates at the Académie Julian, which was distinct for allowing women to study with world-class artists, even as the official École des Beaux Arts did not. She became close with Jules Joseph Lefebvre (French, 1835 – 19111) and the less remembered Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel (French, 1851 – 1913).
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 18847 – 1906) L’Amour Ménétrier (also titled Pupils of Love or Cupid, the Fiddler), 1877. Private Collection.
Dodson’s first publicly-exhibited work was L’Amour Ménétrier (1877) in the Paris Salon of 1877 as “Number 724” of 3,554 paintings shown in the Salon. The work was unusually ambitious for a woman of the era. Typically, women were relegated to the non-figurative sections of the Salon, specializing in still lifes, animalier, and floral works. Dodson was among the and influx of women graduating from the Academie Julian who pushed the expected limits placed upon them by custom and bias.
The painting as subsequently sent to Philadelphia for an exhibition where a local critic, Edward Strahan, wrote:
“What could be more unexpected than that a quiet lady of the Quaker City, imprisoned during early life in the straitest-laced tradition, should suddenly bloom-out, after a short resident in Paris, into a full-blown Louis Quinze spirit, fit to decorate with Boucher-like cupids the bedstead carved by [Charles] Boule!…” (Edward Strahan, The Art Gallery — Exhibition of the Philadelphia Society of Artists,” Art Amateur, Vol. IV (December 1880), 5.
The next known work from Dodson was similarly ambitious and multi-figural: The Invocation of Moses (c. 1882). It is inspired by a dramatic battle described in the Book of Exodus 17, between the Children of Israel, led by Moses, and the people of Amulek. As they fight, whenever Moses hands are raised, Israel prevails. When his hand grow heavy and Moses rests, Amulek’s side progresses. Therefore, Aaron and Hur stand on either side of the Prophet to keep his hand “steady until the going down of the sun,” securing victory. Whereabout of the original painting are unknown; but, the oil study was gifted by Richard Ball — Dodson’s Brother — after her death.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906). Study for Invocation of Moses, ca. 1882. Oil on canvas, 13 3/4 × 13 3/4 in. (35 × 34.9 cm) frame: 17 × 16 1/2 × 1 1/2 in. (43.2 × 41.9 × 3.8 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of R. Ball Dodson, 25.522. (Photo: Brooklyn Museum)
The following year, Dodson was 43 years old, and created her breakthrough work: The Bacidae (1883). In subject and style, it was a departure from previous known works. “Bacidae” is plural the historical bacis or bakis: female prophets and oracles who, from 700 to 500 BCE, were central to Greek life. People would make offerings to the bacidae, who would consult the entrails of animals and stars to dispense predictions, wisdom, and cures.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) The Bacidae, 1883. Oil on canvas. 79 x 63 in. Newfields Collections, Indianapolis Museum of Art.
Dodson shows the Elder bacis sitting on a marble throne with a younger apprentice alongside. On the the trípous — a ritual three-legged stool — is a freshly disemboweled, upturned bird. As the senior bacis voices the interpretation of what she sees, the younger dramatically recoils.
This is a tour de force of figurative competence by Dodson, combined with a mature and dramatic interpretation of classical culture. The work placed her immediately in the upper echelons of academic artists of her time, including Jean-Paul Laurens and William Adolphe Bouguereau. It was first shown at the Paris Salon of 1883, then was sent to New York, where Dodson became a major draw at the 1884 Annual National Academy of Design Competition. (Charles M. Kurtz. “National Academy Notes.” New York: 1884, 82.)
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson. The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885) Oil on canvas. Location Unknown.
As her star rose, in Europe there were increasing demands for Dodson to return to the US. The recent Centennial led Dodson to paint the monumental The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885). The finished work was more than 10 feet long and contained 25 figures. While the work does owe some debt
John Trumbull (1756 – 1843) Declaration of Independence (1819) 12 x 18 feet. United States Capitol Building, Washington DC.
Dodson, as well as all the people viewing her painting, would have been familiar with John Trumbull’s painting of the same subject from some sixty years earlier. While Dodson does owe some debt to the composition, which she has reversed, it is clear that her image is much more dynamic; each of the figures exhibiting individuality without seeming contrived.
Dodson promised to gift the painting to Philadelphia as long as city officials agreed to hang it permanently in Independence Hall, where the event took place. This proviso caused leader to include a group of local historians who, after deliberations, rejected Dodson’s painting on grounds that not all of the 25 figures depicted were present and signed the Declaration on the same day. Deliberations continued for more than 30 years, with one letter, written by her brother six years after Dodson’s death reading:
“I presume nothing yet has been decided about the Declaration of Independence. I have seen several newspaper articles disputing the statements of the older historians that any signatures were attached on the 4th of July, but if that is the ladies sole objection the mere dropping of the date would make the picture fit the case, for signatures were attached at various dates, and in the informed manner portrayed by my sister.” (Richard Dodson, letter to J.E.D. Trask, September 18, 1911, Archives of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.)
The painting was never accepted by the city. To make matters worse, according to contemporary accounts, at some point between 1911 and 1920, the painting was damaged by fire, although it is not clear how extensively. Its current location is unknown.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906) The Morning Stars (Les Etoiles du Matin), 1887 Oil on linen canvas 23 x 30 in. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
In 1887, Dodson had sailed back across the Atlantic, this time to Brighton, England where she would live for the rest of her life. There she painted the ethereal Les Etoiles du Matin (The Morning Stars) (1887) was accepted to the Paris Salon. It appears to be something conceived for a much larger scale, and could have possibly been an early study for monumental murals made for the 1892 World’s Columbian Exposition held in Chicago.
The Woman’s Building at the World’s Columbian Exposition (Chicago,1893)
Dodson was responsible for making a now lost painting, Pax Patrieae (1891) installed as part of an architectual elements in the three-story Women’s Building. (The building was demolished only a few years later.) For the Exposition, Dodson painted the monumental Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1899), which, until recently sold at public auction, was missing for more than 100 years. In fact, the strikingly similar Under the Weeping Ash Tree (1900) painted the year after, was often misidentified as the work shown in the Columbian Exposition.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906), under the weeping ash tree, 1900. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) Meditation of the Holy Virgin, 1889. Oil on canvas. 67 x 45 in. Anthony’s Fine Art, Salt Lake City.
At some point in the 1880s, Dodson travelled to Italy. These two virginal painting, for me at least, are clear evidence of her encounters with Italian Quattrocento artists, especially Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516).
Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516) Madonna and Child (1510) 33 3/8 x 45 1/8 in. Pinacoteca di Brera.
In some writings about Dodson, there is discussion of her becoming a Pre-Raphaelite artist. That infers Dodson had some relationship with Jean Everett Millet, William Holman Hunt, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, et al. But, I was unable to find any meaningful personal connection between these artists. I don’t believe Dodson knew them. If anything, they all share a desire for an alternative visual language the pre-dated the compositional spatial formulas established by Raphael and subsequently built upon by the European academy. Here Dodson channels Bellini, centering the beautifully and naturalistically painted figure in a surreal, unrealistic, and symbolic setting.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847–1906) Le Berceau (The Cradle), 1900-1906. Oil on canvas. 46 1/4 x 29 1/8 in. Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
Dodson’s work at the World’s Fair was a critical success; but, it came with severe physical costs. Over the next 17 years, she remained in Brighton, England. Contemporary visitors to her studio report that Dodson would paint for a few minutes and, exhausted, lay down for several hours in order to recover strength. All her life, she had been described as “fragile” or “weak.” So, it was no surprise to many when she died in 1906 of what one doctor described as heart failure at the age of 69.
For the final years of her life, Dodson had been working on a monumental painting, Le Berceau (1900-1906) left unfinished in her studio, of angels preparing for the return of Jesus Christ.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson, Wild Parsley, 1900, oil on canvas, 14 1?8 x 18 in. (35.9 x 45.6 cm.), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Richard Ball Dodson, 1923.8.2
Following her death, Dodson’s brother Richard organized a series of exhibitions in Brighton, London, Philadelphia, and New York, the latter with the help of the influential Goupil Gallery, for which a catalogue was produced. (You can read the full text here.) It lists some 88 works, including a large number of landscapes, which are beautiful, evocative works that seem to borrow from the same kind combination of observed naturalism and invented symbolist atmosphere. These landscapes seems to have been the most successful sales at the exhibitions, leaving Richard with a large number of important figurative works. These he eventually gave away to institutions throughout the United States. Today, only 24 of those 88 are known.
The term “post-narrative painting” was coined by Susan Siegfried in her landmark book Ingres: Painting Reimagined. At a time when Neoclassical depictions of virtuous actions — popularized by his teacher Jacques-Louis David — dominated French art, Ingres created works that confounded and frustrated the public by “abandoning physical action as a basis of heroism.”1
In this week’s discussion, we use Siegfried’s writing as an approach to understanding the unusual development and career of Jean-August-Dominique Ingres (French, 1780-1867). As you can tell from the recording, I was just overcoming a nasty flu and nearly lost my voice by the end. (Sorry.) Enjoy.
Unlike his competitors, Théodore Géricault (French, 1791-1824) was not a product of the École des Beaux-Arts. Géricault had less than three years of formal education. As a result, he was unfettered from the Neoclassical aesthetics that dominated the French Academy and public tastes. This lack of formal education had is consequences. Even well into his career, Géricault struggled to confidently master composition and the human figure.
In this week’s discussion, we discussed the development and short career of Géricault. His dramatic and controversial paintings provided an alternative to Neoclassicism, influencing artists for generations.
Attempting to summarize David’s career in 90 minutes is futile. Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825) is one of the most discussed artists in history. His approach to Neoclassicism affected generations of artists. Combining his revolutionary artistry and political activities, makes David a perpetual well of interpretation and intrigue.
As part of an ongoing weekly discussions with contemporary artists, I explored the career of Antonio Canova (Italian, 1747-1822). Today, Canova is considered a major proponent of Neoclassicism. But, for contemporaries, Canova’s interpretations of the antique works were often at odds with predominant theories. We explore major works by Canova and how they were received by his critics, for better and worse.
Note: Each week I hold a discussion with a group of professional artists on the development and career of a major artist. I post a video recording of each discussion. This week’s artist, Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, prompted an unusual amount of controversy. After reflecting on the thoughtful comments made by those who attended, I have decided to write a little reaction of my own here. The video can be found at the end of this post.
“The last Old Master and the first Modern painter” is an oft-repeated phrase used to describe Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828). It captures the un-categorizable nature of Goya’s nearly seven-decades oeuvre, and hints at both his appreciation for the past and influence on those who came after. This week, I led two discussion on the development and career of the Spanish painter. Each gathering was heavily attended by professional artists, mostly traditionalists. I was surprised by the resistance experienced in comments and questions about Goya’s ability to paint.
For that reason, before posting video of the discussion, I would like to write a few words. First, to Modernists, who see Goya almost exclusively as a anti-traditionalist. And, secondly to traditionalists who are often unable to appreciate Goya’s remarkable craftsmanship. He does not belong solely to one team.
A few words about Goya for Modernists
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) San Juan Bautista niño (1812) Oil on canvas. 112 x 82 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
In a 1921 essay titled “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” the poet TS Eliot, railed against the predominant spirit of his time, which he believed, saw originality as the highest value. Eliot did not see originality as innovation. In fact, he believed that innovation was dependent upon a solid understanding and appreciation of tradition:
We dwell with satisfaction upon the [artist’s] difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity. 2
Those who lionize Goya as having broken with tradition often ignore his portraits, religious and historical paintings and, instead, latch on to his experimental and private work, such as the so-called “Black Paintings” or etchings from the Disasters of War. While it is true that these works were revolutionary, they were also not usually intended for public consumption. Goya’s Black Paintings were made for the dining room in his private residence. And, the Disasters of War were not printed until some 35 years after his death. In other words, the artworks that we often see exclusively as representing Goya in art-history materials and courses were not the ones he was best known for in his own lifetime. I am not attempting to diminish the remarkable departure his experimental oeuvre represented at the time or their subsequent influence on artists. Looking only at his experimental works, Goya seems like a man out of time, almost completely divorced from the aesthetics of his time, which is not accurate.
A few words about Goya for Traditionalists
I have come to the conclusion that most artists interested in the classical tradition see Goya as unworthy of study. It is my belief this is not so much about whether or not his work is wanting. Goya is often excluded from the traditionalist lexicon because he was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Hannibal the Conqueror Viewing Italy from the Alps for the First Time (1770-1771) Oil on canvas, 87 x 131.5 cm. Selgas-Fagalde Foundation, Cudillero, Spain
It is true that Goya’s influenced generations of artists seeking alternatives to Academic painting, most notably Gustave Courbet and Eduoard Manet. Yet, it is also true that over Goya’s nearly seven-decade career there were works, even very late in his career (e.g. The Spanish Consittution) that were traditional. As a young man, he worked alongside Anton Rafael Mengs. Under the German painter’s encouragement, Goya made a series of copper-plate etchings of works by Velázquez. Goya then went on to Italy on a kind of private prix de Rome, where he copied Greco-Roman statuary and produced an ambitious, large-scale history painting depicting Hannibal crossing the Alps.
Detail, Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Duke of Wellington (1812-1814) 25 1/3 x 20 1/2 in. Oil on panel. National Gallery, London.
In his portraiture, Goya could have hardly picked less polemical models to emulate:
“I have three masters: Nature, Velázquez, and Rembrandt.”
These are not the words of a anti-traditional revolutionary. Yet, it is my belief Goya has been treated lightly by traditionalists not necessarily because of his own work; but, because the Spanish artist was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Goya’s timeline roughly parallels that of Jacques Louis David, David had established a strong, Neoclassical vision of art that dominated the French Academy and beyond. During the 1790s, while Goya was Professor of Painting at the Academia de San Fernando (Madrid), the taste for Neoclassicism led to heated debates on whether or not students in Spain should be held to new standards in terms of draughtsmanship and substitute their various Old-Master study materials — including artworks by Spanish, Flemish, and French artists — with those by Italian artists that more closely aligned with Neoclassical ideals, such as Raphael and Guercino. We have notes from the meeting where Goya stated his case for replacing pluralism with a nearly uniform style:
Finally, Sir, I cannot find another, more effective method for advancing the Arts, neither do I believe it exists, than to award and protect … the full liberty for genius to flow from those students of Art who want to learn [their instincts], without suppression, and without efforts to bend their inclination toward this or that style in Painting … 3
He was one of four professors at the Academia de Bellas Artes that voted, unsuccessfully, against the Neoclassicization of the Spanish Academy.
Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828) Witches’ Flight (1797-98) 43.5 x 30.5 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
Does this mean Goya was “anti-academic”? I don’t believe so. In fact, I believe that Goya was attempting to preserve the Academy against itself. The strict adherence to towards Neoclassical dogma — one that arguably denied the Naturalism of Hellenistic sculpture — in European academies throughout the nineteenth century led to many schisms and misunderstandings about the nature of the Classical tradition.
If you are traditionalist or a portrait painter, I encourage you to look at Goya’s portraits. Last year, the National Gallery of London hosted the largest gathering of Goya’s portraits ever assembled in one place. It was astounding. I discuss is at length in the above video. (Skip ahead if you must).
Casado’s prescription for coming to terms with Goya
In 1882, the painter José Casado del Alisal was elected to the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando the same school where Goya had taught nearly 100 years earlier. On that occasion, Casado attempted to describe to his colleagues — many of whom were still riding the anti-Goya wave of Neoclassicism and Neoplatonism — the value of Goya and his place within the pantheon of Spanish art:
Such a painter, so personal and impossible to copy, with his confident magnificence, with his strange and sublime eccentricities. He cannot have imitators, neither was he able to found a School. His genius was consummated with him …4
It is my hope that those who are anti-traditional can look at the entirety of Goya’s career and see where the Spanish artist subsumed and projected the traditions he inherited. Equally, I hope that Goya is welcomed with open arms by traditionalists, who may be surprised that they have unfairly ignored or marginalized a great master.
It seemed like a compliment when, Michael Levey, former Director of the National Gallery (London) described Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (Venice, 1696- Madrid,1770) as “the greatest decorative painter of eighteenth-century Europe, as well as its most able craftsman.”5 (And, Levey was certainly a life-long advocate of Tiepolo.) But, for many the terms “decorative” and “craftsman” seem to indicate a lack of seriousness — a missing gravitas reserved for an Old Master.
Because much of his work was made for and installed in architectural settings — and limited to three geographic locations (i.e. Venice, Wurzburg, and Madrid) — Tiepolo is not always given the attention, I believe, are befitting his remarkable gifts for composition and narrative.
Above is a raw audio recording of a discussion between me and a group of professional artists discussing Tiepolo’s development and major work. With only 90 minutes we could not hope to approach all his works; nevertheless, we covered a lot of ground.
Yesterday, Waldemar Januszcak, art critic for The Sunday Times, wrote a scathing review of “A Victorian Obsession,” an exhibition of 52 paintings by Frederick Leighton, Lawrence Alma-Tadema, and Albert Moore, among others, on show at the Leighton House Museum. Subtitling his review “Droopy damsels in distress take center stage . . .” Mr. Januszczak belittles and dismisses the works as “nonsense,” “divorced from reality,” and “grotesque.” This is not the first time Mr. Januszcak has written dismissively about nineteenth-century academic art and artists. (He wrote similarly negative reviews of recent exhibitions on John William Waterhouse.) And, this isn’t an angry response to his article, where I feign injury on behalf of a genre of art I happen to like. Rather, I feel that Mr. Januszczak repeated a standard approach to Victorian art — one that constantly sees it only in opposition to Impressionism and Modernism — that needs to be retired, because it misses the point. Whether or not we like them, these works say a great deal about the culture that produced them.
Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836 – 1912) The Roses of Heliogabalus (1881) Oil on canvas. 52 x 84 1/8 in. Simón Pérez Collection.
The occasion of Januszcak’s article is a loan of 52 works owned by Juan Antonio Pérez Simón, a Spanish Civil War émigre raised in Mexico, to the Leighton House Museum. Mr. Pérez has been collecting the works over the past twenty years; a period accompanied by increased values for the works at auctions, scholarly publications, and museum exhibitions. Long held in private collections, many works from Pérez’s collection have not been seen in public, let alone as a group. This collection does not represent the bulk or, arguably, the best of these artists’ oeuvres. Many more can be found at the Victoria & Albert Museum, Tate Britain, and the Bristol Museum of Art.
Reading Januszcak’s review, my first instinct was knee-jerkingly defensive. He talks about the absurdity of the subject matter. He draws a comparison between the brief, meteoric success of Leighton and Alma-Tadema and the seemingly unsustainable trends in contemporary art.
If I were a nouveau riche Russian with a Kensington house full of stuff brought at Frieze, I would instruct my chauffeur to take me immediately to Christie’s, where I would start selling as if there were no tomorrow.
(One almost wonders if Mr. Januszcak just finished watching Bertold Bretcht’s “Seven Deadly Sins of the Petite Bourgeoisie,” and it spilled over to the review.)
Apologists often defend Leighton and Alma-Tadema on technical grounds: “Can’t you see these artists were educated, thoughtful . . . a true craftsman!?” But, that isn’t a winning argument. After all, Waldemar Januszczak understands quality. He has done several, thoughtful series on Old Masters. But, like many critics, he has an inherent disdain for the artistic period between the late-eighteenth-century and avant-garde movements of the last half of the nineteenth century. He writes:
. . . Leighton was just a year older than Manet. But while Manet was ushering in the impressionist revolution, in 1871 Leighton was imagining four Greek nymphs on a beach gathering pebbles in their floatiest robes.”
He makes Leighton sound convincingly backward. But, there is another point of view.
Having spent the past decade researching mid-nineteenth-century works of art, artists, and arts education, I am clearly biased. (I have also felt isolated and frustrated by my art-historical colleagues who would gladly write another book on Picasso’s treatment of cuticles.) But, I also feel that summarily ridiculing these works from our present point of view (e.g. comparing Leighton to Manet) misses an opportunity to discuss context in which the works were made. You don’t have to like these works. However, you should realize they are magnificent commentaries — often unintentional — on the aspirations of of the British Empire at its height. The art, with all its classical imagery and idealistic affectations, is a manifestation of the ideals of those industrialists in Bristol, Liverpool, and London who saw their generation as the latest claimant to the glories of the Roman Empire.
Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836 – 1912) The Roses of Heliogabalus, detail (1881) Oil on canvas. 52 x 84 1/8 in. Simón Pérez Collection.
Januszczak rightly points out the ridiculousness of Alma-Tadema’s work The Roses of Heliogabalus (1888), which imagines the moment the obscure Roman ruler showered and suffocated a crowd with flower petals. Alma-Tadema, Leighton and Moore are often referred to as Olympian painters, for conjuring these kinds of scenes, where attractive British women and men are dressed in vaguely classical costumes, and placed in meticulously-created and improbably grandiose settings. They are meant to be unrealistic. They are physical manifestations of the aspirations held by a generation of Belle-Époque Brits. It’s also one held by many — wealthy or not — today. Weren’t many of these nouveau riche and landed gentry funded by siphoning off colonial resources? The ridiculousness of the Alma-Tadema’s work does not come from the quality or subject of the painting. It is from the lack of embarrassment of riches by those audiences that related to it. (Is the fat old man in the background a Victorian banker? Is that the 99% drowning in mortgage debt?) I don’t know if Alma-Tadema intended it as social commentary. Whether or not he appealed to the elite by illustrating their fantasies or subtly criticized them, it is still a commentary on the times.
For me, Olympian works of art are less comparable to those showing at the Frieze Art Fair than to Apple products. Januszczak rightly points out that original oil paintings were purchased by contemporary industrialists for enormous sums. But, he fails to say that artists like Leighton made most of their money in the reproductions of their works — prints in popular journals that were torn out, framed, and hung in many households. This blows a hole in the theory that these artists were painting solely for the monied, elitist few. Like having the latest iPhone, a Leighton print hanging on your wall probably did little to actually increase quality of life or help humanity. But, it was what marketers today would call an “aspirational lifestyle purchase.” These works are a remarkable insight to the British Empire and its people — at least those in the UK. Bringing up Manet and the avant garde brings us back to a conversation that has been played out ( I can see Roger Fry’s angry ghost saying: “These artists were out of touch with Modernity!”) Manet had nothing to do with it. Januszczak wants to fold this work into a standard narrative from the playbook of art historians and critics without really thinking about what made these works truly popular.
I also agree with Januszczak that the great interest some people have in these paintings is puzzling. Akin to Januszczak’s quick dismissal, they love these paintings without considering them. The fact that they are becoming popular again — even inspiring custom luxury room scents (More here) as Januszczak points out — is another opportunity to examine what these Olympian painters distilled in their own era, in the desires of a Spanish billionaire, and the many people who see this art today and love it.
I’ve been following Scott Schuman’s Sartorialist blog for a long time. He is famous for capturing street fashion trends. But, occasionally he’ll include capture images that seemingly nothing to do with fashion and capture a remarkable sense of place. Today, he posted an image of a “young butcher” in Asni, Morocco.
Scott Schuman. “On The Road…The Young Butcher, Asni, Morocco” (2013) Photograph. Source: The Sartorialist.
Maybe it’s just the art historian in me; I was immediately reminded of “The Butcher Shop” (c. 1580) by Annibale Carracci (Bologna, 1560 — Rome, 1609). While Annibale and his brother, Ludovico, are often remembered for their Classical Baroque work, this painting demonstrates his remarkable range of experimentation.
Annibale Carracci (Bologna, 1560 — Rome, 1609) The Butcher’s Shop (c. 1580) 73 by 105 in. Christ Church Picture Gallery, Oxford.
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1573 – 1610) St John the Baptist (c. 1604). Oil on canvas. 172 × 104 cm. Nelson-Atkins Museum, Kansas City, Missouri
Does Baroque art burn more calories than other genres? What did that couple in leather pants say about Mary Magdalene looking hot? Was Luca Giordan0 the first street artist? Is linseed oil more environmentally friendly than egg tempura?
These are questions that naturally occur when seeing a Caravaggist exhibition in LA. I’m kidding . . . sort of.
In the past two days, I have visited the Los Angeles Museum of Art twice to see Bodies and Shadows: Caravaggio and His Legacy ( 11 Nov 2012 – 10 Feb 2013). It is a remarkable exhibition, for eight works by Michelangelo Caravaggio on view and even more for the large body of Baroque works on load from over a dozen international institutions. (Whether or not you are able to attend, the exhibition catalogue has good illustrations–at a reasonable price–of the remarkable gathering of works at the show.)
Francisco Zurbarán. (Francisco de Zurbarán (1594-1664) Saint Serapion (1628) Oil on canvas.
I’ve heard a lot of bellyaching about there “only” being eight Caravaggio’s. Hogwash. There are at least two dozen paintings that, alone, would be worth the price of admission.
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