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.
Since I am now here in Madrid I do not regret at all my coming. I have seen big painting here. When I had looked at all the paintings by all the masters I had known I could not help saying to myself all the time, its very pretty but its not all yet. It ought to be better, but now I have seen what I always thought ought to have been done & what did not seem to me impossible. O what a satisfaction it gave me to see the good Spanish work so good so strong so reasonable so free from every affectation. It stands out like nature itself. [sic.]
-Thomas Eakins, in a letter to his father, Benjamin, dated December 2, 1869.
Saying that everything he had seen before “was pretty” but “not enough” is surprising. Eakins had just left the studio of one of the greatest painters of his day, Jean-Leon Gerome (French, 1824-1904), and lived in Paris, then capitol of the art world.
Eakins’ trip to Spain was a watershed for his personal development, and an indication of the draw Spain had for many painters working in Paris.
Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) Self-portrait (1902) Oil on canvas 30 BY 25 IN. National Academy of Design, New York.
At the time Eakins visited Spain–during of the Winter of Spring of 1869 and 1870–it was considered a backwater, years behind civilized Europe in the arts and economics.
Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) Self-portrait (a. 1630) Museo de Bellas Artes de San Carlos, Valencia.
Yet, Eakins and a number of other important artists (e.g.. Eduoard Manet, Mary Cassat, John Singer Sargent) traveled to Spain works by Spanish masters in the Prado Museum. In 2003, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, featured an exhibition on French artists in Spain. Titled Manet and Velázquez and with 200 works, the exhibition discussed a newfound love of Spain that grew out of the French invasion by Napoleon’s armies in 1808 and the Mariage of Napoleon III to, Eugénie de Montijo, a Countess of Spanish Royal blood.
Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) The Weavers (1657) Prado Museum, Mardid.
Eakins travelled to Spain shortly after the country’s government was overthrown. Despite the chaos, he was able to visit the Prado Museum and a number of galleries throughout the country.
He was especially impressed by the work of Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660). Eakins claimed Velázquez’s painting, The Weavers, was “the most beautiful piece of painting I have seen in all my life.”
“Here is how I think the woman tapestry-weaver was painted . . . [Velázquez] drew her withouth giving attention to the details. He put her head and arme well in place. Then he painted her very solidly without seeking or even marking the fold of the draperies, and perhaps he sought his color harmonies by repeated painting over, for the color is excessively thick on the neck and all the delicate parts . . .”
This kind of careful attention to technique was absorbed into Eakins’ own work.
Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) Carmelita Requeña (1869) Oil on canvas 26 1/6 BY 17 1/8 IN. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
According to M. Elizabeth Boone, author of Visitas de España: American Views of Art and Life in Spain, 1860-1914, it was shortly after seeing these that Eakins made his first original painting: Carmelita Requeña . In it, Eakins mimics Velázquez’s subtle use color and shadow, using very closely-related tones and small gradations of light to dark.
Deigo Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1600) The Crucifixion (1632) Oil on Canvas. Prado Museum, Mardid.
Besides, The Weavers, Eakins was inspired by Velázquez’s Crucifixion, painting a version of his own.
Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) The Crucifixion (1880). Oil on canvas.
In the past decade, a great deal has been done to re-assert the influence of Thomas Eakins and France on American painting. With that in mind, it would seem necessary to explore the role of Spanish painting on these painters.
Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820) Cicero Discovering the Tomb of Archimedes (1797) Oil on canvas. 124.5 BY 180.5CM. Yale University Art Gallery.
Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820 ) was one brightest stars in British painting at the end of the eighteenth century. During his career, art and art academies turned away from nearly a century of lighter subject matter and back towards the subjects and methods of the Old Masters. This included investigating how Old Masters actually painted. Color theory, the chemistry of paints, grounds and, even, proper stance while painting, were all debated in the halls of England’s Royal Academy.
Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820) Portrait of artist posing as President of the Royal Academy.
West had served as President of the Royal Academy (1792-1805; 1806-1820) and was particularly interested in the works of the Venetian painter Titian (Venetian, a. 1506-1576), and his ability to achieve high intensity color in his paintings.
So when an artist named Ann Jemima Provis and her father, Thomas Provis, approached West and told him they had found a copy of an old manuscript that explained how the Venetians achieved their distinctive style of painting, he jumped at the chance to learn more. Eager to incorporate the methods in the manuscript into his own work, West began experimenting with them.
There was only one problem.
“The story was an absurd invention, and the manuscript was a fake,†said Angus Trumble, senior curator of paintings and sculpture at the Yale Center.
In addition, to the manuscript Ann and Thomas Provis offered demonstrations of the Venetian technique. These included a new approach to painting grounds and using Prussian blue.
(Prussian blue was invented by Heinrich Diesbach and Johann Konrad Dippel in 1704 or 1705, more than 100 years after Titian’s death. In his own paintings, Titian used lapis lazuli (a.k.a ultramarine); therefore, the “rediscovered” method was clearly not Titian’s.)
Painters working under the instructions of the Provises did not have the same results as the Old Masters, which led to suspicions regarding the Provises’s claims. The Provises were discovered for their hoax, and a number of artists who had paid for their advice were discredited in the press and at the Royal Academy. West, especially, was criticized for not having seen the hucksters for what they were.
Theodore Gerard (Belgian, 1829-1895) The Farmer’s Child (1861) Oil on panel 33 BY 22IN. Private collection.
The French word “genre,” directly translated as “kind” or “type,” is used to describe a variety of paintings. As a result the use of the term “genre painting” can be confusing.
Jozef Israëls (Dutch, 1824-1911) Awaiting the Fisherman’s Return. Oil on canvas. 32 1/2 BY 44 3/4IN. Private collection. A painting that depicts a scene of everyday life is generally considered a genre painting, and can include contemporary figures, urban life or peasant scenes. In her book, Keywords of Nineteenth-Century Art, Dr. Christine Lindey describes what sets a genre painting apart:
It did not aspire to the elevated scale, generalised effects or high moral truths of the grand manner; rather it sought to be entertaining (and often humorous), anecdotal and sentimental. Moreover, it depicted in telling detail non-heroic, anonymous, “ordinary” people going about their daily lives, whether they be contemporary and “real,” historical or literary.
(Christine Lindey. Keywords of Nineteenth-Century Art. p. 105)
Genre paintings originate from Dutch and Flemish painting traditions going as back as the fifteenth century. In the seventeenth-century, Dutch painters like Jan Steen (1626-1679) and de Hooch (1629-1684) took common genre scenes to a new level of refinement through their nuanced use of symbols (e.g. an discarded slipper as sexual innuendo) and highly skilled treatments of light and materials.
Peiter de Hooch (Dutch, 1629-1684) The Courtyard of a House in Delft (1658) Oil on canvas.
The greatest criticism of genre paintings came from painters following Italian and French traditions of art that emphasized large scale works of historical or mythological scenes. In his assessment of Gustave Courbet, the father of Realist painting, Pierre-Joseph Proud’hon, an academic painter, wrote:
It would be no truer to call him a genre painter, like the Dutch and Flemish, whose paintings, though pleasant or comic, are insubstantial; they rarely go to the heart of things, reflect no philosophical concerns, and reveal more imagination than observation . . .
(Harrison and Wood. Du principe de l’art et sa distination social. Christine Lindey, trans. p. 408)
Despite the lack of credibility they often received, there were many nineteenth-century genre painters. During the first half of the century, their works appeared more often on the private market than in public exhibitions. By the end of the century genre painting had gained greater credibility and regularly appeared in the annual Paris Salon.
Johann Georg Meyer von Bremen (German, 1813-1886) Making a Bouquet. Oil on canvas. Private collection.
Today, genre paintings are more popularly owned by private collectors than by museums. In my regular visits to auctions in London, I often play a game a mentor taught me. Traveling to museums and auctions together, he would ask me to move into a room and choose three paintings that I would want in my museum collection.
Paul Seignac (French, 1826-1904) The Reading Lesson. Oil on panel. 19 BY 26 1/4IN. Private collection.
These three would have to be impressive in their execution, appealing in their subject matter, possibly of historical importance (e.g. a painting of a key battle) or by an important painter. Many times as I play this game, I am forced to choose between a genre painting that I love and a work that is less appealing but more historically important. Unfortunately, this is the game that most collectors play and, as a result, genre paintings by extremely competent painters are, in my opinion, regularly undervalued.
[This post was inspired by a conversation I had with the talented and thoughtful painter Joseph Brickey. For more on his work, visit his website here.]
Over three quarters of what constitutes painting is comprised of drawing. If I had to put a sign above my door I would write: “School of drawing,” and I’m sure that I would produce painters.
-Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867) (Henri Delborde. Ingres. sa vie, ses travaux, sa doctrine. Paris: Henri Plon, p. 123)
Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867) A Young, Seated Nude Male. (c. 1850) Graphite on paper. Musée du France, Paris.
Previously on this blog, I have received comments questioning the sincerity, artistic integrity or creativity in nineteenth-century, academic painters and contemporary artists attempting to model them.The criticism is based on a belief that drawing accurately is not artistic (right-brain), but, in essence, an act of left-brained practice. In other words, a camera could do the same as the artist. I absolutely agree that an artist should not be a camera.
However, nineteenth-century, academic painting was not based on mimicking nature, but on observation combined with the ideal, sometimes described as the “antique.”
In France and much of Western Europe, the first half of the nineteenth century was dominated by an artistic philosophy that emphasized the dominance of line, or contour, over color. Drawing was considered the underlying structure of a painting and, therefore, was the principle skill taught in the major academies. In fact, it was not until the mid-nineteenth century that the Ecole des Beaux-Arts included oil painting as part of its curriculum. (Previous to that time, artists would learn oil painting in the ateliers of a master to whom they would be assigned in tandem with their studies or after graduation from the Ecole.)
Eugene Delacroix (French, 1798-1863). Study of a Man, Soldiers and a Dog. Graphite on paper. Musée de France, Paris, France.
In his journal, Eugene Delacroix (French, 1798-1863) planned a study program and dictionary for artists writing:
The first and most important thing in painting is the contour. Even if all the rest were to be neglected, provided the contours were there, the painting would be strong and finished. I have more need than most to be on my guard about this matter; think constantly about it, and always begin that way. (Delacoix’s Journal, April 17, 1824)
To modern eyes and to many artists who are attempting to resurrect the academic methods of the nineteenth century, the emphasis on drawing could be interpreted as an ability to correctly copy or mimic what the eye sees. This is an incorrect belief. Nineteenth-century academic drawing was only partially observational. In practice, it was a combination between observation of nature and classical construction based on an understanding of ideal form.
Charles Gleyre (Swiss, 1808-1874). Seated Woman. Graphite on paper. Louvre, Paris.
This combination of the ideal and the observation of nature was often objected to by the Impressionists. Claude Monet (French, 1840-1926) studied with the academic painter Charles Gleyre (Swiss, 1808-1874) and recalled an experience where the two perspectives on drawing clashed. Monet was working from a live, nude model and, on seeing his work, Gleyre reacted:
‘It is not bad,” he said, “but the breast is heavy, the shoulder too powerful and the foot too big.”
“I can only draw what I see,” I replied timidly.
“Praxiteles borrowed the best parts from a hundred imperfect models, to create a masterpiece,” Gleyre replied dryly. “When you make something, you must think of the antique!”
That same evening, I took Sisley, Renoir and Bazille to one side: “Let’s get out of here,” I said, “This place is unhealthy, it is lacking in sincerity.”
(Gustave Geoffroy. Claude Monet, sa vie, son temps, son oeuvres. Paris: Les éditions G. Cres et Cie, 1927, p. 26-27)
Again, academic painters were not interested in being cameras or making accurate copies of what they saw. Academic painting was deeply ideological and conceptual. It was based on the need to construct the human figure after the ideal. In this way, many artists today, including art historians, would be surprised to know that ideologically, academic painters had more in common with the avant garde Suprematism and Constructivism in the purity of geometry and line than the Impressionist did with those same movements.
An appreciation of nineteenth-century, academic painting–and, for that matter, many Old Masters–begins with an understanding of the ideology of the ideal and as the basis for painting.
“One of the un-constestable masters of our epoch.”
“All of us will be forgotten, but Meissonier will be remembered.”
-Eugène Delacroix, Painter and Friend of Meissonier
— “His presence will be assured in the museums of the future.”
-Théophile Gautier, Nineteenth Century Critic
— “One of the greatest glories of the entire world.”
-Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany
Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891) Self-portrait (1889) Oil on canvas
In his book, The Judgment of Paris–which I have referred to on more than one occasion on this blog–Ross King explores how one of the world’s formost painters could become nearly anonymous nearly 100 years after his death.
Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891). The Siege of Paris (1876) Oil on canvas. Private collection.
Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier was the highest paid painter of his day. His paintings, which often took years to paint, were unveiled to huge crowds and discussed in international newspapers. The list of people buying his painting reads like a who’s who of late-nineteenth-century, European money and power.
Now, he is primarily remembered as a “costume painter.”
Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891). The French Campaign(1861) Oil on canvas. Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
In short video interview, Ross King talks about Meissonier and his fall into obscurity (Click here to see the video.)
Francois Joseph Heim (French, 1787-1865)Charles X Distributing Awards to Artists Exhibiting at the Salon of 1824 at the Louvre (1827) MuseÌe du Louvre, Paris
In recent years, there has been increasing excitement for international art fairs (e.g. Art Basel in Miami, Maastricht in the Holland) that feature the works of the art world’s current and rising superstars. In the nineteenth century, there were dozens of annual European art fairs, but the most influential and largest was the annual “Exhibition of Living Artists” known as the Paris Salon.
In his book, The Judgment of Paris, Ross King compares Salon attendance to today’s most visited museum exhibitions:
[The Salon was] one of the greatest spectacles in Europe, it was an even more popular attraction, in terms of the crowds it drew, than public executions. Opening to the public in the first week of May and running for some six weeks, it featured thousands of works of art specially—and sometimes controversially—chosen by a Selection Committee. Admission on most afternoons was only a franc, which placed it within easy reach of virtually every Parisian, considering the wage of the lowest-paid workers, such as milliners and washerwomen, averaged three to four francs a day. Those unwilling or unable to pay could visit on Sundays, when admission was free and the Palais des Chaps-Élysées thronged with as many as 50,000 visitors—five times the number that had gathered in 1857 to watch the blade of guillotine descend on the neck of a priest names Verger who had murdered the Archbishop of Paris. In some years, as Many as a million people visited the Salon during its six-week run, meaning crowds averaged more than 23,000 people a day*
*To put these figures into context, the most well-attended art exhibition in the year 2003 was Leonardo da Vinci: Master Draftsman, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Over the course of a nine-week run, the show drew and average of 6,863 visitors each day, with an overall total of 401,004. El Greco, likewise at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, averaged 6,807 per day during its three-month run in 2003-4, ultimately attracting 574,381 visitors. The top-ranked schibition of 2002, Van Gogh and Gaugin, at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, drew 6,719 perday for four months, with a final attendance of 739,117.
(Ross King. The Judgment of Paris. New York: Walker and Company, 2006. p. 17)
Comparing the Paris Salon to modern-day museum exhibitions is probably unfair. In the nineteenth century–before the advent of photography, radio, and movie theaters–painting was truly the most public art form. A more appropriate comparison would mostly likely be comparing Salon attendance to movie ticket sales. (How about comparing Ernest Meissonier’s painting Friedeland, the painting sold for the highest price in the nineteenth century and a Salon blockbuster, with Batman Begins?)
Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891) 1807, Friedland (c. 1861-1875), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
If that is true, it would also be appropriate to consider the Paris Salons as some of the most culturally significant and telling events of the nineteenth century. Recently, while undertaking a research question, I was surprised to learn that there is little published about the Salon as an intitution previous to or after the Salon de Refusées in 1863.
William Adolph Bouguereau. Pieta (1876) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 148CM. Dallas Museum of Fine Arts, Dallas, Texas
At the 1878 Universal Exposition in Paris, Edouard Manet was asked which of all the painters then living would be best remembered in 100 years. His answer: William Adolph Bouguereau.
Manet (1832-1883) and Bougeureau (1825-1905) represented two polar movements in painting. Manet, regularly controversial in his work, had been the leader of the Impressionist movement and Bougeureau was the darling of the Academic tradition supported by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
Thanks to Google Trends and Amazon.com, it is possible to get some indication of whether or not Manet’s prediction, at least in comparison to his own work, has come true.
Over the past few years, Google has been tracking the number of searches done specific keywords. Because Manet and Bouguereau have unique names, it is fairly easy to narrow down searches relating to them as opposed to other painters (e.g. Ingres is the names of the painter and a Fortune 500 company.)
Google Trends of Manet searches from 2004 to 2008.
Google Trends of Bouguereau searches from 2004 to 2008.
At the time of this post, a standard search on Google.com produces 4,870,000 results for Manet and 1,140,000 for Bouguereau. An Amazon.com search produces 12,721 books for Manet and 1,071 for Bouguereau.
Edouard Manet. Olympia (1863) Oil on canvas. Musée d’Orsay, Paris
The comparison of these two artists and their popularity through these methods is hardly comprehensive. But, it is one indication that Manet is more popular than he is prophetic.
Maybe he was misquoted and meant 200 years. I’ll follow up with another post then.
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Photograph of the Painter (a. 1910)
By the end of his life, Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz (1848-1921) had served as the Director of the Prado Museum, won numerous international awards, including the French Legion of Honor, and held the position of the Director of the Spanish Academy in Rome. He is best remembered for having taught the painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida in Rome, and for the painting Doña Juana La Loca (Joanna the Mad) that galvanized a new generation of history painters in Spain and toured several European nations as a masterpiece.
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Self-Portrait (1917). Oil on canvas. 4.5 BY 35.5CM. Madrid, Prado Museum.
Pradilla was heavily influenced by Velázquez, Titian, El Greco and Ribera, all of whom are well represented in the Prado Collection. Even late in life, he regularly copied Old Master paintings in order to improve his own. This was accompanied by his lifelong dedication to the study of Greek and Roman texts, along with Spanish historical documents which inspired many of his paintings. He was well noted by friends for a large library of rare books and an ability to speak several languages.
Early Life and Training
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Rape of the Sabines (c. 1873-1874). Oil on canvas. 115 BY 150CM. Madrid, Universidad de Complutense, Facultad de Bellas Artes. Made as part of the audition to receive a scholarship to study in Rome.
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz was born to a poor family in Zaragoza, Spain. He was accepted to the local Institute of Zaragoza. But, due to a lack of money, he was unable to pay for his own supplies and tuition and had to end his studies there.
Thereafter, Pradilla joined the workshop of the stage scenery painter Mariano Pescador. The work gave him needed money which he used to attend the Fine Arts School in the Academy of San Luis in Zaragoza and, eventually, move to Madrid.
In Madrid, he continued to make a living painting scenery for theaters. His ambition and talent eventually won him a place in the School of Painting and Sculpture at the Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando in Madrid. In addition to his classwork, the records of the Prado show that, beginning in 1869, he regularly visited the Collection in order to copy Old Master paintings.
Rome
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Náufragos or “Survivors of the Shipwreck” (1876). Oil on canvas. Madrid, Ayuntamiento.
Pradilla was among the first group of students given government scholarships to study at the new Spanish Academy in Rome, founded in 1873, but opened to students in 1874. The Spanish School in Rome would become the most important center for artistic training in Spain and Pradilla would become one of its most influential students (1874-1877) and teachers (1877-1896).
During three years, students were required to produce copies of Old Master paintings and Greek and Roman statuary, in addition to regular travel in order to encourage a broader perspective. While a student, Pradilla traveled extensively, visiting Venice, Florence, Milan, Piza, Paris, and six cities in Germany.
The culmination of each student’s study in at the Spanish Academy in Rome was a large, multi-figural history painting. In Pradilla’s case his final painting for the Academy would be an internationally-praised work.
DoJuana la Loca (Joanna the Mad Queen)
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Doña Juana la Loca (1877). Oil on Canvas 340 by 500CM. Madrid, Prado Museum.
The painting depicts a scene from the life of the Spanish Royal Joanna (1479-1555), the second daughter of King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella of Spain.
After the death of her husband, Joanna accompanied the body to its place of burial. Refusing to sleep or leave the casket, she kept vigil over the casket in torrential rain and winds. This, combined with other behaviors deemed as eccentric, estranged her from other royals. She spent the last years of her live in a convent.
Pradilla’s portrayal is notable for its underlying classical composition combined with Realism. In addition to his strong figural work, the painting reflects Pradilla’s understanding of landscape. He was a member of the Spanish Watercolorist Society, which specialized in disseminating landscape skills, and a student of the famous Spanish landscape painter Carlos de Haes. Several sketches for the landscape of Juana la Loca reveal the enormous amount of work he did to effectively portray the atmosphere, clouds, and ground convincingly.
End of Life
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz. Landscape (a. 1900)
Pradilla served as the Director of the Spanish Academy in Rome for only eight months, from September, 1881 to April, 1882. He also served as the Director of the Prado for a short thirteen months, from January, 1896 to February, 1897, after an important work by Murillo, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin Mary, was stolen. (It was recovered in 1911).
During the last years of his life, both the national government and the government of his birth, Zaragoza, would commission several works. But, he never repeated the success of Doña Juana la Loca, although he continued to paint in the same style.
Retrospectives of his life and works were held in Madrid (1948 and 1985) and Zaragoza (1985). Three of his major works are now held in the Prado, but the majority are held in private hands or regional museums and government buildings, especially in his native Zaragoza.
Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) The Triumph of David. Oil on canvas. 118.4 BY 148.3CM. Dulwich Gallery, Dulwich, UK. Poussin is remembered for his highly structured paintings that influenced generations of artists looking for a more scientific approach to their painting. Three geometric analysis of this work are included in this article.
Over the past decade a new field of neurology has emerged, Neuroesthetics, with the intent of mapping the brain’s reaction to the fine arts.
The term “neuroesthetics” and the field was pioneered by Dr. Semir Zeki, who is the first Professor of Neuroesthetics at University College London, founder of the Wellcome Department of Cognitive Neuroscience at University College London and the Minerva Foundation at UC Berkley, where he is an adjunct professor. The website of the Institute defines its work as seeking “to establish the biological and neurobiological foundations of aesthetic experience.”
The notion of scientifically quantifying art might seem opposed a central purpose of art, which is subject to individual experience with an original work of art. In his long essay, What is Art?, Leo Tolstoy said it another way:
The activity of art is based on the fact that a man, receiving through his sense of hearing or sight another man’s expression of feeling, is capable of experiencing the emotion which moved the man who expressed it. To take the simplest example: one man laughs, and another, who hears, becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another, who hears, feels sorrow . . . And it is on this capacity of man to receive another man’s expression of feeling, and experience those feelings himself that the activity of art is based.
(Leo Tolstoy. Aylmer Maude, trans. What Is Art? Bridgewater: Baker & Taylor, 2000. p. 48)
Tolstoy’s way of describing art seems like a set up for a scientific experiment.
Geometric Analysis 1: Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) The Triumph of David. Oil on canvas. 118.4 BY 148.3CM. Dulwich Gallery, Dulwich, UK.
A scientific approach to art is not new. Many artists, most notably those of the Renaissance, approached art with a rigorous scientific mindset. The fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian schools of painting, especially in Florence and Rome, were concerned with geometry and the Golden Mean and were epitomized by the works of Leonardo Da Vinci and Raphael. European artistic training and up until the end of the nineteenth century, included classes in geometry and scientific theory. Impressionist and Divisionist artists, though rejecting traditional art, embraced new discoveries in color theory. In the twentieth century, the Futurist art movement applied current scientific understanding to effectively portray speed and movement on a canvas. Rothko was intensely concerned about the affect of color on the brain and was concerned about where his paintings would hang in case they would have an adverse results on the viewer (e.g. he believed that red was good for dining areas). I could think of a number of other examples.
The point is: science and art have been bedfellows for some time. So, it follows, why don’t we use science to futher improve our understanding of art?
Geometric Analysis 2: Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) The Triumph of David. Oil on canvas. 118.4 BY 148.3CM. Dulwich Gallery, Dulwich, UK.
In 2004, Dr. Zeki and his colleague Dr. Hideaki Kawabata published a study titled Neural Correlates of Beauty in the April 2004 J Neurophysiol journal of the The American Physiological Society. The study reports on an experiment where ten woman, with at least one college degree, were asked to rate paintings on a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being beautiful and 1 being ugly. (Note that the test controlled for a subjective experience with each painting, allowing personal preference and not scientific judgment to intervene.)
Each woman was placed in an MRI scan and, then, shown the paintings they rated in random order. The brain patterns of the women were mapped to determine whether or not the brain has has beauty or ugliness centers.
The conclusion of the study states:
The results show that the perception of different categories of paintings are associated with distinct and specialized visual areas of the brain, that the orbito-frontal cortex is differently engaged during the perception of beautiful and ugly stimuli, regardless of the category of painting, and that the perception of stimuli as beautiful or ugly mobilizes the motor cortext differentially.
(A PDF of the the full, published study, along with other studies by Dr. Zeki, can be found on the Wellcome Institute’s website: neuroesthetics.org/research.php.)
In other words, setting aside a personal interpretation of beauty, the brain has established neuro-pathways that are triggered when looking at a beautiful or ugly work of art.
As the field of Neuroesthetics expands it may eventually influence the art world. As an art historian, I am curious about what makes a work of art or an artist have a lasting impact. To find out art theorist often uses a highly subjective and, therefore, uneasy mix of soft science. Having a more scientific approach to what makes a painting work, would be a welcome tool in my belt.
Geometric Analysis 3: Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) The Triumph of David. Oil on canvas. 118.4 BY 148.3CM. Dulwich Gallery, Dulwich, UK.
The effect of this kind of research on working artists could be useful or damaging, depending on the intent of the artist. If an artist wants to learn what affects her work is having on her viewers– and, therefore, understand how to better hone those intended results–it seems very useful to use the ideas supported by neuroethetics. On the other hand, the last thing I would want to purchase it market-tested works of art. Thankfully, this doesn’t seem to be the intent of Dr. Zeki’s work.
Dr. Zeki has a blog, which he regularly updates: profzeki.blogspot.com. As the founder and leaders of the field of Neuroethetics, it is a good place to learn about his latest thinking.
