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280 – “Amo” I love!

Edward Robert Hughes, Study for a Picture: Fra Lippo Lippi, 1893. Williamson Art Gallery and Museum, Birkenhead.

I am only just starting to get to know the Williamson Art Gallery and Museum in Birkenhead. It’s a little bit out of the way for me, on the Wirral, but only 20 minutes to drive… However, I prefer walking, or going by public transport – so the Lady Lever in Port Sunlight, or the Walker in Liverpool are more convenient. Nevertheless, as my talk this Monday, 13 July at 6pm will demonstrate, it has the most fantastic collection. They don’t have enough wall space to display all of their paintings, drawings, prints and sculptures – there are about 6,000 works altogether – and so they focus on different aspects of the collection by arranging temporary displays. This week I will talk about one of these, Beyond the Brotherhood: The Legacy of the Pre-Raphaelites – which I introduced all too briefly two weeks before. As well as a few familiar names there are the most fantastic paintings and drawings by artists I had never heard of. Some are local to Merseyside, and were inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites – becoming known as ‘the School of Liverpool’ – whereas others had connections to the artists who were at the heart of the movement. Edward Robert Hughes is one of the ones I was previously unaware of. I find his drawing style quite breath-taking – so why haven’t I heard of him before? Today’s drawing is just one example of the fabulous material on view – so I do hope you can join me on Monday.

There will also be a superb array of media, techniques and imagery to see in the following two talks, both of which are dedicated to a fantastic exhibition I saw in Ghent earlier this year. Sadly, it closed at the end of May, but I still thought you might like to see the extent of the material it covered – or rather, I really think you should see it! It was a thorough exploration of the many women working in the low countries – the Netherlands, and what later became Belgium – between 1600 and 1750, and, like the Williamson exhibition, there are familiar names and brilliant new discoveries. You can book either talk separately, or both together at a reduced price, on the following links.

Unforgettable I & II: 3 and 17 August at 6pm
Unforgettable I – Building a Career: 3 August at 6pm
Unforgettable II – The Community of Artists: 17 August at 6pm

I will then talk about the Courtauld’s current exhibition, Hepworth in Colour, on 24 August, and am hoping to keep the summer colourful on 31 August with the Scottish Colourists, who are currently on show at the Arc in Winchester. However, I’ll post these on the diary as soon as I have confirmed, as I’ve just realised that I may not be able to get to Winchester when I had planned to…

This is how Hughes’ drawing is displayed at the Williamson, where it seen as part of a wall of faces, portraits, and character studies. It could almost be a portrait itself, and that was probably the intention. The subject is standing in a walled garden, holding a white rose, and appears to have been caught unawares. He looks towards you with a calm, well-mannered expression – but more as if he is waiting to see what happens next, rather than wanting to instigate conversation himself. He has something on his mind, I think. Drawn in red chalk on paper – the medium which perhaps best approximates to the texture and colour of White European flesh tones – the image is of a young monk or friar, wearing a white habit with a cowl or hood. The colour of the drawing is set off by the simple, gold-coloured frame, with the image itself given extra impetus by the plain black border around the inner edge. There is a reflection from the glass at the top of this photograph, but I have a clearer version below.

The artist’s signature appears in the bottom left corner – ‘R HUGHES 1893’. Edward Robert Hughes was the nephew of Arthur Hughes, who joined the Royal Academy Schools in 1847, the year before the foundation of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood by older students in the Schools. However, it seems that he didn’t meet Millais, Hunt and Rossetti until 1850, after he had read their journal, The Germ, which only stretched to 4 issues, all of which were published that year. He never officially became a member of the group, but was enormously influenced by their stylistic innovations. Arthur’s nephew, Edward Robert, was at an even greater remove – but he did go on to assist William Holman Hunt, who late in life was suffering from glaucoma. His most significant contributions were to the third and final version of The Light of the World (c. 1900-04) in St Paul’s Cathedral, and The Lady of Shallott (c. 1888-1905) at the Wadsworth Atheneum – which was one the last of my 100 ‘Pictures Of The Day’ towards the end of lockdown (see 97 – The Mirror Crack’d) – in retrospect, the perfect pandemic painting.

Hughes was 42 when he drew today’s image, and had forged a career in portraiture. Notably, from the point of view of Monday’s talk, from the 1870s he regularly spent several months every year painting portraits in Birkenhead – which might explain how two of his drawings found their way into the Williamson (I will include both in the talk). He was also well known for fantastical watercolours, and in the year that this drawing was created he came to the end of a two-year term as Vice-President of the Royal Watercolour Society.

I think it is the delicacy, subtlety and precision of the drawing style which really grabbed my attention. In this detail the white rose shines out, each petal differentiated, the top edges curling back to catch the light which appears to be falling from above, so that the curls cast shadows on the outside of the petals themselves. The forefinger of his left hand is crooked, and appears to be about to pluck one of the petals, as if he were playing what would be a fairly lengthy game of ‘she loves me, she loves me not…’ – there are a lot of petals to go. The thumb is out of sight, and the remaining three fingers are bent, lying alongside one another and separated by the subtle shading of the red chalk, which also models the knuckles and the veins running across the back of the hand. The fingers of the right hand – holding the rose – seem more tightly pressed together. Is there a symbolism to the rose? Possibly – and its brilliance suggests that it is, at least, important to the drawing as a whole. It is white, so it could refer to purity – but it might just be an artistic choice, matching the friar’s habit. It might refer to the Virgin Mary – a pure, white, rose without thorns – but I’m not sure that Hughes would have been aware of that particular aspect of the rose’s symbolism. Mind you, given the Victorian love of ‘the language of flowers’, it is possible. The lower hem of the cowl crosses behind both hands, and on the right of the drawing it flexes out over the crook of the subject’s left elbow, allowing Hughes to show off his ability to modulate the red chalk and create a superb sculptural effect. The dark shadow underneath this curving section of the hem creates a real sense of depth.

This young man is undoubtedly the most handsome member of a religious order I have ever seen. Hughes delights in the subtle variation of tone which defines the depth of the eye sockets, the curve of the chin, the slight hollowing of the cheek next to a slightly protruding mouth, with its full, soft lips. The subject has a healthy head of brown hair, short to medium-length and slightly tousled, framed by the thin white hood of the cowl, which falls, translucent, on either side of the neck. It seems to glow from behind, once more enhancing the sculptural nature of the depiction, and creating space around the columnar neck. His deep-set brown eyes look out, maybe slightly distracted by something over your right shoulder. Behind him is an urn, with a plant growing around it – possibly the rose from which he has plucked the bloom – and above that is a balustrade, implying that this is a garden set on more than one level.

He belongs to the Carmelite order – known in Britain as the White Friars, after the white cloak and cowl worn over their brown habits. Originally hermits on Mount Carmel in Palestine from as early as 1150, they moved to Western Europe around 90 years later as a result of conflict in the ever-warring ‘Holy Land’. They were friars rather than monks – a mendicant order – so they were not expected to live an enclosed life. The most significant Carmelite convent for the History of Art is quite possibly Santa Maria del Carmine in Florence – as that is where Masaccio and Masolino painted the Brancacci Chapel, often referred to as ‘The Cradle of the Renaissance’.

Just to make the point, here is St Peter Enthroned by Masaccio – from the Brancacci Chapel. Unexpectedly, perhaps, it shows a number of Carmelites as witnesses, despite the fact that this event – if it ever happened – would have been over a millennium before the order was founded. But Carmelite myth, not to mention artistic license, would suggest otherwise. However, our subject today is a very specific Carmelite – as is made clear by the drawing’s title, not to mention the words written in a reserved section of white paper in the top right corner:

All the Latin I construe is, ‘Amo’ I love!

Some of you will, no doubt, have been thinking of this already. The clue is partly given by the name in the title, ‘Fra Lippo Lippi’, as art historians nowadays almost always (well, always, as far as I am aware) refer to this man as Filippo Lippi – or Fra Filippo Lippi – who was indeed a friar of the Carmelite order. But the quotation above is from Fra Lippo Lippi, the title of a poem by Robert Browning – who lived for a while on the Oltrarno in Florence, close to the Palazzo Pitti, and not so very far from Santa Maria del Carmine. As Lippi says in line 7 of the poem, ‘The Carmine’s my cloister: look it up’. Both his father, a butcher, and his mother had died by the time he was two, and as his aunt could not afford to look after him, she placed him in the convent at the age of eight. It was hardly a calling – and he wasn’t always entirely saintly. He left the Carmine in 1432, but did not renounce his vows… nevertheless, commissioned to paint for an Augustinian nunnery in Prato, he had an affair with the young novice Lucrezia Buti, the result being ‘little Filippo’ – Filippino Lippi, the artist who, with no little irony, completed Masaccio and Masolino’s frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel.

Filippo would have been about 50 when Filippino was born… so the younger artist would not even have been a glint in his father’s eye when Hughes imagines this ‘portrait’ as having been taken: I would say he looks in his mid-20s, but I’ve never been a good judge of people’s ages. Nevertheless, as the quoted line suggests, there does seem to have been some sort of a glint inended…

The poem is one of the dramatic monologues which Browning made his speciality. At the beginning of the poem, Fra Lippo has been taken by the police – perhaps Browning was thinking of the Ufficiali di Notte – the ‘Officers of the Night’ – who had been established in 1432 (when Lippi would have been about 26) to keep an eye out for sexual activity between men, clearly deemed to have been a problem at the time. But that’s not what Lippi has been up to. As he says towards the beginning of the poem,

What, ’tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,
And here you catch me at an alley’s end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar…

However, precisely what he was doing there we only gradually discover. He tells us of his parent’s deaths, and about his aunt taking him to the Carmine, and then, how the other Carmelites treat him:

“Let’s see what the urchin’s fit for”—that came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:
Lord, they’d have taught me Latin in pure waste!
…
All the Latin I construe is, ‘amo’ I love!

The implication is that he didn’t see himself fit to be a friar, and learning Latin would have been no use. The line quoted in the drawing implies as much… he knows what love is, but little more, and Hughes shows us a young man in love, or looking for love, or longing…

But what is it, specifically, that attracted Hughes to this poem, and to Browning’s version of Filippo Lippi? Is the romantic notion of a lovelorn cleric enough? More specifically, Lippi’s discussion – in the poem – of what art is, and what it should be, was probably more important. Browning imagines Lippi’s superiors being sceptical of his naturalistic depiction of humanity, the flesh and bones, as if this were all too worldly, not nearly spiritual enough. They claim that he would never match the ‘old masters’ Fra Angelico and Lorenzo Monaco – a Dominican friar and Calmaldolese monk respectively. Lippi tries to explain his ideas, but,

The heads shake still—‘It’s art’s decline, my son!
You’re not of the true painters, great and old;
Brother Angelico’s the man, you’ll find;
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:
Fag on at flesh, you’ll never make the third!’

Keep going with your naturalism, they say, and you’ll never rank with the greats. You should be more spiritual. How has Lippi tried to justify his work? It’s quite simple, really.

If you get simple beauty and nought else,
You get about the best thing God invents…

I find it hard to disagree with that. It’s also clear that Lippi believes in naturalism, the depiction of details, as that brings us close to the truth – as opposed to a spiritual idealism that has little to do with the world we live in. In many ways, his views are those expounded by the Pre-Raphaelites, who very often concentrated on the minutest details of the natural world – as we will see on Monday. And maybe it was this that inspired Edward Robert Hughes to make this Study for a Picture. The ‘picture’ itself was never painted – perhaps he never meant it to be – but I can’t regret that. The drawing is perfect… the painting may have let it down.

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Hockney, retrospective

David Hockney, My Parents and Myself, 1976. The David Hockney Foundation.

I first posted today’s blog just under two years ago, when the National Gallery was showing a closely related work in a rather wonderful 3-painting display. It seems apt to repost it today, though, as I look forward to this week’s talk (at 6.00pm on Monday 6 July) inspired by David Hockney’s A Year in Normandie, which is currently on show, with some other paintings, at Serpentine North in Hyde Park. Little did I know when I went to see it that it would be his last exhibition as ‘Britain’s most famous, and successful, living artist’ – which is how I described him two years ago. I will give a very brief overview of his long and varied career before concentrating on the exhibition – and will consider how the works on display, some of his last, are related to what came before.

The following week, at 6.00pm on Monday 13 July I will dedicate an in-depth talk to the display Beyond the Brotherhood: The Legacies of the Pre-Raphaelites at the Williamson Art Gallery and Museum in Birkenhead. I gave it the briefest of introductions on Monday, but the quality of the paintings, drawings and work in other media is superb: I wanted to spend more time with it. The exhibition brings together work by artists who were inspired by, or related to, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in different ways, and shows just how rich the holdings of the Williamson – my second closest art gallery on the Wirral – are.

After what I hope will be a reasonably cool, but invigorating holiday in Shetland I will give two talks about an exhibition which took place earlier this year in Ghent. Unforgettable was very successful, but did deserve to be seen more widely – which is why I want to dedicate two talks to it, in order to cover the ideas behind it more fully and to see as many of the excellent paintings as possible. The title was ironic, given that so many of the artists – Women between Antwerp and Amsterdam, 1600-1750, to use the exhibition’s own subtitle – have indeed been forgotten. Some are only just being rediscovered, and, as well as now well-known names – Judith Leyster, Rachel Ruysch, and Michaelina Wautier, for example – there are many more who were entirely new to me. I will split the themes covered by the exhibition into two talks, on 3 and 17 August. You can book for either separately, or both together at a reduced price, on the following links:

Unforgettable I & II: 3 and 17 August at 6pm
Unforgettable I – Building a Career: 3 August at 6pm
Unforgettable II – The Community of Artists: 17 August at 6pm

For any talks or tours after that – please do keep checking the diary!

There were only three paintings in the NG’s ‘capsule exhibition’ back in 2024, but they formed a perfect triptych. What follows is a somewhat convoluted exploration of the origins, and implications, of just one of the three paintings, David Hockney’s My Parents (1977). Above is an earlier version, My Parents and Myself, which was started in 1975 while Hockney was living in Paris, but then abandoned – much to his parents’ distress. Unfinished, it languished for decades in his Los Angeles home until seen in public for the first time in 2020. Hockney’s mother and father are seated to our left and right respectively on what looks like a square platform, with curtains slung on a rail above as if they are on a stage. In between them is a bright green cabinet with a vase of yellow tulips on one side, and a mirror, reflecting the face of the artist, on the other: this is a triple portrait.

The yellow lines you can see rising behind Mrs Hockney’s head, above the tulips, and to the right of the mirror are remains of masking tape which was left in place when the painting was abandoned. I can’t for the life of me think what he would have been masking here, but he might have been planning to overpaint the background and leave a geometrical framework of the underlying layer: there is a similar geometric structure in another version of the painting (there were three) which we will see later. As you will find out, I am especially interested in the curtains at the top. They are not particularly detailed, but then, this is an unfinished painting. As a result it is not at all clear how they are attached to the pole, which stretches from one side of the painting to the other with no visible means of support. The light brown colour suggests that it is made of wood, but given the weight of the curtains, and the slim profile of the pole, it is surprising that it does not bow in the middle. The curtains are a jade green, or very light turquoise, and serve to frame the images of mother and father below. The curtain on the right is slightly more open, with the lower end brought forward and slung over the back of the pole further to the right. The bottom edge and corner of the curtain are visible to the right of the other folds. It spreads further than its equivalent on the left, which is slung over the pole in a more compact way: it isn’t stretched out as much, and the lower end is hidden between the folds of the front and back sections. The curtains echo the placement of the figures.

Mrs Hockney faces directly towards us, her shoulders parallel to the picture plane, while her husband is at an angle, in three-quarter profile, with his body aligned on a diagonal from back right to front left. As a result, like the curtain above, he is more ‘spread out’, while Hockney’s mother is more contained. In a similar way, there seems to be an equivalence between the objects on the cabinet and the human figures. The vase has the same light colouration as Mrs Hockney’s hair, and both have swelling forms which narrow towards the feet, with a neck and shoulders (or equivalent) at the top. The mirror is framed with wood, and could be swivelled, not entirely unlike the diagonals and verticals of Mr Hockney’s wooden chair (Mrs Hockney’s chair is only just sketched in, but looks as if it would have had a slim metal frame).

Mum’s feet are crossed over, while dad’s rest flat on the ground (I mention this as the finished painting of 1977 is different). They are on a mottled blue and red carpet, with a dark blue band at the front, one of the things which creates the appearance of them being on a platform or stage. In between them, the lower shelf of the bright green cabinet is stacked with books. A large, thick tome and several slimmer volumes taking up the same width of the shelf lie horizontally on the left, while four smaller, light blue books stand upright, if slightly leaning, on the right.

The David Hockney Foundation has a study for My Parents and Myself which was drawn in coloured pencils in 1974. It shows that the original idea for the composition was fundamentally the same, with his mother on the left facing front with feet crossed, and his father on the right, at an angle. The green cabinet is there – though on wheels, and slightly angled – with the vase (which is darker) and mirror standing on it. Hockney’s reflection is there, although his face takes up more of the surface: the intention was definitely to have all three members of the family given an equivalent presence. The curtains are very different, though. They still hang from an apparently wooden pole, but have black curtain rings clearly visible. They are a yellowy-orange, and hang the full height of the back wall of the room. Why did he change the colour, and the way they hang?

A photograph of the sitting (also in the David Hockney Foundation) suggests that there weren’t any curtains there at all – although they are present in the painting which has been placed behind Mrs Hockney (this is clearly a highly staged photograph). The light vase contains the yellow tulips, and the mirror reflects the artist – though at a far smaller scale than in the Study, given his distance. The reference to Old Master Painting should be clear. With a mirror, reflecting an otherwise unseen presence, seen between a married couple, one looking towards us, one at an angle, he can only have been thinking of the Arnolfini Portrait. In addition to Jan van Eyck, at least two other artists have influenced this painting. The books on the cabinet (which is nowhere near as brightly coloured as in the painting) are in a different arrangement. There are now five vertical blue books on the left, and fewer large, horizontal volumes to the right. The one at the top is clearly titled ‘Chardin’, and is a monographic study of the 18th Century French artist famed for his timeless still life and genre paintings. Both parents sit on the same type of chair – the wooden, angled form that the father uses in the unfinished painting – and they are both half on and half off a very specific rug.

It is a woven version of Piet Mondrian’s unfinished Victory Boogie Woogie (1942-44, Kunstmuseum, The Hague). Not an ‘old master’ perhaps, but another artistic reference, and also one which speaks of timelessness and balanced, careful composition.

I mentioned that there were three versions of the painting. Unlike the one we are looking at today (on the right) the version to the left was completed, and exhibited, but no longer exists: Hockney later destroyed it as being ‘too contrived’. This is the version I referred to which has a geometric structure: a triangle, rather than the implied rectangle formed by the masking tape. The base cuts behind the heads of Mrs Hockney and her son (in the reflection), with the bottom right corner pointing toward Mr Hockney. It binds the family together. However, given my interests in religious art, and Mrs Hockney’s profound Christian faith, I wonder if there was something else? The relationship between Mother, Father and Son is clearly important, but is there also a nod towards the Holy Trinity? There is an implied reference in a painting seen in the third iteration of the composition – even if I’m not sure that Hockney would have been interested in that aspect of the work in question. Mrs Hockney seems to be sitting in a metal-framed chair – the one planned for the unfinished painting, perhaps – while Mr Hockney sits in the one seen in the pencil Study, rather than that in the photograph. The carpet stretches the full width of the painting, and the green cabinet, on wheels, is at a slight angle, as in the Study. There are no curtains.

The completed version was finished in 1977 after Hockney had returned to England. By now you can pick out the themes and variations for yourselves, but I will point out that the arrange of books is the same as in the photograph (although the Chardin monograph is now at the bottom of the pile, and there are six vertical books), and that the rug, scrubbed clean of the Mondrian, is neatly placed within the frame and on a wooden floor. As a result there is no sense that they are on a platform. The chairs, as in the photograph again, are half on and half off the rug, and it’s curtains for the curtains. Or is it? They are there, but hidden in plain sight. As you will have realised, there are a number of other differences. Mrs Hockney’s feet are not crossed, her husband’s are raised at the heels, and he bends over to look at a book lying on his lap. But something else is missing, which is reflected in this version’s title: My Parents, rather than My Parents and Myself. We do not see Hockney’s face in the mirror. However, he is reflected there, albeit symbolically.

Two images can be seen in the reflection. One is a print of Piero della Francesca’s Baptism of Christ – the painting exhibited alongside My Parents in the National Gallery’s 2024 exhibition Hockney and Piero: A Longer Look. The other shows a green curtain. The catalogue entry on Tate’s website suggests that this is a reflection of Hockney’s Invented Man Revealing Still Life (1975, Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City) which I’ve illustrated on the right. However, the National Gallery’s catalogue for the current exhibition implies (but doesn’t state explicitly) that the curtains are those from the unfinished version of My Parents and Myself. What do you think? My personal feeling is that we are seeing a reflection of the unfinished painting. In any image of Invented Man… that I have come across, the curtain at the right (seen at the left of the reflection) is at the very edge of the painting, to the extent that it is slightly cropped in the image from the Hockney Foundation website I’ve used above. However, in My Parents and Myself there is a gap between the curtain and the side of the painting – as there is in the reflection. Not only that, but in Invented Man… we can see the black curtain hooks which Hockney had shown in the Study for My Parents which are not in the unfinished painting. They are not visible in the reflection – suggesting that it is My Parents and Myself, which must be propped against the back wall of Hockney’s studio in London. The National Gallery catalogue suggests that the reflection of the unfinished My Parents and Myself seen in the finished My Parents suggests an idea of spiritual renewal which is not entirely unlike the act of baptism. I would further suggest that the ‘missing’ figure in Piero’s Baptism – God the Father – would complete the Holy Trinity implicit in the figures of Jesus and the dove (the Holy Spirit). This would be the connection with the red triangle in the destroyed version of the painting. There is a profound sense, therefore, that Hockney is associating himself with Piero and his work. He is subtly making us aware of his heritage, as the product both of his parents, and of his artistic forefathers, his physical and artistic ‘families’. [In retrospect I realise that there is a profound connection with Murillo’s The Heavenly and Earthly Trinities, but I’ll have to leave the explanation of that for another time].

However, none of this explains my interest in the curtains. Where do they come from? Somehow I know, but I don’t know how I know. I suspect that I’d have to read everything I’ve ever read about Hockney to find out, but I really can’t remember what that was. Nevertheless, have a look at the next two images.

The first is a detail from My Parents and Myself. The second has all the black curtain hooks in Invented Man… – and sketched in, even with different curtains, in the Study for My Parents and Myself. It also has the vertical support from which the un-bowed pole hangs in Invented Man… It is a detail from a predella panel from Fra Angelico’s San Marco Altarpiece, painted for the eponymous church in Florence and now in the eponymous museum. David Hockney discusses his love of Fra Angelico in an interview in the National Gallery’s catalogue from the 2024 exhibition, and picks out the Annunciation frescoed at the top of the stairs in the former Dominican friary which now houses the Museo di San Marco. However, the borrowed curtains are not mentioned, so I’m very glad I remembered them.

[After I first wrote this post I found a reference to Fra Angelico’s Miracle of the Black Leg on the David Hockney Foundation website, on a page about the year 1975, when Invented Man Revealing Still Life was painted – but that’s not where I know it from… However, after several visits to the Fra Angelico exhibition in Florence last year, the connection is even more obvious]. These curtains form just one element which recurs across a few of his paintings, but even on their own, they are a testimony to his love of looking, and his love of art: this great love was with him to the very end – as we will see on Monday.

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279 – Honeysuckle A and B

May Morris, Design for Honeysuckle wallpaper, about 1879-83. The William Morris Society.

I spent the weekend with a very slow WiFi connection trying to get my laptop back up to running order. If you’re reading this now, I have clearly succeeded. However, the whole process has given me plenty of time to look at my diary, think about the exhibitions I have seen, and plan my talks up until September – and a little beyond. This coming week, on Monday, 29 June at 6pm, I will deliver my talk May Morris, the Reading Bayeux, and the Post-Pre-Raphaelites, which will take a thorough look at the exhibition May Morris, Crafting a Legacy currently on show at the Lady Lever Art Gallery, just round the corner from me on the Wirral. This exhibition has interesting connections to the replica of the Bayeux Tapestry in Reading, which I will elucidate. I will also give a brief introduction to a second exhibition on the Wirral, Beyond the Brotherhood, at my second-closest museum, The Williamson in Birkenhead. However, working over the weekend – with plenty of time to look at the material while I waited for the WiFi – I realised how good both of these exhibitions are, and I don’t want to sell either of them short – so on 13 July I will dedicate an additional, in-depth talk to the second show, Beyond the Brotherhood: The Legacies of the Pre-Raphaelites. This includes artists who were inspired by, or related to, the PRB (Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood) in different ways, and so, by definition, must have come after them. This is why I’ve coined the absurd term ‘the Post-Pre-Raphaelites’ for the earlier talk. In between these two, on 6 July, I will give my second ‘Pre-Bayeux’ talk, inspired by the exhibition of David Hockney’s A Year in Normandie – inspired by the topotypical tapestry – at Serpentine North in Hyde Park. I’d planned to see how this exhibition relates to his earlier work even before his recent death: now it will be more obviously a retrospective – although it will only give the briefest of outlines of the development of his long and productive career. Any more detail and I’d have to deliver an entire series of talks!

I’ll be on holiday – somewhere cooler – at the end of July, and when I get back I want to have a good look at an exhibition that I saw far too late to be able to talk about it while it was still on. Unforgettable, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Ghent, was undoubtedly the best summation of recent research into women in the visual arts that I have yet seen. The title, of course, is ironic, given that so many of these artists were forgotten. The subtitle, Women between Antwerp and Amsterdam, 1600-1750, suggests its focus, but despite the geographical and temporal limits it was both comprehensive and intriguing: it definitely deserves to be thoroughly explored. Consequently, I will split the themes it covers into two talks, on 3 and 17 August. You can book for either separately, or both together at a reduced price, on the following links:

Unforgettable I & II: 3 and 17 August at 6pm
Unforgettable I – Building a Career: 3 August at 6pm
Unforgettable II – The Community of Artists: 17 August at 6pm

Although I know what’s coming after that it’ll take me a while to get it all online – so keep an eye on the diary!

May Morris grew up with art and design. Her parents, William Morris and Jane Burden, met in Oxford when Dante Gabriel Rossetti took both under his wing while painting the Oxford Union between 1857 and 1859. Married that year, their first daughter, Jane (known as Jenny) was born in 1861 and her sister, Mary (known as May) the following year. William was an artist turned designer, and effectively the founder of the Arts & Crafts movement. Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. – the interior design firm – was founded in 1861, and it would subtly evolve to become Morris & Co. in 1875. Jane was an expert needlewoman, and famed beauty – a popular model for the other artists associated with the Pre-Raphaelites. It’s not entirely surprising that May Morris also grew up to be a superb designer and seamstress – she had an early start. The Honeysuckle wallpaper is probably her most famous design, and she may have been as young as 17 (according to the dates given in the exhibition) at the time of its inception. Most sources date the design precisely to 1883, though, by which time she would have been 21, and working officially for Morris & Co. – however, that is by no means certain. It’s not entirely clear when she started working for them, for one thing. As daughter of the boss, I suspect it would initially have been an unofficial involvement that only gradually evolved into her becoming a full member of the workforce. However, it was certainly formalised by 1885 when, at the age of 23, she was appointed manager of Morris & Co’s professional embroidery workroom. Nevertheless, when her father died eleven years later she left the company almost immediately, determined finally to strike out on her own.

For a while, it wasn’t even clear who had designed Honeysuckle. An article published in 1890 in the magazine The Woman’s World (published between 1887 and 1890, and edited by none other than Oscar Wilde) attributed the design to William Morris. However, this wasn’t an act of misogyny, or the dismissal of ‘cheap labour’ from his daughter: work by the chief designer Henry Dearle was also credited to William Morris. No one was interested in Dearle wallpaper, but many wanted Morris: it was a purely financial arrangement. In medieval terms (one of William Morris’s main areas of interest), these designs were all products of the Morris workshop, and the firm’s guarantee of their authenticity was what the customers were really interested in. However, May Morris’s name was given as the designer in the Morris & Co. wallpaper catalogue from around 1909, and her authorship of the design is also confirmed in one of her letters which survives in the archives.

There are a certain number of conditions you have to meet in order to create a viable wallpaper design – one that will work, that is, regardless of whether or not it is successful. The most important – and arguably the only important condition – is that the pattern must repeat both horizontally and vertically. This detail is cropped to include the repeat (54cm in the finished product), with some ‘excess’ material – repeated elements – on all four sides. The design features seven different honeysuckle blooms, with two sizeable flowers (a third of the way down on the left, and at the bottom right) and five smaller specimens. These are surrounded by a tangle of stems and leaves which fill the space between the blooms evenly. Judging by eye, they also seem to cover the same amount of the surface area as the white background – thus giving an even balance between light and dark, helping to keep the design balanced across the surface of an entire wall. The pattern is contained within a grid of black drawn lines, just within the edges of this detail. The vertical lines left and right mark the edges of the planned wallpaper (56 cm wide in the completed product). If you look at the small flower top left, its petals project to the left of the line, at which point, in the design, the imagery becomes more diffuse. However, if you now look at the top right of the design, on a level with this bloom, you will see that those same petals are fully realised on the right side of the paper. One of the conditions for a working design is that it must match on a sharp vertical line – the edge of the wallpaper. May has created a pattern which repeats at the same level, although often the design is offset, with the left-hand side matching the pattern half-way down the right, for example. This helps to create a diagonal flow across a wall, the movement helping to create the mood and energy of the design. However, a diagonal is already introduced here by the inclusion the two similarly sized, large blooms on a diagonal. They are not the same flower, but nevertheless create the same effect, with a subtle variation in appearance.

The grid line at the top of the detail goes through the ‘heart’ of one of the ghost blooms – the larger one, which is also seen fully realised at the bottom right. Curiously there doesn’t appear to be an equivalent line going through this complete version – but my guess would be that she wanted to leave the image clear so that the design could be easily and precisely transferred to the wood blocks used to print the paper by hand. Tying the design together vertically – in addition to the repeated flowers – is a woody stem, thicker than the others, which undulates from left to right on either side of the central axis. The two larger blooms grow on slightly thinner stems which grow from this central ‘trunk’, forking to the left and right alternately. The smaller flowers grow on a complex network which is both irregular and inventive. Altogether there is a sense of order and balance, combined with a sense of natural profusion.

May Morris only designed three wallpapers (we will see samples of them all on Monday), and in the two which followed she did not extend the design beyond the basic repeat in the way that she does here. The full extent of the design is mapped out in the bold colours, while the more diffuse, paler sections suggest that she is checking that the repeat will really work. However, there is also a sense that this was the very piece of paper on which she created the final image, rather than it being a ‘fair copy’ she had transferred from a developmental model. If you look at the large sketchy flower on the right, the pencil outlines of the final design can be seen, freely filled with light brushstrokes of watercolour. However, there are more curves and arcs of pencil lines, suggesting that this is one of the places where she was working out the final form that the flower would take.

The design evolved from her direct observations of the motif: the flowers and stems of the honeysuckle. The Ashmolean Museum in Oxford has a rich collection of her work, including at least three drawings of honeysuckle – I’m just showing you two. On the left, even if the flowers are given some colour, there is a greater interest in the shapes of the stems and leaves. The curving forms of the left-hand stem could have inspired the undulating axis of the final design. The watercolour on the right has a more careful observation of the shape and form of the individual petals and sepals, an understanding necessary to know how they should be foreshortened, in order to make a convincing three-dimensional form. Let’s face it, this isn’t the easiest flower to draw. I think the wallpaper design is a triumph in this regard. It manages to create a convincing, naturalistic image of honeysuckle which is, at the same time, suitably stylised and entirely decorative.

Having produced the design, the paper then went into production. Below are two photographs – the design, and the finished product, as mounted and framed for the exhibition. Have a close look and see if there have been any changes!

I think the most obvious difference is in the colours. However, there are several reasons for that. First, the design was hand coloured, and the paints may have darkened. Second, and almost more likely, my phone might have responded differently to the lighting conditions, even if the two exhibits are right next to each other. And third – it is probably an aesthetic choice, choosing three green inks – light, mid- and dark green – which would make the design easy to read. A pale or mid-green fills in the body of each leaf, while the mid- or darker green (depending on the base colour) creates the outline and marks the central rib. The other lines on the leaves are effectively hatching, helping to define the three-dimensional form of each leaf. However, the main difference between the two details is in the framing. The sample (on the right), has its vertical edges covered by the mount. The image you see would not work as a wallpaper, as the pattern does not match up from right to left. Most notably, you can only see half of the small flower a third of the way down on the left – there are no matching petals to complete the bloom on the right-hand side. But that is only a matter of framing: underneath the mount, the paper is all there!

As I mentioned above, the Morris & Co. wallpapers were hand printed, using wood blocks. Having finalised the design, it would be transferred to the block as a line drawing. Specialist carvers cut the design into pear wood – or the wood of another fruit tree – as that is soft enough for delicate detail. However, this is relief printing: it is the raised, uncarved areas of the block which create the image. Any lines – whether outlines or hatching – require thin ridges of wood, which wouldn’t last long given the pressure applied during printing, so they could be reinforced with metal. The printing was carried out by specialists, and Morris subcontracted this work to another company. For Honeysuckle – and many other wallpapers – they went to Jeffrey & Co. Each colour in the design needed a separate block, and each block had to register exactly with the others – but, given the hand-made ethos, if they were slightly out from time to time it wasn’t a major issue. Starting with the broader areas of lighter colours, the pattern would gradually be built up, working towards darker colours and finer detail. Honeysuckle needed eight blocks. Just looking at my photographs, I think there are three greens, three pinks, and two browns, but I could be wrong. Eight was not the most that could be used, though: one of William Morris’s own designs, Chrysanthemum, from 1877, used as many as 30 – which needed 30 blocks to be hand cut… Morris famously exhorted people to ‘Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful’ – but hand printed wallpaper is labour intensive, and consequently enormously expensive: not everyone could afford this standard of enlightened living. Nevertheless, there was enough money in Britain to make it a viable concern. Below is just one of the blocks which survive in the archives of the William Morris Gallery. This one was used to print his Larkspur wallpaper, and was produced by Barratt’s of Bethnal Green Road.

In theory, having cut the blocks, they could be inked with any colour. One of the jobs of the designer is to decide which combinations of colour will work. Each different combination is called a ‘colourway’. There are four different colourways for Honeysuckle, two of which can be seen in the Lady Lever exhibition.

The image on the left is a detail of the framed sample I showed you above, while that on the right is from a wall in the third room of the exhibition. As far as I can see, the main difference, if not the only difference, is in the background. In the first version, I believe the background colour is the natural colour of the paper. As so often, I could be wrong, though! Maybe it is necessary to print the background this light colour to make the design and surface texture more consistent. In the second, darker version, the main difference is that the background appears to be black. It looks as if the lines of the stems, and the outlines of the flowers and leaves are the same black, though, which could, theoretically, reduce the number of blocks needed to print this particular colourway.

If a wall in the exhibition is papered with this design, it does beg an interesting question, the answer to which is ‘yes’! It is still possible to buy these wallpapers. Morris & Co. is still a going concern, even though it has passed through different hands in the last century: it is currently owned by the Sanderson Design Group. No, the papers are no longer hand printed, but yes, they are still remarkably expensive. I have, in the past, considered using a couple of rolls for a feature wall, though! However, May’s other designs – her embroidery, dress-making, and other ventures – are harder to come by, which is what makes the exhibition so valuable… and that is why I am talking about it on Monday!

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278 – Heading for a Fall

Henri Matisse, The Fall of Icarus, 1943. Private collection.

You know when someone says, ‘I’m having one of those weeks’? Well, that’s me. For a while I even thought I would have to postpone Monday’s talk, Matisse because on Tuesday night (well, Wednesday morning) at about 12:30am my laptop locked me out. However, I got it back from the laptop hospital today after some delay, I’m giving it all the tender love and care it deserves, and I will get it fit and ready for this Monday, 22 June at 6pm… I blame the British Museum, but that’s another story.

By the following week, 29 June, I will be more relaxed, and ready to unravel the tangle of threads that link May Morris, the Reading Bayeux, and the Post-Pre-Raphaelites. This will cover two exhibitions on the Wirral, where I live, and my recent work on the Bayeux tapestry (yes, I’m still blaming the British Museum) which have all fortuitously coincided: this talk will be the result. Expect fantastic paintings, skilful embroidery, and even wonderful wallpaper. I will then return to Bayeux via David Hockney’s work inspired by the tapestry, A Year in Normandie, on 6 July. I planned this before the news of his passing, and now, of course, it will be more of a retrospective than I had imagined. What a remarkable career! Details of these talks are on the diary, of course, and I will add more as I pin them down.

(In case you’re wondering why I blame the British Museum – well, my laptop seems to have burnt out after spending over 12 hours in the queue to book tickets to see the Bayeux Tapestry this coming September. At least I’ll be going. And I will probably have paid for the repairs by then… I’m going to dedicated at least two talks to it in October, if not three: that depends on how much ‘exhibition’ surrounds the tapestry itself. And no, it’s not a tapestry…)

Two and a half weeks after his 71st Birthday, on 16 January 1941, Matisse had emergency surgery for cancer, which was followed by a post-operative pulmonary embolism – an operation that both saved his life and nearly killed him. Granted a ‘second life’, as he saw it, his outlook was unbelievably positive, and his work increasingly inventive. The example I want to think about today was one of the early examples of his paper cut-outs – in many ways an entirely new way of creating imagery – but we’ll discuss that further on Monday. Against an intense blue sky, dotted with sharp, angular stars, a white body appears suspended against a black diagonal. A burst of red appears in front of the figure’s chest. The work is named after the classical myth in which Daedalus and his son Icarus escape from prison by flying, using wings made of wax and feathers made by Daedalus himself. Failing to heed his father’s warnings, Icarus flies too close to the sun, the wax melts, the wings fail, and he plummets to his death. The black diagonal gradually tapers from top to bottom, the only thing that indicates the downward motion – apart, perhaps, from the upward splash of red. The blackness is almost the negative of a spotlight, or searchlight: rather than illuminating the most important figure, it casts him into a void, making his white form shine out against the darkness, darker even than the blue of the night sky.

Matisse called this work The Fall of Icarus, but, as ever, it isn’t that simple. To mention the most obvious things, there are no hints of either wings or feathers, and the myth makes no mention of Icarus being injured as he fell, although I can only assume that the red is blood spurting from his chest. Let’s look more closely, though, to get a better understanding of what this is.

Ceçi n’est pas un collage – to misquote René Magritte. This is not a collage. ‘Collage’ comes from the French word coller, ‘to stick’, or colle, ‘glue’, and refers to an image made from elements that have been made, or sourced from elsewhere, which are brought together and stuck on the same surface. But not everything here is stuck down: the stars, and the splash of red, are held in place with pins. In English we call Matisse’s innovative late works ‘paper cut-outs’, whereas in French they are ‘gouaches découpées’ – cut-out gouaches. White paper was prepared with gouache – an opaque, water-based paint (sometimes called body colour, or more recently ‘opaque watercolour’) – and the shapes cut from that. From then on, the work could be very flexible. Matisse would move the shapes around, pinning them in place, then rearrange them until he was happy with the composition. He might pin them onto other pieces of gouache-prepared paper, as he has here – you can see the pins quite clearly, I hope – or he might pin them to the wall. The next day he might rearrange the motifs again, or remove some altogether. Later they might be used in a completely different composition. However, this transient and fluid way of working was not the most sturdy, and eventually, for the purpose of exhibiting the works, most of the ‘finished’ cut-outs were glued down – for purely practical reasons – and later also mounted on canvas, which made them easier to handle. Today’s image is one of very few that still has at least some of its pins. As a result it maintains some of its spontaneity, not to mention its three-dimensional form. Notice how the ends of the beams shining from the star on the left lift away from the paper, and cast shadows. There is a sense of flexibility, the possibility of change, and potentially, even, movement. If breezes were to blow across the image, the stars would twinkle in the sky. There are also marks in the intense colour of the background where pins have been inserted and then removed. These subtle punctures reveal traces of earlier compositions, the ghosts of potential artworks. What we see is an image that evolved across time, and what we are looking at is only one of its possibilities.

Much of Matisse’s concern was to simplify things as much as possible, and by simplifying them, to get to their essence. We read this as a human form simply because the arrangement of elements is so familiar: in this section we see a head and two arms. There is not much detail, though, partly because the shapes were cut with tools varying from large tailors’ shears, to smaller, more precise embroidery scissors. The lack of detail creates a sense of floundering, though: Icarus is not in control. The arms terminate not with hands and fingers, but with points, almost like flippers, which again gives a sense of helplessness. As I see it, Icarus is facing us – but only because I see the blood as spurting from a wound in his chest, as I mentioned above. However maybe, given how low the source is, it comes from the abdomen. This is not an abstract image – it clearly represents a human body – but it is, at least, abstracted, and with abstraction, the precise placement of every form becomes even more important. The curve of the right arm (on our left) never gets too close to the border between the black and the blue, and is comfortably surrounded by darkness. However, the tip of the left hand touches the edge of the black. Somehow this imbues it with a greater energy, even a sense of danger, which is only enhanced by its apparent contact with the twinkling star.

Matisse seems to enjoy how slim Icarus is, his torso curving to a narrow waist, then out again around the hips to very solid legs: his thighs are wider than his waist. At the bottom of the cut-out we get a wonderful sense of the physicality of the work. Rather than being stuck to the mount, or having a frame on top of it, cutting off the edges, the base, blue-coloured paper is held in place with transparent corner mounts, the sort that I have always thought of as photo corners. This allows the base to flex, and as a result it casts shadows on the white surface beneath. The black diagonal has been stuck onto the blue surface beneath – but it has not been trimmed to fit. It reveals a sliver of blue at its bottom left corner, whereas the bottom right projects over the edge. This emphasizes the physicality of the material, something which is all the more evident if we get just a little closer.

The projection of the corner of the black over the edge of the blue is clearer, I think, as are the shadows cast on the white background. There are small white dots in the corner of the black: these are the traces caused by the pins as Matisse shifted the black-painted section to find its most satisfactory position. The materiality of the pin in the star is also clearer, its head to the top right, the pinpoint at bottom left. The star wrinkles in the middle as a result of being pinned, and casts a thin line of shadow on itself. This physicality is one of the ways in which Matisse’s use of paper in the cut-outs is so different to traditional approaches. Most artists treat paper as a surface on which to draw or paint, whereas Matisse used each piece of painted paper as a three-dimensional object, material to be cut into and moulded. He even said that ‘cutting into colour reminds me of the sculptor’s direct carving’ – he is carving with paper. Rather than works on paper, like drawings or prints, the cut-outs are works of paper, incredibly thin sculptures.

We can also see his signature more clearly in the detail above: ‘Henri Matisse’, and just above the final ‘e’, ‘6/43’ – he made this work in June 1943. Starting from the very first issue, Matisse regularly provided illustrations for Verve, a journal published between 1937 and 1960 by the mononymic publisher Tériade. The Fall of Icarus was published as a lithograph in Verve, Volume IV, number 13 six years later. Here is a comparison between the original, which some would call a maquette, or ‘model’ (but that’s one of the things we will consider on Monday) and the published lithograph.

In the year that The Fall of Icarus was made and published Tériade managed to persuade Matisse to write a book about colour. It would take the name Jazz, and was eventually published in 1947, although most of the work was done in 1943. It was at this point that he really perfected the technique of the paper cut-outs. The colours were exactly the same in both the originals and the printed versions because the ink for the books used the same range of pigments as the gouache for the cut-outs (if they aren’t above, it is because the photos come from different sources). Nevertheless, Matisse was ambivalent about the printed versions, as they no longer had that three-dimensionality, or, for that matter, the possibility of change. They became fixed, slightly dead, like a butterfly pinned to a board… but I still think they look superb. As an Art History student at Cambridge I thought the pictures for Jazz were simply the best thing – and if you want to know more, one of my friends from those days, Louise Rogers, has written a fantastic book, Matisse: The Books – which of course, includes Jazz. Click on that link for more information.

But what about the title, The Fall of Icarus? Is this really an illustration of the myth? As ever – as we discovered last week (277 – How do you know that?) – context is everything. I’ve mentioned the dates of Matisse’s operation (1941), and of the execution of this cut-out (1943), and I’m sure you must have been wondering about both. What else was going on in the world, after all? It becomes slightly more obvious if we turn to another of Matisse’s associates, who, like Tériade, is usually known by only one name: the Surrealist poet Aragon. Writing about Matisse in 1971, he said that Icarus looked ‘like a corpse, and, from what Matisse said himself, it seems that the splashes of yellow—suns or stars if you want to be mythological—were exploding shells in 1943’. The Fall of Icarus was made in June 1943, nearly four years into the Second World War. Young men were regularly being shot out of the sky by shells, often wounded by machine guns… Is this the reason for the blood? Do the shells explain the sharpness and angularity of what we have read as stars? There is no reason to doubt it.

But – again, as ever – there probably is another layer. In January 1941 Matisse had been operated on for bowel cancer, and this was followed by a blood clot blocking his lungs. Is the image, perhaps, also a form of self portrait? The origin of the spurting blood – from the abdomen – might confirm this idea. Without wanting to belittle the possibility of its relationship to the war (and remember, I would always go for ‘and’ rather than ‘or’), a young airman falling tragically to his death does not have the same cause, or implications, as Icarus’ fate, the result of overweening self-confidence. Was Matisse worried that he himself was heading for a fall? Was he worried he might fail? One of the themes of Jazz is the circus, and one of the interpretations of Icarus – a version of which is included in the book – is that he is like a trapeze artist risking a fall, the stars being like spotlights in the big top… Matisse believed that, as an artist, you have to risk everything – like a trapeze artist defying gravity. And sometimes there isn’t a safety net. When they were first produced, the cut-outs were treated with scepticism, if not outright dismissal – but Matisse needn’t have worried. It was the audience that faltered, not him. Now they are seen as one of the triumphs in a remarkable career. Rather than falling, they are more like flying – which is exactly how he described the sensation of the scissors slicing through the painted paper.

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277 – How do you know that?

Francisco de Zurbarán, A Cup of Water and a Rose, about 1630. The National Gallery, London.

Zurbarán at the National Gallery has been open for some time, but I’m only just getting round to talking about it this Monday, 15 June at 6pm. There are various reasons for that, not least of which was preparing for what turned out to be a rather enjoyable visit to Strasbourg and Colmar with Artemisia – so enjoyable, in fact, that we are planning to repeat it next year in April (keep your eyes peeled for more information). Zurbarán is a fantastic show, with beautiful, striking, and occasionally surprising paintings – really one of those ‘not to be missed’ experiences. The following week (22 June) I will talk about the monumental exhibition Matisse: 1941-1954, currently at the Grand Palais in Paris. It charts the extraordinary productivity of the modern master’s final years. Far rather than going gently into that dark night – to misquote Dylan Thomas – Matisse created some of the most joyous, colourful and vibrant works of his long career, and, as well as other masterpieces, the exhibition includes many of the major cut-outs, from Jazz to The Snail, and even some examples of his stained glass.

The day after I talk about Zurbarán, Friends of the British Museum will be able to book tickets to see the Bayeux Tapestry, and tickets for others will go on sale on 1 July. On either side of the second of these dates my talks will also be looking forward to this momentous exhibition. On 29 June I will deliver a talk inspired by two exhibitions on the Wirral, at my two nearest museums. I’ve called it May Morris, the Reading Bayeux, and the Post-Pre-Raphaelites – but if you want to know how those things fit together you’ll have to click on the link! The week after (6 July), my second ‘Pre-Bayeux’ talk will be David Hockney: A Year in Normandie…, during which I will look back, in bullet-points, at his whole career from the perspective of the Bayeux-inspired frieze of the same name which is currently on show at Serpentine North in Hyde Park. Details are all in the diary, of course. And, in case you were wondering, I will be talking about the Tapestry itself, but probably not until October.

If you do book for any of these talks, Tixoom will send a confirmation, with a link, straight away. It should arrive within minutes, but if it hasn’t reached you by the next day – and if it’s not in your spam folder – then let me know: it would be easier to deal with it then than five minutes before the talk. Tixoom will then send you reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and both will include the link to join the talk. Of course, these might be delayed according to the efficiency of your own internet provider… but they will be on their way!

One of the questions I was asked most often over two decades of delivering guided tours to the general public at the National Gallery was ‘how do you know that?’ Admittedly there are times when I have to stop and ask myself the same question. There are ideas floating around in my head and I’m not always sure where they come from. Today’s painting is a good case in point, but one for which I can definitely answer the question. Although its title is entirely accurate – describing the painting as A Cup of Water and a Rose – it does not, as it might do, say that it is a Still Life – which it most certainly is. The title also doesn’t list every element of the composition: the silver plate, for example, or for that matter, the table, or shelf, on which the plate is resting. I suppose you could also mention the dark background. A ‘full’ title could be Still Life with a Cup of Water and a Rose on a silver plate on a shelf against a dark background. You can see why they only mention the two most important features. As I’ve said before, titles – for paintings prior to the 19th century at least – are most likely to be simple descriptions of what you can see – or at least, the most important elements of the composition, as is the case here. But maybe there is more to this painting than meets the eye.

I’m using a couple of different digital files: this is a detail from the National Gallery’s website, the last photograph was my own. The cup of water is remarkably simple. Wonderfully thin, it flares from the circular base to its rim. Two slightly uneven handles are attached opposite one another, and two parallel grooves circle the top. Light comes from the left, so that the handle on the left casts a shadow between its two points of attachment. The transition from light to dark, which models the cup in three dimensions, falls vertically more or less half way across the cup.

The rose’s outer petals, near the stem, are a pale pink, but deepen to a richer, deeper shade as they are more shadowed. We can see the reflection of the flower in the rim of the plate, and the sepals – the dark green, petal-like forms which originally formed the outside of the bud – appear at the bottom left of the blossom, curled out around the stem. Even at this resolution you should be able to see that the stem has no thorns – which tells us that this is a symbol of the Virgin Mary. ‘How do you know that?’, you may well ask. Well, I’m writing this post to answer that question.

For one thing, there are plenty of written sources that refer to Mary as rosa senza spina – ‘a rose without thorns’ – most notably St Ambrose, back in the 4th century. It refers to the fact that she was without sin. In Genesis 3:17-18 (yes, I know, I’ve quoted this before recently – see 275 – Then Mary gathered cherries), God rebukes Adam after the Fall, and tells him,

…cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field

Mary is like the rose, but without the thorns: beautiful, perfect, and with nothing bad. However, if this were the only painting in which this appeared, we might still be dubious that we had the right meaning. So often the conclusions we draw are based on context. If more than one artist paints the same thing, then there must be a reason – although admittedly sometimes it is a purely visual, aesthetic inspiration, using the form without its original function. As it happens, there are many thornless roses in western art. Wandering through the National Gallery a few weeks ago, I saw a painting that was unfamiliar to me, but only because it has only recently been loaned from a private collection. It is an Immaculate Conception by Alonso Cano, who studied with Francisco Pacheco in Seville alongside Diego Velázquez – so is more or less contemporary with Francisco de Zurbarán.

It was Cano’s master, Pacheco, who fully realised what became the standard iconography for the Immaculate Conception, frequently repeated in Spain in the 17th century. The image draws on the first verse of chapter 12 in the Book of Revelation:

And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars

This verse had been interpreted as referring to Mary for centuries, and as early as the 15th century it had been used for some of the earliest images of the Virgin in her role as ‘the Immaculate’. However, it was Pacheco who formalised the swaying, full-length image, her hands held in prayer, that was so popular in Spain, and it was this model that Cano has followed. He has painted a crescent moon beneath the Virgin’s feet, and a golden glow to clothe her with the sun. The twelve stars (I can only see 10 here, but there is an 11th near her left shoulder, and the 12th must be behind her neck) appear at the edge of the dark circle of sky inside what could be interpreted as a halo of cherubic heads. Two other angels, with the bodies of children, appear on either side of her feet. The one to our left holds a white lily, which we all know refers to her purity and innocence, simply because it appears in so many paintings. The other angel holds a rose, the flowers the same colour as her dress (which connects it to her), and its stem without a thorn. The rosa senza spina occurs in enough paintings of the Virgin Mary that even without St Ambrose, we would know it referred to her. I’m not sure that we would also be able to work out that it refers specifically to her being in a state of grace (i.e. without sin) – although reference to Genesis 3:17-18 might be enough to get us that far too. So that’s how I know that the rose in Zurbarán’s Still Life refers to the Virgin Mary. And, as it does, maybe we should think about the other elements of the painting too. Let’s look back at the cup.

It is white: is that also a reference to Mary, and to her purity and innocence? Well, why not? After all, various bible texts are interpreted such that Jesus is referred to as ‘the water of life’. For example, in John 4:14, Jesus says ‘whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life’. So – this could represent the water of life contained within a pure white vessel, the Virgin Mary: during her pregnancy, she was, after all, a vessel ‘containing’ Jesus. In the Roman Catholic Litany of Loreto, Mary is invoked as Vas Honorabile, or ‘Vessel of Honour’. As it happens, the Litany also calls her Speculum Justitiae – ‘Mirror of Justice’, and elsewhere she is called speculum sine macula, ‘mirror without a stain’, a concept which derives from the Book of Wisdom 7:26, which was, inevitably, interpreted as a form of prophesy, foretelling Mary’s existence:

For she is the brightness of the everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of the power of God, and the image of his goodness.

Maybe the reflection in the water – the result of the water’s mirror-like surface, refers to this too. And if the water doesn’t, perhaps the plate does.

To be honest, I think you would be pushing it to claim that this plate is an ‘unspotted mirror’. The reflections are superbly painted, but they are more naturalistic than crystal clear. The sheen of the light on the back right rim contrasts strongly with darker side of the cup, adding to the sense of depth – and am I right in thinking that the glints of light under the cup to both left and right imply that there are drops of water there too? It is the most wondrous passage of painting. Even if it isn’t a ‘spotless mirror’, this plate does look remarkably like the sort of plate, or paten, used for the host (the wafers which are used as the bread during Mass). According to Catholic belief, during Mass the bread becomes the actual body of Christ, and as he is the water of life, and the water is on this plate, it might as well be a paten.

But I want to go back to the context of this painting. However, rather than thinking about it in relationship to other artists, I want to consider its context within Zurbarán’s own oeuvre. Here are two examples of him using the same detail.

On the left is a slightly edited version of the National Gallery’s painting. On the right is a detail from another painting in the exhibition, The Family of the Virgin (about 1630), from the Abelló Collection. The details are not precisely the same, and curiously, on the right, the rose is cut off by the frame. It is possible that the painting has been cut down, although that is not mentioned in the catalogue of the exhibition. This is the rest of the painting, as seen recently in the National Gallery’s exhibition:

Mary sits in prayer between her parents Joachim and Anna. The plate, with the cup and rose, are sitting on a table at the left hand side. The presence of this motif in a painting which is about Mary confirms that Zurbarán associated it specifically with her. The same is true of another painting, which unfortunately is not in the exhibition.

The Miraculous Healing of the Blessed Reginald of Orléans (1626), from the Church of Santa María Magdalena in Seville, appears to be Zurbarán’s first use of this motif. Although not next to the Virgin, the plate, cup and rose are on a table in the foreground next to the Blessed Reginald’s bed (it could even be the same table). On the other side of him is Mary, leaning over him, tending to her patient. Once again, its appearance is associated with the Virgin – and could be interpreted to imply that Mary’s presence surrounds the sick man, as she is on one side of him, while the symbol referring to her is on the other.

The National Gallery’s Still Life is a quiet meditation on the nature of the Virgin Mary, the Immaculate Conception. How do I know that? Because literary sources, going back as far as St Ambrose in the 4th century refer to her as ‘a rose without thorns’, a reference which is regularly illustrated in western European paintings. Her identification as the ‘Vessel of Honour’ and ‘Mirror of Justice’ are included in the Catholic liturgy. The concept of ‘the spotless mirror of the power of God’ comes from the Jewish scriptures – the Old Testament. As a composition it is clear, calm and beautiful, aesthetically pleasing and spiritually profound. Zurbarán included it in a least two of his paintings which concern the Virgin, either as a child, or as the Mother of God, which suggests that the motif as a whole was, for him at least, a metaphor for her qualities. However, it occurs in yet another painting which is in the exhibition but which, at first glance, appears to have no connection to the Catholic church.

In the detail on the right the rose appears larger, and at a slightly different angle to the first version I showed you (on the left), while both the cup and its reflection in the plate are crisper. Nevertheless, the concept is the same: it is the same motif. However, even if the concept is the same, the context is not. This is the painting as a whole:

Still Life with Lemons, Oranges and a Rose (1633, The Norton Simon Foundation, Pasadena) is considered to be Zurbarán’s greatest Still Life. However, apart from the repetition of the Marian motif, it doesn’t appear to have any other connection to Christian symbolism. Is this a case of ‘form without function’, or are we missing something? Is there a text which refers to lemons or oranges? Can we put them into the context of 17th century Spanish painting? Does the basket appear anywhere else? Well, there certainly are plenty of baskets – and we will see them on Monday. There will also be some equally fabulous lemons… which might help us to understand what we are looking at here.

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276 – Looking beyond

Matthias Grünewald, The Resurrection from The Isenheim Altarpiece, 1512-16. Musée Unterlinden, Colmar.

This Monday, 1 June, at 6pm, I will give a talk about Mathis Gothart Nithart, who is better known to us as Matthias Grünewald. This isn’t related to an exhibition – more’s the pity – but to my visit to Colmar with Artemisia in a week or so. The main reason to go is to see Grünewald’s masterwork, the Isenheim Altarpiece, one panel of which I am thinking about today. General consensus among the experts is that only ten of his paintings have survived the onslaught of history – although some, and most notably the Isenheim, are made up of several panels. There are also around 30 drawings, many of which are now in Berlin: on Monday we will take a close look at them, together with the surviving paintings.

The following Monday I will be on my way home from Strasbourg (and so, indirectly, Colmar), and the next talk will have to wait until Monday, 15 June. This will explore the National Gallery’s Zurbarán – a bold and beautiful introduction to the work of the Spanish master, perfectly curated and masterfully hung. That will be followed on 22 June by a visit to the monumental Matisse at the Grand Palais in Paris. After that I will make my first reference to the Bayeux Tapestry this year, in what could turn out to be just one of two ‘Pre-Bayeux’ talks (more about the ‘tapestry’ itself will follow in the autumn) – but it will also look at two different exhibitions in two different museums on the Wirral. Provisionally entitled May Morris, the Reading Bayeux, and the Post-Pre-Raphaelites, it will be more coherent than that title might suggest. I will post more information about it in the diary very soon, though.

I’ve written about the Resurrection more than once – for example, recently I reposted Happy Easter and previously there was also Bringing the Resurrection back to Life – but I think this is the most remarkably painting of the subject that I know. Admittedly I am not as familiar with German art as I am with Italian, but I can’t think of anything else like it in terms of its power, energy, and wealth of colour, or in the way that it depicts the supernatural in a style that is itself appropriately supernatural. ‘The third day he rose from the dead’ it says in the Apostle’s Creed, but in this painting it is quite clearly night, with the black sky glistening with stars. Jesus has risen some distance above the tomb, glowing with a golden light which fades through orange to pink, and is finally ringed with blue. The shroud trails behind and beneath him, one end still resting on the edge of the tomb. Draped around his shoulders, it takes on most of the colours of the spectrum – red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo and violet: only green is missing. Soldiers lie in paroxysms both behind and in front of the tomb, and an enormous rock looms over the landscape. 

The soldiers guarding the tomb are mentioned in the bible. Matthew 27: 59-66 talks about Joseph of Arimathea taking Jesus’ dead body, and laying it in his own tomb:

59 And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
60 And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.
61 And there was Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre.
62 Now the next day, that followed the day of the preparation, the chief priests and Pharisees came together unto Pilate,
63 Saying, Sir, we remember that that deceiver said, while he was yet alive, After three days I will rise again.
64 Command therefore that the sepulchre be made sure until the third day, lest his disciples come by night, and steal him away, and say unto the people, He is risen from the dead: so the last error shall be worse than the first.
65 Pilate said unto them, Ye have a watch: go your way, make it as sure as ye can.
66 So they went, and made the sepulchre sure, sealing the stone, and setting a watch.

So, the watch has been set. Clearly Grünewald has not painted exactly what the text describes, as there is no ‘rock hewn tomb’ with a stone rolled across the door. The tomb is clearly a standard sarcophagus, a rectangular ‘box’ of stone, with another slab as a lid. This was entirely traditional in Western European art, though, and almost everyone depicted it like this. The way in which the lid has been pushed off implies that the Resurrection was in some way ‘explosive’ – as does the energy with which the risen body is projected into the air. The burial took place on Good Friday – the first day – and on the third day (actually less than two days later, as it was Sunday morning) the Resurrection is celebrated. Matthew is quite specific about it. The first verse of Chapter 28 says,

In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.

So it is very early in the morning on Easter Sunday, Sunday being ‘the first day of the week’. It is only just beginning to dawn – hence the black night sky, looking darker against the brilliance of the resurrected Christ. The following 3 verses help to explain what is happening to the Soldiers:

2 And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3 His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:
4 And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.

Again, the mention of an ‘earthquake’ implies an almost explosive Resurrection. There is no angel here, admittedly, but the remarkable colours of the image might have some origin in the description of the angel’s face as being ‘like lightning’. Nevertheless, we see the ‘keepers’ shaking, and becoming ‘as dead men’. It may be that the angel has yet to sit upon the tomb, even though he has already lifted the lid away.

One of the soldiers appears to be thrown towards us, while another is contorted, his left arm held above his head the right still holding his sword, which rests on his right knee, straightened as his leg kicks away from the ground. Thrown sideways, his helmet has twisted around, the eye-slits in the visor now looking upwards, as the face itself looks away. The shroud, resting on the edge of the sepulchre, is almost white here, a bluish white admittedly. This is the ‘clean linen cloth’ mentioned above in Matthew 27:59, but its appearance, reaching up out of the tomb, could be a reference to the Gospel of John. In the following passage it is usually assumed that ‘the other disciple’ is John himself. Chapter 20, verses 4-8, describes Peter and the ‘other disciple’ heading to the tomb, after Mary Magdalene had told them about the Resurrection:

4 So they ran both together: and the other disciple did outrun Peter, and came first to the sepulchre.
5 And he stooping down, and looking in, saw the linen clothes lying; yet went he not in.
6 Then cometh Simon Peter following him, and went into the sepulchre, and seeth the linen clothes lie,
7 And the napkin, that was about his head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.

Is Grünewald showing us the ‘linen clothes’ about to fall back into the tomb? I think that is entirely possible.

There are more soldiers further away. One, in full 16th century armour, falls towards us – which, to my mind, is entirely counter-intuitive. For some reason I would expect him to fall away from the tomb, but, if there was an earthquake, the tremors could make people fall in any direction… In any case, the ‘intuitive’, what you would expect to happen, could itself be seen as being counter-intuitive, given the supernatural nature of the event. The sarcophagus is thickly carved from red stone. If this were in Italy, I would say it was Rosso di Verona – a red, fossiliferous limestone from the eponymous Italian city. Whatever it is, it has either been put together from small, angular sections, or has cracked with the blast. Another soldier, in red, with a chain mail hood, further away and apparently higher up than his armoured companion, crawls from left to right. The nearer of the two appears to have been of especial interest to one of Grünewald’s contemporaries – quite possibly a member of his studio. A contemporary drawing, now dated ‘c. 1515’, is held in the Staatliche Kunsthalle in Karlsruhe, not so terribly far away from Isenheim (well, globally speaking – it’s about 180km).

The artist is known, quite simply, as ‘the Grünewald copyist’, and he executed at least one other drawing of the Isenheim Altarpiece, also in Karlsruhe, which sheds interesting light on Grünewald’s working practice: we will see it on Monday.

I find the appearance of Christ truly astonishing. With his hands spread wide and raised, displaying the wounds from the crucifixion, and the feet separated, the wounds again visible, it is almost as if he has been sprung free from the Cross as much as from the bonds of death. His legs trail behind him slightly as he leans forward, floating effortlessly, with one end of the shroud spread out to our right, while the length hanging from his shoulders falls in a V-shape in front of him, framing his torso and revealing the wound in his chest. The hallucinogenic colours with which it is illuminated may well be relevant for the painting’s intended audience – but again, more about that on Monday.

The feet, suspended in mid-air in front of a blue-violet section of the shroud, are framed by the enormous rock which almost appears, itself, to be levitating. The soldier in red crawls away beneath it. The implication is that the Garden of Gethsemane was a rocky one, and it was from one of these rocks that Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb had been carved. There could even be the implication that this is the massive stone which the angel has moved, but I am also reminded of Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians, 2:19-20, where he points out that we should think beyond nationality:

19 Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints, and of the household of God;
20 And are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone

Does the rock behind Christ’s feet represent the ‘corner stone’? I don’t know – but if I can see the connection now, so surely could the artist – or whoever was advising him. I’m also reminded of building houses on rock, in Jesus’ parable of the wise and foolish builders (Matthew 7:24-27). After all, rocks are very stable – although maybe not in an earthquake. Peter, too, means ‘rock’, as Jesus himself acknowledged, saying ‘and upon this rock will I build my church’ (Matthew 16:18). With the Resurrection we are very firmly at the foundations of the Church.

The feet themselves are extraordinary. The wounds from the nails are a deep red, but glow with holy light, radiating in all directions. They are not unlike mouths. For medieval mystics, the ‘Five Wounds’ were often the subject of intense devotion, and more than once they were referred to as mouths which witness God’s love for his creation.

The wounds in Christ’s hands and side also glow, while the brilliance of his face almost dissolves it into the surrounding luminescence. In this painting Jesus really is the Light of the World. It was painted for the chapel of a hospital in Isenheim – and for the patients the image of the Resurrected Christ would surely have been inspirational. Apart from the five wounds, his body is perfect: without a stain, without a blemish and without a mark of the other tortures to which he was subjected. The contrast between his appearance here, and the abject torment of the Crucifixion, one of the most extreme ever painted, couldn’t be more marked: it’s not something I’ve ever heard mentioned, though. The patients themselves were undergoing a different abject torment – and for most of them there would only have been hope in the life to come. The compassion with which Grünewald treats his audience does not hold back from extremes – but, as this painting shows, he doesn’t hold back in the depiction of the power of redemption either. Overall, I am coming to believe that, at its simplest, the altarpiece as a whole expresses the problem, explains its solution, and tell us who to thank for that outcome – but I’ll explain what I mean more fully on Monday.

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Another visit to Whistler’s Mother

James Abbott McNeill Whistler, Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1, 1871. Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

I’m re-posting an essay from 2022 to celebrate the opening – today – of the exhibition James McNeill Whistler at Tate Britain. I’ll be talking about it this coming Monday, 25 May at 6pm… so I’d better get to work! I originally wrote this as an introduction to the Royal Academy’s exhibition Whistler’s Woman in White, which explored the artist’s personal and professional relationship with Joanna Hiffernan, arguably his most important model. Today’s painting was not in that exhibition – but it does feature prominently in Tate’s new show, a rare opportunity to see it away from its home in Paris. Its official title, Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1 may not ring any bells, but if I were to call it Whistler’s Mother I’m sure the reaction would be different. The title implies that there is also an Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 2 – and, of course, there is: there’s an illustration of it below, but I have also written about it in 205 – Coming to an arrangement.

The following week, 1 June, I will give a talk unconnected to an exhibition – though following up from my introduction to the work of Martin Schongauer. I’ll be talking about Matthias Grünewald, and looking closely at his masterpiece, the Isenheim Altarpiece, which, like the majority of Schongauer’s paintings, is held at the Musée Unterlinden in Colmar. After I’ve returned from seeing the altarpiece in person (with Artemisia), on 15 June I will talk about the National Gallery’s Zurbarán – a bold and beautiful introduction to the work of the Spanish master, perfectly curated and masterfully hung. That will be followed on 22 June by a visit to the monumental Matisse at the Grand Palais in Paris, but I will post more information about that in the diary very soon.

This is one of those paintings that seems to have entered the public imagination as ‘famous’ and therefore even ‘important’. It has even been given that most dubious of labels, ‘iconic’. I’ve spent quite a bit of time over the past few years trying to work out what, exactly, gives a painting this status – there are relatively few which could be said to have some sort of ‘celebrity’ in the world of art. The Mona Lisa is the best example, I suppose, followed by Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. But there are others, like Klimt’s The Kiss, Munch’s The Scream or Grant Wood’s American Gothic which are so readily identifiable that they accrue their own type of fame, or infamy, or even notoriety, and which leads to them being quoted, re-purposed and even parodied. Whistler’s Mother is no exception. Among other appearances, it is a key element in that unmissable classic Bean – starring Rowan Atkinson as the eponymous ‘Mr’, who, in this case, works as a security guard at the National Gallery. OK, so the painting is in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, but that’s a minor detail: we are talking about a work of fiction. And yes, I’m wrong, it is miss-able, but when I saw it with a group of National Gallery educators it was very funny. But putting that aside, why is this painting, or any painting, for that matter, iconic?

Simplicity is of the essence, I think. You need to be able to take it all in, so that, even at a second glance, you recognise it. Before you’ve finished looking at it the first time, it is already familiar. I suspect that strong, 2-dimensional design plays an important part – and Whistler’s painting has that in spades. I know that the Mona Lisa has a distant, atmospheric landscape, and The Scream has a bridge in exaggerated perspective, but what you notice first in each is the single figure facing resolutely towards you. In this case, Mother sits in profile, looking to our left, with her feet up on a low rest. This makes her lap almost horizontal, a feature which I think is also relevant: it ties her into the rectilinear composition of the painting as a whole. She is parallel to the picture plane, which is in itself slightly unnatural, as we rarely choose to arrange ourselves in line with the walls of a room. It implies stasis, and deliberate choice: she is somewhat abstracted from reality.

Two images hang on the cool grey wall. A monochrome picture – a print, perhaps, with a white mount and a black frame – hangs in a landscape format in the space between Mother’s head and the dark grey curtain on the far left. There is another, similar frame and mount at the top right corner, although there is barely anything of it, little more than a sliver, which gives it a compositional power far stronger than the small percentage of the pictorial space it occupies would suggest. There is no way of knowing whether this picture is in landscape or portrait format, but what we see implies the latter. As such, the two images echo the composition of the human figure, the picture on the right paralleling the stiff back, while that on the left is equivalent to the sitter’s lap. The strong, black horizontal of the wainscoting also emphasizes, and gives weight to, the horizontal placement of the thighs. These parallels are enhanced explicitly through the colouration – or rather, the lack thereof. The black of the frames and the white of the mounts are the same as those of Mother’s dress and of the headdress, collar, cuffs and handkerchief, the last of which she holds placidly on her lap. The silver grey of her hair is linked to the grey-scale of the engraving. The curtain also echoes this tonal range, although not going to the extremes of deep black or high white. It is Japanese, or in Japanese style: the influence of Asian visual arts on Western European painting was profound in the second half of the 19th Century.

All of these details emphasize the two-dimensional nature of the painting, and of its design. Looking forward to the 20th century, we might be reminded of Mondrian’s contemplative abstractions. But then, looking back, Vermeer inevitably springs to mind, with his careful placement of human actors against backgrounds defined by the rectilinear forms of paintings, picture frames, mirrors and other furniture. The only hint that we are seeing a three-dimensional space – apart from our inherent understanding of the structure of the human body – is the rug on which both chair and footstool are placed, with its woven border leading from the bottom left corner of the painting ever-so-slightly to the right, and some other, parallel lines in the rug which lead towards the footstall. But there is nothing that really grabs our eyes, and drags them into the distance – there is no real distance after all. There is nothing we could call a repoussoir, pushing our gaze back into the space. It is all statement, on the surface, and instantly recognisable. It is this, I think, which makes the painting ‘iconic’ – like an orthodox icon, flat, abstracted from reality, to make it more ‘ideal’. And yet, it is just a little bit approachable, as the skirt hangs down in front of the rug, just possibly reaching into our space – almost as if Mother’s self-contained composure is, in some way, accessible, if we could only just touch the hem of her skirt…

She seems to be intently focussed, with slightly pursed lips, her head slightly lowered, perhaps due to old age. Anna McNeill Whistler was 67 when this was painted. Not so terribly old, you might be thinking, but things were different then. She was enormously proud of her son’s success, although also despairing of his failings – including his dubious morals. At one point, after Whistler had received a legacy from an aunt, Anna wrote to Jemie, as she called him, suggesting that he use the £100 ‘to bestow on your model’. Why should he do that? The letter continued, ‘…you promised me to promote a return to virtue in her. I never forget to pray for her.’ The fact that Joanna Hiffernan was a model was not a problem, but, as models effectively sell their bodies, it was only a small step away from prostitution. And, to put it bluntly, Hiffernan was sleeping with the artist, whereas Mother clearly wanted him to settle down with a respectable woman. His response? He gave Hiffernan power of attorney over his affairs while he was away for seven months, and signed a will bequeathing his entire estate to her. Not exactly filial obedience.

It is not known for certain how the painting came about, although the most common version of the story is that Whistler’s model for the day (not Hiffernan) couldn’t turn up, so he asked his mother to stand in for her. However, standing in – or at least, standing – turned out to be a problem. Anna was getting on a bit, and not able to stand for long periods – hence the fact that she is sitting. I can believe the first part of the story, but not the second. Or rather, if the first part is true, he would instantly have decided to turn the canvas on its side. Everything about this painted is geared towards a seated figure, after all. Alternatively, the fact that he used his mother as a model could be related to a sense of filial duty, or it could also reflect the fact that money was scarce at the time. Three years earlier Anna had complained to a correspondent, ‘he must pay models for them every day a shilling the hour & they must be well fed!’ Presumably mother did not need to be paid.

I’m intrigued how one should categorise this painting. Although it is commonly called Whistler’s Mother, is it really a portrait? I had the same qualms about some of the paintings in the Royal Academy exhibition in 2022: I don’t think they are portraits of Hiffernan. She was a model in paintings which express abstract, aesthetic qualities: they are not explicitly ‘about’ her. After all, Whistler called today’s work Arrangement in Grey and Black – again, it is the abstract values that concern him, and if it hadn’t been his mother, it could have been a different model, perhaps. However, the same is not true of Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 2, which is subtitled Portrait of Thomas Carlisle.

The title claims it is a portrait, and there is a greater sense, I think, that Carlisle’s appearance and character are important here. Having said that, when today’s painting was first exhibited at the Royal Academy Annual Exhibition it was given the subtitle Portrait of the Painter’s Mother – probably because, even in 1872, the Academy was not ready for the developments of the Aesthetic Movement, with which Jemie was becoming firmly aligned. ‘Art for Art’s Sake’ would be the best short explanation of this term, but more about that on Monday. Nevertheless, there are aspects of Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1 which show that identity is important.

Take this detail for example – the top right hand corner of the curtain, and the framed engraving. The circle on the drape contains a highly stylised butterfly formed from the letters J and W – for James Whistler. This is his signature (a clearer version can be found in No. 2 above) and it is placed close to the print. The forms of this image are so specific that you would think it would be possible to identify the original – and indeed it is. It is a simplified version of his engraving Black Lion Wharf, dating from 1859. The example I am showing you here comes from the Freer Gallery of Art in Washington D.C.

Whistler is identified as the maker of today’s painting by his signature on the curtain, and by its proximity to the engraving of which he was also the author. So we see his signature and some of his art while we are looking at another example of his art – the painting itself – which includes his mother. This is almost as much a self portrait of as it is a portrait of his mother, as if he were saying, ‘This is where I came from, and this is where I am now.’ On her arrival in London, Anna was apparently surprised by her son’s ‘flamboyant bohemian lifestyle’. If her own lifestyle expounded the same rigidity with which she appears, metaphorically, in this painting (which, as it happens, it did), then that is not surprising. The modern interior décor was presumably not to her liking.

The painting has an interesting, if coincidental, link with The Red Boy [which I talked about the week before I originally posted this essay]. Lawrence’s portrait (and it is definitely a portrait – it was commissioned as such, with the nickname being coined a century later) has the curious distinction of being the first painting to appear on a British postage stamp. That was in 1967. Anna McNeill Whistler pipped young Charles William Lambton to the post, though – quite literally, in this case – as she appeared on an American stamp 33 years earlier, in 1934, ‘In memory and in honor’, as the inscription on the stamp itself says, ‘of the mothers of America.’  We will have the rare opportunity to see the painting itself in the UK this summer, and Anna’s role as ‘Mother’ will be very much to the fore. As we will see on Monday, she has taken her place between her two sons – one of Whistler’s self portraits, and his portrait of his brother.

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275 – Then Mary gathered cherries

Workshop of Martin Schongauer, The Virgin and Child in a Garden, 1470s or early 1480s. The National Gallery, London.

Martin Schongauer, who I will be talking about this Monday, 18 May at 6pm, is most renowned for his engravings, of which many have survived. As one of a family of goldsmiths, working metal would have come naturally to him, and it was probably a result of this that engraving copper plates became his métier. However, he must also have trained as a painter, although only a few paintings by him survive. Most of them are currently in the Louvre, as part of the exhibition Martin Schongauer: The Beautiful Immortal, which is the subject of Monday’s talk. The exhibition itself turned out to be twice as large as I was expecting! The first half covers Schongauer himself – and I thought that was it. However, as I prepared to leave, I saw that Part 2 of the exhibition continued on the other side of the corridor, with more of his work illustrating the many ways in which he influenced his contemporaries, not to mention later generations of artists, well into the 17th century. I will focus on the first half of the exhibition, thus looking at the artist himself, and cherry-pick the best examples of his influence. And talking of cherries – well, we’ll get to them, but there is a cherry tree in the painting I will be writing about today. Sadly, the National Gallery doesn’t have an autograph work by this wonderful artist, so instead I would like to look at an entirely charming example from his workshop. As it happens, the NG does have a print by Schongauer, but it is embedded in somebody else’s painting: if you want to know how, then you’ll have to join me on Monday!

The following week, 25 May, I will be exploring Tate Britain’s exhibition James McNeill Whistler, which will only just have opened, and then on 1 June I will talk about Matthias Grünewald. Apologies if you clicked the link last week only to be taken to the Whistler page – my mistake – but I have double checked this time round, so all of the links should be the right ones. All of the information is on the diary anyway, and correct at the time of going to press, but of course last week was the only time I didn’t post a link!

Future talks will include an introduction to the National Gallery’s superb Zurbarán exhibition (it really is outstanding) on 15 June, and on 22 June I will talk about the monumental late Matisse show which I saw at the Grand Palais in my two busy days in Paris at the end of April – but more information on them soon… in the diary and future posts.

I got to know this painting some time back when planning a book on the evolution of art as seen through the depiction of plants – an idea which sadly never saw the light of day. Schongauer was very much at the forefront of naturalistic depiction in Germanic painting, and his observations of flora and fauna were second to none at the time – if you like the flowers in today’s painting, just wait for the birds we’ll seen on Monday! As the title suggests, this is The Virgin and Child in a Garden, but for those more familiar with Italian art, this might not immediately strike you as looking like the Virgin Mary: we are somewhat fixated on the idea that she wears blue. However, in Northern Europe, she is just as likely to wear a red cloak over a blue robe – the inverse of what is often seen in Italy. The blue may be an expensive pigment (though I confess I don’t know which are used in this painting), but it also symbolises her role as Queen of Heaven and Star of the Sea. The red, on the other hand, is a colour more traditionally related to royalty, and so emphasizes ‘Queen’, as opposed to the blue which implies ‘of Heaven’. The red is also related to the Incarnation, the Word made Flesh in her Son Jesus Christ – who sits sweetly, almost doll-like, on her lap. The sky is blue, the vegetation green, a path crosses in front of the holy couple and winds around their bench, and, barely visible, the landscape stretches off into the distance.

The frame in the first photograph is not original. The narrow wooden border at the top of this detail, with a lip, or bur, around the edge of the painted surface, tells us that it used to have an engaged frame, one that was attached to the wooden panel before it was painted. This wooden border has subsequently been disguised by being painted to look like the rest of the image. However, this hasn’t been done very well, or even consistently: if it had, we wouldn’t see the wood at the top. I’ll cut out this re-painted border in following details. Mary’s head bends to our left, while the cherry tree, with its branches growing from multiple stems, bends to our right – the Virgin and the natural world lean in toward each other, with the tree also functioning as a frame, and potentially, even, a shelter.  Of course, if you know The Cherry Tree Carol, which is, admittedly English, but like the painting dates to the 15th Century, then you will realise that the tree might be leaning towards Mary because Jesus asked it to. When out walking, Joseph and Mary passed a cherry tree… here are a few verses:

Then Mary spoke to Joseph,
So meek and so mild,
“Joseph, gather me some cherries
For I am with child….”

Then Joseph flew in anger —
In anger flew he,
“Let the father of the baby
Gather cherries for thee!”

Then Jesus spoke a few words,
A few words spoke he,
“Let my mother have some cherries;
Bow low down, cherry tree!

“Bow down, O cherry tree!
Bow low down to the ground!”
Then Mary gathered cherries
While Joseph stood around….

You might notice that Jesus can communicate with the tree while still in the womb – but then as the second member of the Holy Trinity, and therefore God, he had created the tree in the first place. Schongauer was certainly aware of a very similar story, and illustrates it in his engraving of The Flight into Egypt, which we will see it on Monday: it is one of the prints that can be seen to have influenced Dürer – among others. In addition to being the subject of the eponymous carol, the cherry can also be a symbol of the joy of Heaven – thanks to its bright, joyous colour – but also, of Christ’s passion – given that the juice is red like blood. The joy and the suffering are not entirely unrelated in this case.

Notice how the natural world – and the man-made – help to focus our attention on what is important. The green hills on the right slope down towards Mary’s shoulder, leading us towards her, and the blue, distant hill on the left slopes down to the fence (already, in the 1470s, Schongauer and his workshop were aware of aerial perspective). The fence, on the right, curves up to Mary’s shoulder, and continues on the other side, with the crown of Jesus’ head projecting just above it. The fence thus serves to frame mother and child, and to push them towards us. It is also there to show us that this is an enclosed garden… which is, of course, another symbol (I must have mentioned it before). The relevant biblical text is the Song of Solomon 4:12:

A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

A garden is fertile, but this one is ‘inclosed‘, so no one can get in. The Hortus Conclusus, as it is known in Latin, was a common symbol of the virgin birth.

We can see some of the flowers growing in the garden. On the left is a plantain, just next to the fence, and closer to the holy couple, some pinks, or carnations. I would love to say that they were symbols of the incarnation, but linguistically I think this only works in English. However, in German they are called Nelke, which is the same as the word for clove – partly because they smell like cloves, apparently, and also because the top of the stem from which the flower blooms is nail-shaped. ‘Clove’ comes from the Latin clavus meaning ‘nail’ – cloves look like nails, after all – and Nelke is also related to the German word Nagel, meaning ‘nail’. This flower, pale and delicate as it is (just like the Baby Jesus) is, of course, a symbol of Christ’s suffering, relating to the nails used for the crucifixion. To the right is a white flower with four petals – which botanists would describe as ‘cruciform’: I’ll let you draw your own conclusions (but the white is also related to purity). It is probably the cuckoo flower, or lady’s smock (Cardamine pratensis – thanks, as ever, to the Ecologist for the identifications). Both names relate to the time of year when the flowers bloom: about the same time as cuckoos return, or for that matter, close to Lady Day – the English name for the Feast of the Annunciation. So, yes, the ‘lady’, in ‘lady’s smock’ is Our Lady – the Virgin Mary. To the right of these are some red campion (Silene dioica) – although I’m not convinced by any of the explanations I’ve read about their symbolism.

If we look further down the painting we see that Mary is seated on a raised garden bed, with the flowers growing on either side of her. This manages to combine the idea of the Madonna Enthroned, as she is seated, and upright, with the Madonna of Humility, as she is seated on the earth (or humus  – which gives us the word humility, ‘down to earth’). Dürer – who was so interested in Schongauer’s work that he travelled some 400km overland from Nuremberg to Colmar to learn from the great master (only to arrive some time after his death) used this idea more than once – see, for example, 143 – A New Dürer. Poking their heads above the bottom of the detail are some lily-of-the-valley and an iris.

We can see them more clearly at the bottom of the painting. The lily-of-the-valley (Convalaria majalis), with its white, drooping, bell-like flowers would be seen as a symbol of Mary’s purity, modesty and humility, while the iris was very firmly associated with her suffering. When the Christ Child was presented at the Temple, the High Priest Simeon ended his song of praise with the warning to Mary, ‘Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also’ (Luke 2:35). Her suffering would be the result of seeing her own son crucified. The iris, in German, was called the Schwertlilie, or ‘sword lily’ – a name it also had in English, apparently – and so the connection should be clear. Its blue colour is often shown as close to the colour of Mary’s robes (it is not far off here), in the same way that her cloak, in this painting, is similar to the colour of the cherries.

In the bottom left corner there are some strawberries. Not only does each leaf have three sections – and anything that comes in threes is a symbol of the Holy Trinity – but it is also seen as a ‘prelapsarian’ fruit, which simply means that it has survived intact from before the Fall. When Adam and Eve do the one thing they were told not to, and ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, God tells them, in Genesis 3:17-18, that,

…cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field.

However, the strawberry doesn’t have thorns or thistles, or even a stone: it is one of the fruits of paradise.

I find this detail particularly touching. Mary has plucked one of the pinks, and holds it between her thumb and her slim, elegant fingers, showing it to her infant son. Rather than reaching out for it, his hand is held back to his chest, his elbow strongly flexed. There is a sense in his wide-open eyes and slightly drawn back head that he knows what it means. This is a human baby, wary of novelty, and of the unknown, but it is also the Son of God, who knows that one day a nail will be driven through what is now a soft and tiny hand. Stylistically the painting is deemed not to be by the master himself – but the conception of it must surely be his. As we will see on Monday, Schongauer’s art and ideas were arguably more influential than those of any other artist – and not simply because his engravings were so widely distributed. His ability to catch nuance was superb, and the precision of his story telling profound.

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Michelangelo, and the still-lost Love

Alessandro Algardi, Sleep, 1635-6. Museo Borghese, Rome.

Yes, you’re right, this is not a sculpture by Michelangelo. Nor is it, for that matter, ‘Love’. You might have realised that already from the photograph – or for that matter, simply by reading the caption. But I do love this work – and after Bernini’s flashy showpieces on the ground floor of the Museo Borghese I love the calm of this glowing gem which you can find upstairs: Algardi may have been outranked, but he was never outclassed. As I can’t show you Michelangelo’s lost ‘Love’ (for the simple reason that it’s lost), I’m showing you the Algardi instead. I first posted this piece when I was attempting to talk about Michelangelo’s entire career (over several weeks), but now it feeds in perfectly to the Louvre’s current exhibition, Michelangelo & Rodin – which I will talk about this Monday, 11 May – as includes a late Renaissance sculpture as a stand-in for Michelangelo’s Cupid, as well as a classical Sleeping Cupid from Rodin’s personal collection: I’ve added a section at the end of the post to illustrate them.

The following week’s talk, on 18 May, will be about another Louvre exhibition, Martin Schongauer – The Beautiful Immortal. It’s a fantastic exhibition and Schongauer was such an important artist: the second half of the display is dedicated to an exploration of the different ways in which his engravings were used for paintings, sculptures, illuminated manuscripts, stained glass windows, tapestries and more – and in the talk I will explore this aspect of his work as well as looking at the work itself. On 25 May I will introduce the Tate Britain exhibition James McNeill Whistler – which promises to be one of London’s most successful this year – and then on 1 June I will return to Colmar (where Schongauer was born) to have a close look at The Isenheim Altarpiece by Matthias Grünewald – together with his other surviving paintings: there are only ten altogether, although I think the Isenheim could easily be counted as nine paintings in one. Meanwhile, back to Michelangelo, albeit Michelangelo via Algardi.

This is, in a way, one of my secret pleasures, something I always look forward to seeing, especially as it is something I see relatively rarely. The Museo Borghese in Rome is a hugely frustrating place: you have to book in advance and even then you only get a two hour slot. At one point you had to check in to the ground floor, check out again, and then check into the first floor, but I think they gave up on that complication fairly early on. When I take groups I find I can spend all two hours on the ground floor looking at the Canova, the Berninis and the Caravaggios: five sculptures and five paintings are more than enough for one visit. But if I can get upstairs (where most of the paintings are) then I will make sure I catch at least a glimpse of this sleeping marvel. However, I will rarely say anything about it, short of ‘look at that – isn’t that wonderful’, which, despite my usual verbosity, should be all that anything really needs. What do I like about it? The depth of the colour, the perfection of the forms, their apparent softness (yes, it is hard stone) and the roundness of most elements, which adds to the sense of repose created by the total relaxation of this child, helplessly abandoned to a deep sleep.

The figure is lying on a sloping ground. The latter is differentiated from the rest of the stone by its rough, unpolished surface, created by small, regular chisel marks which make the black stone look grey. Spread over the ground is a cloth, which, like the infant, is highly polished, the sharper, more angular folds of the fabric contrasting with the rounder forms of the body. The child’s left knee is raised, the sole of the foot resting flat on the ground, with the right foot stretched further out. The left arm, slightly bent, lies alongside, resting on some rounded forms, while the right arm is wrapped around the head – you can just see the right hand resting on top of the hair at the far right. The shoulders are turned slightly towards us, and the chubby face lolls, allowing us to see it from this angle – which is presumably why almost every photograph I can find of the sculpture is taken from this side. As ever, with sculpture, this is so frustrating: it is a three-dimensional art form, this is only a partial view! The eyes are closed, and the mouth downturned – looking a little grumpy, perhaps, but really showing the release of sleep. There is also a creature with a long bushy tail curled up on the rough ground (rather than on the cloth), presumably also fast asleep.

This is not a great photograph, I know, but it is one of very few that does not show the ‘predominant viewpoint’ included above. It’s surprising there are not more, as this side reveals some new information, and helps us to understand what is going on. This is a boy, for one thing, and he has wings, although they look more like butterfly wings than the usual feathered forms you expect to see on amoretti and angels alike. The subtle twist through the body is more evident from this point of view, with the shoulders turned a little to our right, the knees to our left, a movement that is indeed a common feature of works by Michelangelo. However, there is none of the tension inherent in his output, and the cloth lying on the ground is more fulsome, maybe even more generous – look at the rich, unnecessary folds going down the right side in this photograph. It has all the sensuality of the Baroque – which it is, of course, being by Algardi –  and a dramatic naturalism (at least, I think that if sleep can be dramatic, this is how it would look), which is what separates it from the contrived etiolation of Mannerism.

Without a close up – again, this is the best that I can find – it is hard to see what the rounded forms under the winged boy’s hand are – but they also form a garland around his head. Even here I suspect it’s not obvious, unless you are an avid, and slightly imaginative, gardener. They are the seed pods of a poppy, the source of opium, and a symbol of Sleep. The butterfly wings, too, belong to this pint-sized personification, as, unlike Cupid’s flapping bird wings, which presumably would wake you up, these would flutter noiselessly as you drift away. The small creature we saw before is a dormouse (I would never have recognised it) – just think of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and you’ll realise they have always symbolised sleep, because they really do sleep for up to seven months a year. The choice of a black material is, of course, not coincidental, as most sleep takes place at night.

The sculpture was carved in what is called Belgian black marble, although it is not, truly speaking, marble (a metamorphic rock, transformed by high temperature and huge pressure), but a very fine-grained carboniferous limestone – a sedimentary rock. The work was commissioned in 1635 by Marcantonio Borghese, nephew and heir of Cardinal Scipio Borghese who had built a phenomenal collection of ‘ancient’ and ‘modern’ art, and who had died just two years before. We don’t know why Marcantonio wanted a personification of Sleep, but it was an image derived from antique prototypes which were popular not only in classical times but also in the 16th and 17th Centuries. Here is another embodiment of a similar idea, and another of my ‘secret pleasures’.

Well, not so much a secret, as a treat I look forward to seeing on the way to talk about something else – usually, in this case, the portraits by Raphael or the ceiling paintings of Pietro da Cortona in the Galleria Palatina in the Palazzo Pitti in Florence. It is Caravaggio’s Sleeping Cupid, painted while he was in Malta in 1608. Photography doesn’t always cope well with Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro, and here, if anything, the image is lighter than when the painting is seen in the flesh, when it appears more subtle and evocative, at the same time as allowing the boy greater dignity: the shadows function as a loin cloth, and grant him a deeper repose. He rests on a plank on the stone floor, bow and arrow by his side, his head resting on his quiver. The left wing lies on the ground, the right is just traced across the darkness of the background, both framing the figure and protecting it. Like Algardi’s Sleep, his left arm lies beside him, although the right does not curl round his head. Again there is a Michelangelesque twist through the body, although going the other way – the knees fall towards us, the shoulders are flatter to the floor. But there is still the utter calm of undisturbed slumber.

This is one of the classical prototypes, a Sleeping Cupid in the Uffizi dating from the 2nd Century CE. The idea goes back (as so many Roman ideas do) to the Greeks, and there is a wonderful Greek bronze Sleeping Eros, which was restored by the Romans, in the Met in New York – click on that link if you’d like to see photos, and read a very detailed analysis. I’m showing you this one because it was once – like most things in the Uffizi – part of the Medici collection, and so could easily have been known to Michelangelo. More of that in a moment. Like Algardi’s Sleep, this little chap (he’s only 69 cm long) lies on a cloth on the ground holding poppy seed-heads. This is definitely cupid, though – look at the wings – although there is a butterfly (perhaps not the most naturalistic) lying next to the poppies. His legs are spread, and flat out, while his right arm falls over his chest onto the floor. His left arm curves round his head, and holds onto some sort of bag or cushion to make himself more comfortable.

The Ancient Greek for ‘butterfly’ is Ψυχή – or ‘Psyche’ – which also means ‘soul’, while poppies, as well as referring to sleep, can also imply death, the sleep from which we do not wake. Sad as it is, one of the reasons why this particular genre of sculpture was popular in classical times was its suitability as a marker for the graves of dead children. This was not the motivation behind Algardi’s Sleep, though. Instead it was, like many other of the ‘modern’ sculptures in the Borghese collection, made ‘in competition’ with the classical prototypes – an idea which had been essential for the development of the Renaissance a good two centuries before Algardi turned up in Rome from his native Bologna. Sometimes, though, the admiration and emulation which inspired great art could descend into forgery, with even the greatest falling foul to temptation.

Michelangelo was an apprentice in the workshop of painter Domenico Ghirlandaio from the age of 12, in 1487, until he was about 15. Then, from roughly 1490-92, he seems to have studied informally at the Medici sculpture garden. Nobody is really sure how it worked, or who taught him to carve, but what is certain is that the garden was home to some of the Medici collection of classical sculpture, potentially including the Sleeping Cupid in the Uffizi (above), and another example, in bigio morato (a different type of black limestone), which might have been the ‘cupido nero’ which was a gift to Lorenzo the Magnificent from the King of Naples. After Lorenzo’s death in 1492, and just before the Medici were exiled in 1494, Michelangelo fled – the first of several times he did this – heading first to Venice and then back to Bologna, where he carved a number of figures on the Arca of St Dominic (see 159 – Michelangelo, holding a candle). On his return to Florence in the autumn of 1495 he worked for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, who was from a different branch of the family to the previous (unofficial) rulers. It was then that Michelangelo carved his own Sleeping Cupid in emulation of the antique. Vasari mentions it the first edition of his Lives in 1550, and in his biography, three years later, Condivi gives us more information, describing it as ‘a god of love, aged six or seven years old and asleep’. Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco approved, and also suggested to Michelangelo that he if he sold it in Rome as an antique, he would get a better price than if it was marketed as his own work. Indeed, a dealer managed to sell it to Cardinal Raffaele Riario, one of the nephews of Pope Sixtus IV, for 200 ducats – although he told Michelangelo that he’d got 30, which is what a ‘modern’ sculpture might have fetched. However, Riario found out it was modern and sent for the young upstart who had deceived him. The Cardinal returned the Cupid to the dealer, but commissioned another work from Michelangelo – which he then also rejected. In later life Michelangelo claimed that Riario had never bothered to commission anything from him, covering his back, no doubt, for the double rejection.

So what happened to the Cupid? It went back on the market, and initially Isabella d’Este, Marchioness of Mantua, showed an interest in it – until she found out that it was modern. At this point nobody really knew who Michelangelo was. It’s not clear what happened to it next, but somehow it ended up in Urbino, where it was seized by Cesare Borgia (son of the Pope) when he sacked the city. In 1502 he gave it to none other than Isabella d’Este, who, by this time, would probably have heard of the young sculptor who had carved a Bacchus and a Pietà in Rome. She would eventually exhibit it alongside a genuine, classical cupid (with an unlikely attribution to Praxiteles) which she acquired a few years later. Both remained with the Gonzaga in Mantua until the 17th Century, when the family’s fortunes had waned, and much of the remains of their collection was sold to King Charles I of England. There are references to Michelangelo’s Cupid in inventories of the Royal Collection, and even, potentially, a drawing, but sadly the sculpture was probably destroyed along with almost all of the Palace of Whitehall in the fire of 1698. But what did it look like? Condivi’s description gives us few clues, and equally little can be gleaned from the descriptions in the Gonzaga or Royal Collection inventories – apart from the fact that, unlike other versions (Isabella’s classical Cupid, for example) it was not lying on a lion skin. However, we might get an idea from a painting in the National Gallery.

Workshop of Giulio Romano, The Infancy of Jupiter, mid 1530s. https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG624

This is The Infancy of Jupiter from the workshop of Giulio Romano, painted in the mid-1530s. Giulio, you may know, was probably Raphael’s ablest associate, and ran what remained of the workshop after his death. However, with the Sack of Rome in 1527 he fled the Eternal City and headed north, where he did great work for the Gonzaga family, effectively taking over from Mantegna as Court Artist (at 21 years’ remove). The painting shows the infant Jupiter, who was saved from the fate of his siblings by his mother, Ops. His father, Saturn, did not want to be overthrown, so had eaten his other children at birth. When Jupiter was born, Ops gave Saturn a stone to eat in place of her new-born, and placed the baby in the care of the Corybantes. This was a good choice, it seems, as they were a holy heavy metal group, dancers dedicated to the Goddess Cybele, and they played loud music and clashing cymbals to cover the sound of the baby crying (see far left and right) so that Saturn would not discover him.

Jupiter lies on a white sheet in a wickerwork cradle, his legs apart, with his his left arm lying by his side, and the right arm wrapped around his head. The legs are not dissimilar to those of the classical Cupid from the Uffizi, whereas the arms are more similar to Algardi’s Sleep (which is actually the same arrangement as in the Medici bigio morato Cupid).  It is assumed that Giulio’s model was none other than Michelangelo’s fake, which he would have seen as part of the Gonzaga collection. There is a version of it in Corsham Court in Wiltshire – go and have a look if any of you are in the area: I can’t find a good photograph of it. Some people have suggested that it is indeed Michelangelo’s original, but very few have ever been convinced. Based on Giulio’s painting, we could imagine, perhaps, that the lost Love had legs like the Medici Cupid and arms more like Algardi’s Sleep – though carved in white marble.

Meanwhile, in the Louvre exhibition Michelangelo and Rodin, the same idea is covered with the following two sculptures. As their ‘stand-in’ for Michelangelo’s lost Love, they have a work carved in the second half of the 16th century by Tommaso della Porta (about 1550 – 1606), which was, for a while, attributed to Michelangelo himself – as so many things were. It belongs to the Museum of Antiquities in Turin, which is odd, given that it is not ‘antique’ – although this feeds back into the idea that Michelangelo’s work was passed off as classical.

You might notice that Cupid, fast asleep as he is, appears to be holding a club – which is not one of his usual attributes. However, he does have a pair of wings, so this is definitely Cupid… You might also notice that he has something around his head, looking not entirely unlike a muzzle: it’s actually part of a lion skin – which, together with the club, is an attribute of Hercules. I’m not at all sure why the sleeping Cupid should have dressed up as one of his cousins, but love is a powerful force: it conquers everything, after all, and so could be seen as not unlike Hercules.

The Louvre exhibits the Tommaso della Porta sculpture next to a genuinely Roman Sleeping Cupid from Rodin’s own collection. The ‘modern’ master was fascinated by classical sculpture, and owned quite a few – you may have seen the British Museum’s exhibition, Rodin and the Sculpture of Ancient Greece back in 2018. This example, dated to 100-150 CE, comes from the Musée Rodin, and was just one of several owned by the sculptor. It is possibly that he associated it with Michelangelo’s lost original (and if the exhibition makes anything clear, it is that Rodin held his Renaissance predecessor in awe) – and it is also possible that one of his own sculptures was once passed off as an antique… but more of that on Monday, perhaps, along with sculptures by both masters, not to mention many superb drawings by Michelangelo.

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274 – Feeling blue

Konrad Mägi, Saaremaa Motif, 1913. Art Museum of Estonia, Tallinn.

After last week’s delicate, subtle drawings by ten wonderful women from the 18th to the 19th centuries, today I’m looking forward to the rich colour and bold brushstrokes of Konrad Mägi, who I will talk about this Monday, 4 May at 6pm. I’m hoping that you’ll see how wonderful his paintings are from today’s post, which is, in some way I think, about the very nature of hope. The talk will be an introduction to the fantastic exhibition which is on at Dulwich Picture Gallery until 12 July.

As I type, I am on my way to Paris to see the exhibition Michelangelo and Rodin which I will talk about on 11 May, comparing the shared interests of these two greats: the human figure in motion, and an exploration of the incomplete (although I am dubious about this latter concept as a shared interest). The Louvre is also hosting an exhibition of the work of the man who did as much as anyone to turn printmaking into a fine art – even before the ‘Fine Arts’ were a concept: Martin Schongauer. Having seen a couple of his engravings and most of one of his altarpieces in his hometown of Colmar last week, I am really looking forward to it – and I’ll let you know what I think on Monday 18 May. After this, the next two talks will cover Tate Britain’s exhibition James McNeill Whistler on 25 May, and then an introduction to a second great Germanic artist whose work is now in Colmar, Matthias Grünewald. That will be on 1 June, just before I head out to that part of the world with Artemisia. Most of these are already in the diary, and I will add more information about the others as soon as I have set up the events.

If you do book for any of these talks, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do when there’s time to spare than 5 minutes before the talk itself! You should also get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

We are looking at a highly coloured landscape, with what at first glance appears to be a river running between its two banks, flowing potentially from top left to bottom right. However, if we stop and notice the lighthouse at top left – tall, tapering, and white, ringed with red – we should realise that we are close to the sea, in a place where boats and ships are in danger of running aground. The banks of the ‘river’ are really the coastline, the increasing sparsity of the vegetation towards the water’s edge in line with the way in which plants colonise such liminal spaces: the Ecologist tells me it is called ‘primary succession’.

In the bottom left corner of the painting we can see the artist’s signature, and the date – ‘K. Mägi. 1913.’ It does look a little more like ‘Màgi’ – but that is probably because it’s easier to do a single line with a paint brush than the two tiny dots needed for an umlaut. It will come as no surprise that I don’t speak a word of Estonian, but the people I asked at Dulwich Picture Gallery told me that the name is pronounce ‘Maggie’. I was thinking of it with a German pronunciation of ‘ä’ which would be more like ‘Mehgi’, but I presume the accent distinguishes the ‘a’-sound from ‘ar’. By the time he painted this, Mägi has spent two periods in Paris – from 1907-1908 and then again from 1910-1912 – at which point he used a French spelling of his name, ‘K. Maegui’.

He would have had plenty of opportunity to see the works of the leading artists of the day – and of previous decades – including the Impressionists, Neo-Impressionists and the Fauves, although he doesn’t seem to have expressed (verbally) any particular enthusiasm for any of them. Nevertheless, this detail clearly shows their influence. The blobs of paint show how indebted he was to pointilisme, with its separated brushstrokes, here seen as dabs of paint building up the surface, thus taking the idea even further. The beach was created with a pale, off-white ground over which he has added blobs of white, cream and pale lavender. As well as conveying the overall colour, he manages to give the distinct impression that the beach is covered in pebbles, each mark representing a potential agony for the shoeless foot.

The colours of the vegetation are heightened, and although not as extreme and non-naturalistic as the expressive colours unveiled by the Fauves (‘wild beasts’) in 1905, they are still more expressive than naturalistic. They also use a variety of brushstrokes, the darker clumps built up from blobs of lighter and darker greens, mixed with different quantities of blue, while the yellow – presumably some sort of flower – is added with short vertical strokes. The rust-red vegetation – possibly the dead stems of last year’s plants? – is applied in tall, thin lines, or shorter, broader strokes. This technique, using the application of the paint to differentiate the qualities of the things being depicted, could have been learnt from Vincent van Gogh. Having said that, once you have seen several of Mägi’s paintings (and certainly by the time you come to this one in the current exhibition) you will realise that it couldn’t be by anyone else: the influences have been fully absorbed, and used by the artist to express a unique understanding of the world around him and his own relationship to it.

A recurring feature of Mägi’s coastal scenes (and there is a whole room dedicated to them in Dulwich) is the way in which he explores distance through the colour of the sea. Lighter in the foreground, and closer to the colour of the beach (probably because the pebbles can be seen through the shallow water) it gets darker and deeper in colour the further away it is. One of the things I learnt early in my career at the National Gallery came from Jonathan Miller’s thought-provoking 1998 exhibition On Reflection in which he pointed out that you can’t paint water: it is clear and colourless, there is nothing to paint. You can only paint the effect that water has on other things – the light reflecting off it, or refracting through it – or the impurities, such as mud and silt, which are carried by it. I have seen the Danube beautiful and blue – but only from the right position on an adjacent hill when the sun was shining. The blue is the reflection of the sky. Most of the time it has been a dull, greyish brown, like the Thames. The same is true of the sea – so given the colour of the sea in this painting, we should expect a beautiful blue sky.

However, the sky is not so blue. Predominantly pink clouds, with layers of white, reveal small patches of light blue, far paler than the water. However, the distant forest is that dark, and different trees are picked out – or at least implied – by different strokes of the same mid- and dark blues as used in the further reaches of the sea, which is presumably flowing between two islands.

As well as the darkening blues, another aspect of Mägi’s landscapes is the way in which different features ‘funnel’ our vision in certain directions. Not only does the blue of the sea get darker as it gets further away, but the distance between the two islands (if that is, indeed, what we are looking at) appears to get narrower. Similarly the section of land between the shore and the forest becomes narrower as we go from right to left, and the trees, likewise, look shorter. In this way our attention is pulled towards the houses on the horizon. The clouds, on the other hand, ‘open out’ as we go from right to left. A dashed white line at the top of the clouds curves upwards. While the land – with the water – ‘funnels’ our attention to the left, the clouds become more dominant, opening out to frame the feature which is just to the left of the detail above…

…the lighthouse. The clouds, colouristically, are like a pale emanation of its whites and reds, trailing off to the right – or conversely, leading our eyes from right to left along the white, dashed clouds to its summit. The sea, on the other hand, leads to its base, behind the green bushes on the nearer shore. Here in the top left corner we see the painting’s full palette, from darkest blues and greens, through bright yellows, oranges and occasional reds to hints of mauve. The chromatic variety tells us that this to be the focal point of the painting, the most interesting section, however marginal it might appear to be in the top left corner.

The lighthouse itself is painted quite differently from the rest of the landscape, with more smoothly applied and more blended brushstrokes which are, predominantly, vertical – expressing the verticality of the structure itself. Having said before that the clouds could be an emanation of this building, it could equally well be that the lighthouse is the solidification of the sky, the whites, pinks and burgundies being the same as those used for the clouds, while the blue shadow defining the left hand side is a darker version of the cloudless sections of the sky. This blue is, of course, shadow – and is related to the Impressionist colour theory, adapted by Seurat and the Neo-Impressionists, that the absence of sunlight should be represented by the complementary colour of that light. As a blue shadow, we might expect the sunlight to be orange. Indeed, there is a gently dabbed line of orange/ochre which stretches down the closest face of the lighthouse, although this fades subtly to a delicate primrose yellow. Where the sun hits the structure most directly, we still see the walls as white. Looking at the other, lower buildings, the walls which face the sun do glow orange – but this might be the result of the materials they are made from. Very few artists followed such theory rigidly, but use it as a starting point for their own artistry, allowing it to give way to an aesthetically driven interpretation of what they could see. Despite all of this, I do wonder if the deep blue seen on the lighthouse – connected to the sky as it is, and representing the shadow – is nevertheless in some way more closely related to the sea.

When seen as part of the landscape as a whole, I get a very clear sense that the deep blue of the sea, leading us along a curving path to the base of the lighthouse, even if hidden behind the bushes, rises up the side of the building, thus joining the sea to the sky. The depth of the blue resonates. The title of the painting, Saaremaa Motif, tells us we are on the island of Saaremaa, which lies in the Baltic sea to the west of Estonia, and north of Latvia, all but closing off the Gulf of Riga. Mägi visited twice, in 1913 and 1914. This painting dates to the first visit, a summer noted for its bad weather – although that is not obvious from the painting. While there, he made several daytrips to Vilsandi, a smaller island, on which this very lighthouse still appears to be standing, even if the red sections have now been painted white (you can find it on my go-to, google maps, as Vilsandi Tuletorn). He regularly travelled in the summer months. In 1913 he was have suffering from extremely painful joints (he was never a well man) and Saaremaa was well-known for its mud baths. There were also increasing worries about his mental health, and he enjoyed remote places with few buildings and just as few people… However, I can’t help seeing the deep blues of the distant sea as reflecting a sense of longing, while the connection between the sea and the sky is optimistic. The lighthouse is a stable structure, clearly depicted – its very purpose is to warn people of danger, and to keep them safe. He painted this, and a similar lighthouse, more than once – as we shall see on Monday – and, like the landscape itself, it surely had a symbolic value for him. Representing stability, security and protection, it is nevertheless almost out of reach. However, it is still, by its very function, a beacon – something to aspire to, perhaps – which could explain why he went back for a second visit, painting the same structure in different conditions, communicating a range of subtly varied moods. He is definitely an artist we should know better!

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273 – The first view

Lady Elizabeth Susan Percy, View of the Villa Pescatore from Villa Muti, Piombino, 1833. Courtauld Gallery, London.

One of the things I’ve found interesting about delivering my own talks is finding out what is and isn’t popular – and surprise, surprise, there are several star artists that people always want to hear more about, however much they’ve heard about them already – and quite right too! However, artists who aren’t as famous, and even artists who people have never heard of, turn out to be far less interesting it seems – which always surprises me. I would urge you not to give way to that tendency, as you miss so much: there’s always something new to discover, and probably, to enjoy! That is particularly true this week (Monday, 27 April at 6pm) when I will be talking about The Courtauld’s  A View of One’s Own. On display are some of the most delicate, sensitive landscape drawings I’ve seen, made by ten women artists from the 18th and 19th centuries that I didn’t know – it’ll be a real treat: today’s drawing is a good example! The week after is another case in point. Konrad Mägi, who I will talk about on 4 May, was the leading Post-Impressionist artist in Estonia. As it happens, I don’t know anything about Estonian art – but he is wonderful. His paintings are richly coloured, with echoes of Monet, Van Gogh and Munch, but he always remains himself. The works vary in mood from joyful and ebullient to tense and moody – so there’s something for everybody. The exhibition is a fantastic example of the way in which Dulwich Picture Gallery manages to find northern, or Nordic artists who are not so well known in Western Europe. I decided to go to the exhibition, and talk about it, thanks to the enthusiasm of one of you – and would invite the rest of you to join me on 4 May to see why!

Michelangelo and Rodin (11 May), who are currently being exhibited alongside one another at the Louvre, need no introduction. The comparison is, in some ways, so obvious I’m surprised the exhibition hasn’t been staged before. I’ll be seeing it next week, and so will be well placed to report back. I’ll also be able to catch up with another Louvre exhibition, dedicated to Martin Schongauer, who was so highly regarded in the 15th century that Albrecht Dürer travelled all the way from Nuremberg to Colmar to see him and learn from him – although he arrived too late: Schongauer had recently died. I will talk about that exhibition – which includes almost all of Schongauer’s paintings and many of his innovative prints – on Monday 18 May. The details are in the diary, of course, and the links above will take you to Tixoom if you want more information, and if you want to book.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do when there’s time to spare than it would 5 minutes before the talk! You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

Today we are looking at a drawing on a slim, landscape-format sheet of paper. It is a reasonably standard width, but not particularly ‘tall’, measuring 19 x 46 cm. This is ideal for charting the development of the horizon, which, despite its name, is rarely ‘horizontal’. In this case it rises from left to right as it tracks the peaks of the Tuscan hills. We know this is Tuscany from the title of the drawing: Piombino is due south of Pisa, and southwest of Siena, on a promontory projecting from the coast towards the island of Elba. However, despite the gradually fall of the terrain towards the left of the drawing, there is no suggestion of the sea: we must be some way inland. The drawing is on wove paper, a smooth, uniform paper type created by laying the paper pulp onto a finely woven brass wire screen that leaves no pattern or “laid lines” on the sheet. This technique was invented in the 1750s, and thus before any of the drawings I will be talking about on Monday. Rather than being white paper, which was then given a grey wash, the paper was made from grey pulp, and this mid-tone is used for the sky. It is lightened with white chalk for the clouds, buildings and other highlights, and detail is drawn in with graphite – effectively pencil. Watercolours add a hint of colour where required. The paper is tightly and irregularly cropped – meaning that the drawing is now mounted on top of a backing sheet, rather than being framed by a mount – which gives it, I think, a far greater sense of being a hand-made, three-dimensional object.

The borders in this detail show us that we are looking at the bottom left corner of the drawing. At first glance, it appears to be monochrome, working through the grey scale, but the more you look – I hope – the more you can see very subtle variations of colour – mainly greys, yes, but also pale ochres and greens. This might evoke a slightly misty day, were the details in the distance not so crisp, the result of the delicately drawn outlines of the distant hills. The light falls from the top right – shadows of the trunks of the trees in the foreground are on a diagonal from top right to bottom left – and their length suggests the sun is not high in the sky. My guess would be that this is morning, and we are looking roughly north-east. In accordance with the ‘rules’ of atmospheric perspective, the foreground details are darker, the others gradually lighten towards the horizon, which is far paler – thus encouraging us to look towards the light, and so into the distance. Three or four buildings are visible. From left to right they could be classified as ‘small’, ‘medium’ and ‘large’, with some form of outhouse slightly closer that the ‘medium’ building, which has a large umbrella pine behind it, and a dark, arched entrance on our side. The ‘large’ building is topped with a tower roughly in the middle of the structure, although it does not appear to be entirely symmetrical. A long, diagonal form stretches away from it towards the bottom left – maybe some form of avenue, even if we can’t see two distinct rows of trees. Nevertheless, it would seem to be a building of some status.

Moving to the centre of the drawing more buildings are visible, each wall perforated regularly with relatively small windows. A second range of hills, smaller, lower, and darker than the distant range (which continues from the first detail) emerges on the far side of the undulating plain which lies beyond the foreground trees. Whisps of cloud trail horizontally from the tops of the distant hills. This is the result of orographic lift, apparently (I had to look it up), when moist air wafting from the sea is lifted over the hills: as the air cools, the water condenses and forms these clouds. The breeze continues, and the clouds form long, horizontal streaks. At the right of the detail, towards the bottom, a fence rises diagonally through one of the open fields: this is not wilderness, but land which is owned and enclosed.

This is the bottom right corner of the drawing. The fence we saw in the previous detail can be seen again (on the left), climbing the hill towards the largest structure in the landscape: a sizeable mansion. There are doors visible in the ground floor, what could be the windows in a mezzanine level, and above that, far larger windows. Presumably this is the piano nobile, the rooms for living and entertaining. Just below the roof are far smaller windows, possibly bedrooms, and probably for the staff. The mansion forms part of an agglomeration of buildings of indeterminate use, although at least one appears to have some grandeur, with what could be classical columns in the centre of its façade. Cutting off the bottom right corner on a low diagonal is a structure with what I initially thought were repeated arches, but now realise are trees in front of a high wall: the enclosure of a sizeable estate. This wall effectively frames the inscription in the bottom right corner, ‘Villa Pescatore From Villa Muti Piombino/Sora June 14 1833 Pallavicini’. This is both helpful, and a little confusing.

It is helpful, because it tells us what we are looking at, and gives us a precise date. This is a landscape showing a location somewhere near Piombino, drawn, or seen, on ‘June 14 1833’. However, given the resources I have to hand, I have been unable to locate either of the villas. Before long, any internet search leads back to this drawing. In Rome, the word ‘Villa’ refers not to an individual building, but to building together with the land around it. For example, the Museum Borghese is in the middle of the Villa Borghese – the parkland which surrounds the Borghese’s suburban palazzo. It could easily be that neither of the villas in the drawing survives, having been subsumed by the 20th century town, and I’m not sure which is the Villa Pescatore. It could be the area around the ‘large’ building which we saw in the first detail, with the avenue leading from it, or it could be centred on the mansion with mezzanine and piano nobile in the third… I suspect it is the latter: the delicate pink of the terracotta roof is the richest use of colour in the painting, however soft it is, and the wall, half shadowed, half in light, is the most expansive area of construction we can see. The trees which surround it (there might also be a wall), also define a sizeable area of clear space.

I’m confused by the mention of ‘Sora’, which is where I assume the drawing was made, and the word ‘Pallavicini’. Sora, as a place, according to google maps (which I know is not infallible), is south of Rome – nowhere near Piombino – and although there are two places called ‘Pallavicino’ (rather than ‘Pallavicini’, ending in an ‘i’), one is outside Genoa and the other is on Sicily. I suspect that studies for this drawing were made on location at the Villa Muti, and the finished drawing – which is surely too refined, too delicate, and too detailed to have been made in front of the motif – was completed later, in Sora. The date could either represent when the view was seen and sketched, or when the drawing was completed. My guess would be that Lady Percy was staying with some friends or acquaintances in Sora: the Pallavicini – but this is all hypothesis. Or, to put it more honestly, complete guesswork.

Lady Elizabeth Susan Percy – the artist – was the daughter of Algernon Percy, 1st Earl of Beverley. Her earliest works were made in her late teens: she probably learnt to draw as one of the accomplishments of any refined young lady. She seems to have made her first visit to Italy in 1802, at the age of 20, during a brief pause in hostilities during the Napoleonic wars. Whilst abroad, she drew avidly: the Vatican Museum has 47 of her drawings from this period. There are also drawings in the Tate Collection – which names her as Lady Susan Elizabeth Percy, the order of names being the same as those given in the research carried out by a member of her family. The Vatican, on the other hand, goes with Elizabeth Susan – and as that is the order also given in her last will and testament, that is the order the curator of the Courtauld exhibition has chosen. Lady Elizabeth Susan Percy never married, and settled in Italy in the 1820s. She lived in Rome, as part of the ex-pat community, until her death in 1847. Among her friends (and colleagues) was the poet, and landscape artist, Edward Lear. There is no evidence that she ever exhibited her work, even if she must have shown it to her friends, so this could be the first time this View has been viewed by a wider public.

This detail alone, I think, shows us how brilliant she was. The differentiation between the ranges of hills is quite astonishing, given the delicacy of the outlines and the subtlety of the tonal shading creating both height and distance. The choice of viewpoint also enhances harmonies in the landscape itself. The agglomeration of buildings is nestled under the tallest hills, the rooves of the varied structures echoing the inflections of the hilltops. These forms are rendered ethereal by the clouds floating up above, which also echo the details below, while the horizontal streaks caused by orographic lift continuing their wispy flow from left to right below them. These echoes and resonances become all the more clear if we pull back a little, to see how the boundary wall itself parallels the incline of the hills. It’s a beautiful drawing: her work clearly deserves to be far better known – and she is just one of the artists I will be talking about on Monday. I do hope you can join me!  

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Back Home with Uncle Gianni

Bernardo Bellotto, Venice: Upper Reaches of the Grand Canal facing Santa Croce, about 1738. The National Gallery, London.

After visiting Vienna to see the beautiful and well-crafted exhibition Canaletto & Bellotto, which I will talk about this Monday 20 April at 6pm, I returned to England for a few days before heading off on holiday to Naples and Ischia. There was so much wonderful to see there, but there’s no time to talk about that now! I got back late on Monday night, and am ready and raring to go. After Canaletto & Bellotto I have planned the following four talks:

27 April – A View of One’s Own (Landscapes by British Women Artists at The Courtauld)
4 May – Konrad Mägi – (Dulwich Picture Gallery)
11 May – Michelangelo and Rodin (The Louvre)
18 May – Martin Schongauer (The Louvre)

All of this is in the diary. Alternatively, the links above will take you to Tixoom for more information and booking. One of the above – Martin Schongauer – is directly related to the trip to Strasbourg and Colmar from 5-8 June which I am leading with Artemisia, and closer to the time (Monday 1 June) I will also give a talk on Matthias Grünewald, whose Isenheim Altarpiece we will be seeing in Colmar.

Given that I’m talking about Canaletto & Bellotto on Monday, this is an ideal opportunity to re-post a blog from September 2021. At the time, the National Gallery was displaying it’s newly acquired Bellotto, putting it into context with a beautifully focussed exhibition entitled Bellotto: The Königstein Views Reunited. Back then I thought it would be a good idea to look at one of Bellotto’s earliest views, dating from the years before he travelled to Dresden, where the Königstein views were painted (that trip to Dresden will form a small part of the talk on Monday), and the post seems even more relevant now. It looks back to the days when Bernardo Bellotto was still working with his uncle, Giovanni Antonio Canal, also called Gianantonio Canal, but who we know better as Canaletto. And no, I don’t really think he was called Uncle Gianni…

Personally, I think this is a lovely painting. It’s unassuming enough, I suppose, and perhaps there isn’t really much to distinguish it from so many of the views of Venice which now enrich the walls of museums across the world, but it was the only Bellotto that the National Gallery had until its purchase of The Fortress of Königstein from the North in 2017. This might seem strange, given that Bellotto was every bit as good as his uncle, and the National Gallery owns at least 14 of his paintings. Why did the British value Bellotto so far below his uncle? Who can say? But it is worthwhile remembering that, while Canaletto spent most of his time working in his native city – the haunt of many a Grand Tourist – Bellotto did not. And the little time Uncle Gianni was out of the country, he was in England – hence his pre-eminence in the UK, perhaps. Not only that, but we do have a tendency to narrow our gaze. You want a view of Venice? You want Canaletto! He’s the main man, he’s the famous one, get the best. Only I’m not convinced that he always was the best: there are times when I’d rather have a Bellotto – or a Guardi.

So, what do I like about this painting? Well, it’s charming, it’s clear, well painted, well composed, and it sparkles with light, and with the life of Venice. As with so many of the vedute – or ‘views’ – it appears to assume an impossible viewpoint. We seem to be at the same height as the people on the bridge that can be seen on the right of the canal – only we also seem to be in the middle of the Grand Canal. However, there is not, nor there never was, a bridge just here – although there is, admittedly, a kink in the canal. More of that later. We face the church of Santa Croce directly (it’s on the right), with its simple, apparently neo-classical façade. Now, however often you have been to Venice, I can guarantee that you have not been to this church. How can I be so sure? Well, it was destroyed in 1810: a communal garden now takes its place (see the photograph below). We can see gondoliers on the water, and people walking along the fondamenta – the canal-side path. A be-wigged aristocrat in red stands in the shadows at the foot of the steps to the church, and a hooded figure emerges from the left-hand door. Further back two people cross the bridge, and beyond that we can see the dome of San Simeon Piccolo, completed by architect Gianantonio Scalfarotto in 1738 as a neo-classical echo to Longhena’s baroque Santa Maria della Salute at the other end of the Grand Canal. The date of this church gives us a clue to the date of the painting. In the distance is the campanile (bell tower) of San Geremia – St Jeremiah. In the western church it is not usual to call an old testament prophet ‘Saint’, although it is in the orthodox church. The name of this, and other, Venetian churches reminds us of Venice’s connections with Byzantium. The view – with the exception of the absent church – is not altogether different today.

On the other side are three – or, arguably, four – more churches, only one of which survives.

From left to right they are the convent of Corpus Domini, which is more-or-less hidden by the surrounding wall. Further back is the taller renaissance façade of the Scuola dei Nobili – strictly speaking, a confraternity, although, as they all did, the complex would have included a consecrated chapel. This is followed by Santa Lucia, and finally, Santa Maria di Nazareth, known universally as the Scalzi, being the home of the Discalced (or ‘barefoot’) Carmelites. Its late-baroque façade was designed by Giuseppe Sardi and completed in 1680. This is the only surviving church from those on the left of the painting. Nowadays it is a familiar sight, because it is, after San Simeon Piccolo, the second church you would see when emerging from the railway station. And if you have been to Venice by train, you may remember that the station is called Venezia Santa Lucia – which is the main reason why the buildings here have changed so much. In 1861 the Austrian overlords destroyed Santa Lucia (the church) to build the first railway station, at the end of a new land bridge. This was then re-built between 1936 and 1952 (it took a long time because the war slowed things down) to a final design by Paolo Perilli.

This is the best photograph I can find of Bellotto’s view now – with the station on the left, the Scalzi covered in scaffolding, and the campanile – and dome – of San Geremia in the distance. But this is telling: there is hardly a hint of the right bank of the canal, and only a glimpse of the portico of San Simeon. The vedutisti ­– the artists who painted the vedute – were experts at combining viewpoints, and this was something that Bellotto would have learnt as an essential part of his training. What we see in the images may look real, but if we were there we would have to look from one side to the other to see it all.

Just visible in the background of this photograph – crossing in front of the brightly-lit palazzo – is a relatively ‘new’ bridge, built by the Austrians across the Grand Canal. This helped to connect the station to the city, and facilitated the movement of troops, who were needed to control the revolting Venetians. In 1848 there had indeed been a revolt, when the locals briefly took control of their own city. It didn’t last long: the Hapsburgs took back command the following year, and remained in charge until 1866 when Venice joined the newly-united (or, at least, uniting) Italy – even if most Venetians still don’t believe that they really are the same as other Italians.

It would help us to understand our painting if we looked the other way. Here is a painting by Canaletto, which is also in the collection of the National Gallery: The Grand Canal with S. Simeone Piccolo painted shortly after the Bellotto, in around 1740. In case you were worried, the final ‘e’ of ‘Simeone’ is not a typo – nor is its absence above: the ‘e’ is Italian, but not Venetian, like ‘Canal’, Gianantonio’s family name. It was because he was the son of another Canal – Bernardo – that he was called ‘little Canal’, i.e. ‘Canaletto’.

Canaletto Venice: The Grand Canal with S. Simeone Piccolo, about 1740. NG163.

We can see some of the same buildings – San Simeon is on the left, with the far simpler bulk of Santa Croce in the distance, just before the kink in the canal which means that the fondamenta curves round to our right – providing the viewpoint for Bellotto’s painting. Then on the right we can see the baroque façade of the Scalzi, and the projecting mass of Santa Lucia. Compare that with the view today – at least of the right-hand side of the canal, from more or less this point of view (where now there really is a bridge).

Enough said.

Apart from the skill, and the beauty of the painting, I love the historical content of Bellotto’s work – the documentation of the life and fabric of the city. I have little doubt that both of these paintings were created – in part, at least – to document one of the city’s latest landmarks – San Simeon Piccolo. The Bellotto is also interesting because he would have been young at the time it was painted. Born in 1722, he was the third child of asset manager Lorenzo Antonio Bellotto and Fiorenza Domenica Canal. He was named after his maternal grandfather, Bernardo Canal, a theatrical scene painter. He trained, of course, with his uncle, Canaletto (Fiorenza’s brother), and already by the age of 16 he was registered as a member of the Fraglia dei Pittori – the Venetian painters’ guild. It was around this time – 1738 – that our veduta was painted. He was sixteen. How could he have got to this level so quickly? Well, manual skill can easily be learnt with enough application and an early start, but the conceptual skill? He had help. His painting was based on his own preparatory drawing, now in the Hessisches Landesmuseum, Darmstadt. Sadly, I can’t find an image of it – but not to worry, as Bellotto’s own drawing was actually based on one by his uncle, which is now in the Royal Collection. Compare and contrast:

The composition is almost exactly the same, of course, plus or minus the odd gondola, although Bellotto makes the distant campanile slightly more prominent. This is how you learn – by copying the master. You study his original sketches, see how he combines them into a coherent composition, and copy that compositional drawing, just to make sure that it has all sunk in. I would like to see Bellotto’s version of the drawing, though, as I’d like to see how he sketches the sky. I have no doubt that both artists were right handed. Apart from the obvious fact that most people are, and always were, and, if they weren’t, were often made to be, in Canaletto’s sky the lines go from top right to bottom left – the default direction for right handed people sketching. For Canaletto, this is not a regular angle, though, with the lines varying from 45˚ to the horizontal at the top right and left, and varying across the centre to something more like 25˚. You get a similar variety of brushstrokes in the skies of Canaletto’s paintings. However, one of the stylistic features of Bellotto – to my mind, at least, I’ve never heard anyone else mention it – is that the brushstrokes in the blue of the sky are often an almost obsessive 45˚- which I hope you can see in this detail. It looks as if there is an almost imperceptible rain.

The detail also shows the thickness of the paint in the clouds. This three dimensional ‘paste’ is given the Italian name impasto, and is one of the ways in which Bellotto’s paintings differ from those of Canaletto, who does not use impasto to the same degree. Other differences include larger canvasses, more magisterial views, and a different palette. It can be cooler, and more silvery, or darker, with a greater use of browns. The latter is certainly true for the Viennese paintings, which I will be talking about on Monday. However – we will start in back home with Uncle Gianni in Venice, with bright and luminous paintings not unlike today’s.

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Happy Easter (again)!

Andrea Bonaiuti, The Resurrection, 1365-8. The Spanish Chapel, Santa Maria Novella, Florence.

Happy Easter!

That’s the main reason for this post, to be honest: to wish you a Happy Easter, if you celebrate, and, if you don’t, in the hope you are enjoying the long holiday weekend, if you are UK based. There’s no talk this week or next, but I have managed to line up the next month-or-so, which is the other reason for this post: to keep you up to date, as a few people have asked what’s next. It is, of course, all on the diary. To make things simple, here’s a list:

20 April – Canaletto & Bellotto (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna)
27 April – A View of One’s Own (Landscapes by British Women Artists at The Courtauld)
4 May – Konrad Mägi – (Dulwich Picture Gallery)
11 May – Michelangelo and Rodin (The Louvre)
18 May – Martin Schongauer (The Louvre)

All are Mondays, all are at 6:00pm BST (British Summer Time) – but Zoom will sort that out for you. The links above will take you to Tixoom, and more information about each talk. Meanwhile, as I’m here, this is a good opportunity to re-post the Easter blog from 2021, which came at the end of my Lent-long exploration of a very different painting… but that can wait for another Lent! This is what I wrote almost exactly five years ago:

Yesterday [it was Lent 46 on 3 April 2021] I referred to last year’s blog on The Devils in Andrea Bonaiuti’s Harrowing of Hell – and then I thought I ought to read it through, just in case there were any embarrassing typos. I’m glad to say that there weren’t, but I was surprised to see how much of yesterday’s material I had already covered. The focus changed, I suppose, from putting the Harrowing of Hell in context, to using the Crucifixion as a focus. I will do the same today, as last year I included this painting of the resurrection when talking about The Devils, and also referred back to it on Easter Day itself, when I talked about Donatello’s relief in San Lorenzo, which still continues to astonish me (see Day 25 – The Resurrection).

We have already explored the frescoes on this wall [in Lent 46], starting at the bottom left, outside the walls of Jerusalem, then looking up to Calvary, and back down again to hell on the right, the position of the narrative on the wall effectively mapping, in relative terms, the supposed geographical locations of the settings. But for the resurrection, where should be go? Clearly, from hell, we must look up, and then look higher still than the Crucifixion: up onto the ceiling.

Once more I think that the use of the available space is remarkable – the resurrection, the culmination of the Easter story, and the confirmation of Christ’s triumph over death, is at the very top of the decoration of the chapel, as close to the apex of the ceiling as is possible. We can see the edges of the other images on the quadripartite vaulting, but we’ll talk about them another day.

Three Maries approach the empty tomb from the left, the soldiers still fast asleep in front of it, two of them with shields labelled SPQR (although the inscription on the red shield is hard to see). Two angels sit on the edge of the open sarcophagus, the lid having been tipped off to the back – you can see one corner of it next to the right angel’s wing. Christ is resplendent – and glorious – up above. There is no description in the bible of how Jesus emerged from the tomb, but what we see here is a combination of elements derived from all four gospels. Mark 16:1 says,

And when the sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome, had bought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him.

So – these are the three woman we see to the left of the image. All four gospels say that the stone covering the tomb had been taken away, and most say it had been rolled. The bible implies that Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb had been cut into a rock like a cave, with a stone rolled in front to close it. However, medieval artists knew that people were buried in sarcophagi, and that was what they were going to paint. By the time Bonaiuti was at work in the 1360s, this image was entirely traditional. Mark 16:5-6 goes on to say,

And entering into the sepulchre, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, clothed in a long white garment; and they were affrighted. And he saith unto them, Be not affrighted: Ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified: he is risen; he is not here: behold the place where they laid him.

The angel who is gesturing, as if to say ‘behold the place where they laid him,’ is indeed on Christ’s right side, even if (1) Jesus is way above them, and (2) there are two ‘men’ in the painting, not just the one referred to by Mark. Matthew 28:3 also mentions only one angel, saying, ‘His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow.‘ However, Luke 24:4 says, ‘two men stood by them in shining garments.’ Bonaiuti draws on all of these accounts – the white clothes, which do indeed shine out against the relatively dull background; the gesture towards ‘the place where they laid him’; and, from Luke, the fact that there are two of them. But that is not the only source for this image. Compare these two details:

On the right is Giotto’s Resurrection from the Scrovegni Chapel, painted some 60 years before Bonaiuti’s version. I made the mistake last week of saying to a group that Bonaiuti had worked in the Scrovegni Chapel: I was thinking of Giusto da Menabuoi, another Florentine artist, and similarly on the edge of being considered obscure. But I can see why I made the mistake. It does look as if Bonaiuti had seen Giotto’s painting, as he combines the same elements. Both images show two angels sitting on the tomb, with the one on our left pointing to the risen Christ, at whose feet kneels Mary Magdalene. The pointing hand, illustrating the phrase ‘behold the place where they laid him’ could equally well, in the Bonaiuti, illustrate the phrase ‘he is risen,’ which is used in all three of the synoptic gospels. Giotto is being remarkably clever, combining the resurrection with the Noli me tangere (more of that later). It is almost as if, for Giotto, the two angels sitting on the tomb are a ‘flashback’, or as if they are talking to the three Maries who are ‘off screen’, as it were – as indeed they are in the detail I have taken from the Bonaiuti.

I have written about the episode traditionally called the Noli me tangere before, when I discussed Galizia Fede’s version (see 104 – Don’t touch!), not to mention Giotto’s painting in the Scrovegni which we see here (109 – Death and Resurrection). The title itself comes from John 20:17, and means ‘touch me not.’ According to John, Mary Magdalene finds the tomb open, and so goes to tell Peter and John, who run there only to find it empty, before heading back home.  John 20:11-12 then says,

But Mary stood without at the sepulchre weeping: and as she wept, she stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre, And seeth two angels in white sitting, the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain.

It seems clear that, however much Giotto and Bonaiuti drew from the synoptic gospels, everything they needed is here. In John’s account Mary then turns away from the tomb and sees the risen Christ, but does not know it is him. At the end of John 19 we were told that the tomb was located in a garden, which could explain what happens next in John 20:15-17,

Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master. Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God.

Notice that Mary Magdalene is the first witness of the resurrection. Notice, too, that Jesus instructs her to bear that witness to the apostles. Now, given these two observations, I really don’t understand the objection to having women in the priesthood. In fact, in all of the gospels it is the women who are told to tell the apostles that Christ is risen, although in Matthew, Mark and Luke it is the angels who give this instruction. So, if this ministry was valid, what is the problem now? But I’ll get off my soapbox and move on.

In both of the details, and in Bonaiuti’s image of the resurrected Christ above the tomb, Jesus carries the Cross of Christ Triumphant: the red of his suffering, in the shape of the cross, against the white of his purity. He also, in both appearances in Bonaiuti’s fresco, wears red and white, as do the angels sitting on the tomb: these are the colours of the resurrection. Bonaiuti shows the resurrected Christ carrying the flag in his right hand, with, in his left, a palm leaf, denoting his victory over death. In the Giotto, it is the flag itself which gives us this message. Written in the four white corner sections are the letters ‘VIC’, ‘TOR’, ‘MOR’ and ‘TIS’ – or Victor Mortis, ‘victor over death’, or ‘conqueror of death’.

In Bonaiuti’s telling of the story the resurrection seems effortless (especially when compared to Donatello’s version which I mentioned above). Christ floats in the sky, drapery only slightly ruffled by the breeze, a glorious mandorla of light around him which illuminates, ever so slightly, the trees growing on either side. The hills slope down towards the tomb, leaving Jesus beautifully framed in the middle of the blue sky, the apex of a triangle whose base is formed by the sleeping soldiers and sides by the attendant angels. He is at the very top, a joyous triumph at the end of the long, slow period of reflection that is Lent, and the unimaginable suffering of the Passion. A Happy Easter, indeed!

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272 – Dressing up and making believe

Michaelina Wautier, Two Girls as Saints Agnes and Dorothy, c. 1655. Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp.

Greetings from Vienna! I’ve just got back to my hotel having seen Canaletto & Bellotto – it’s superb, but more of that later. I also bumped into one of you first thing, which was delightful, if confusing (I wasn’t really awake)! The exhibition Michaelina Wautier, about whom I will be talking this Monday, 30 March at 6pm, was here in Vienna just a few weeks ago, but opens this week at the Royal Academy in London. Michaelina herself has taken a little longer to come out of the shadows than some of her contemporaries, women who were every bit as skilled as their male colleagues. I first saw her work in the exhibition Ingenious Women in Hamburg a couple of years ago, and so was delighted when I learnt that the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna would be staging an exhibition dedicated to her. And yes, I was even happier when I heard that it would come to the RA. Sadly not everything has travelled from Vienna – today’s painting, for example, is already in an exhibition in Ghent for example… but that makes it all the more worthwhile to look at it today. My current trip, to see Canaletto & Bellotto, will be the subject of the following talk, on Monday, 20 April (in between I’ll be on holiday…). To follow that I will talk about a slightly more recherché, but entirely delightful, exhibition looking at female landscape artists. It is my third visit to The Courtauld this year, this time to see their exhibition A View of One’s Own. None of the women exhibited are ‘famous’ – but they were all undoubtedly experts in their field, and this focussed exhibition is definitely worth a visit in its own right. I will take a close look at it on 27 April. More will follow, and any news will eventually appear on the diary.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do when there’s time to spare than 5 minutes before the talk! Of course, it could be in your spam folder (that happened to someone just last week). You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

This year’s trips with Artemisia are rapidly filling up – both Siena trips are full, as is Liverpool – but there are still a few places left if you would like to come to Strasbourg and Colmar from 5-8 June. Both locations are remarkably picturesque, and have fantastic food – and in June the weather will be great, ideal for a boat trip around Colmar’s ‘Little Venice’ – oh, and there’s truly fantastic art too! This includes Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece (in Colmar) – an astonishing painting that truly is one of those important works you really should see – and one of France’s most fantastic Gothic cathedrals (in Strasbourg) – for over two centuries the tallest building in the world, and still the tallest medieval structure to survive! And then there’s the history… but don’t let me get carried away: just click on the link above and book!

Two girls are standing in a darkened room which is enlivened by a swathe of vermillion cloth hanging behind their heads. There is nothing to indicate where they are though, but there is a table covered with a similarly coloured fabric in the front left corner, on which a basket of apples is surrounded by scattered roses. The two girls are of different heights, and so may be of different ages, although this is by no means certain. The most prominent stands on the right: not only is she taller, but she wears brighter colours – a rose-pink dress, and a voluminous daffodil-yellow cloak. She also has a striped scarf, or shawl, around her neck. She looks out of the corners of her eyes in the direction of the other girl – although it is by no means clear that she is actually looking at her. She indicates a sheep, or lamb, with her right hand, while holding its head with her left. She stands further forward than the other girl, and her cloak falls in front of the table cloth – so our view of her is clear all the way to the bottom of the painting. By contrast, the other girl is shorter, stands behind the table, and so is further back than the taller girl – all compositional motifs which make her less prominent (and therefore, in some way, less important). In addition to this she wears a dark green dress which merges with the dark background, again making her appearance less striking. However, this dress has sleeves which are slashed from the shoulders, allowing us to see not only the billowing sleeves of her white chemise, but also her hands and more or less of her forearms. In her right hand she is holding a rose, whereas in her left there is a long, undulating green form which continues the diagonal of her forearm. This is a palm of martyrdom, which helps us to understand what is going on. These two girls are dressed as saints – but they have no haloes to confirm their sanctity.


Not all artists paint haloes, though – often our understanding of the subject matter and the identification of the characters represented relies on context. It becomes obvious, due to the sense of a narrative, or the other figures represented, that we are looking at a specific type of person – but that is not the case here. However, it would seem unlikely that a girl who is so finely dressed – even though her clothing doesn’t seem to refer to any specific historical or geographical style – would have a sheep as a pet. Not only is this animal not in a field or farm, but it is indoors, suggesting that it must be there for a very specific reason. It is, indeed, a symbol. The saint most commonly associated with a sheep, or lamb, is of course John the Baptist, who greets Jesus just before his baptism with the words ‘Behold the lamb of god, which taketh away the sins of the world’ (John 1:29 in the King James version). However, this is not John – no camel skin, and definitely a girl. But if we quote the Vulgate, the same verse would be ‘Ecce agnus Dei…’. The Latin for ‘lamb’ is ‘agnus’, which suggests that this girl is dressed as Saint Agnes. While this linguistic similarity might seem ‘obvious’, it isn’t, necessarily. Rather than her name, the appearance of the lamb can be connected to a vision – it’s probably a combination of the two. Most artists – indeed anyone who could read – would have known the Golden Legend (to which I have regularly referred), a collection of the lives of the saints put together by the Dominican friar Jacobus de Voragine in the 1260s. He started every ‘Life’ with a discussion of the meaning of the saint’s name – a form of etymology. I am quoting from the first English translation, by William Caxton, which was published in 1483, and this is what he says about Saint Agnes:

And next followeth of S. Agnes, and first the interpretation of her name.
Agnes is said of agna a lamb, for she was humble and debonair as a lamb, or of agnos in Greek, which is to say debonair and piteous, for she was debonair and merciful. Or Agnes of agnoscendo, for she knew the way of truth…

You can find the full ‘Life’ on this link, but a couple of details from it might be helpful. Agnes’s martyrdom involved being stripped naked and led to a brothel (they didn’t want to kill a virgin) – but no one could approach her, and she made the best, even of this situation.

Then made she of the bordel her oratory, and in making her prayers to God she saw tofore her a white vesture, and anon therewith she clad her and said: I thank thee Jesu Christ which accountest me with thy virgins and hast sent me this vesture.

Curiously – to my mind – the website of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Antwerp, which owns this painting, says that this ‘vesture’ is shown in the painting, or rather, ‘She is wearing a loose yellow cloak that is also mentioned in the Legenda aurea [Golden Legend]’. It could be that there are different translations, but I can’t think why a virginal white would appear anywhere as yellow. However, they might be referring to another section of the Life. Agnes’s foster sister Emerentiana was also martyred, and buried alongside her, and,

…when the friends of S. Agnes watched at her sepulchre on a night, they saw a great multitude of virgins clad in vestments of gold and silver, and a great light shone tofore them, and on the right side was a lamb more white than snow, and saw also S. Agnes among the virgins.

Maybe in this painting ‘Agnes’ is wearing one of the ‘vestments of gold’ – and also standing, without doubt, next to the lamb.


As part of the composition, the figure of ‘Agnes’ forms a narrow pyramid, or a tall, slim, isosceles triangle. Its outline leads up from the lamb in the bottom right corner to her head, and then down to the left of centre, just in front of the table. The yellow cloak falls off her right shoulder (on our left), revealing a sliver of the pink dress, and curving round the striped shawl. The red cloth hanging behind her head echoes the curve of her shoulders, rising on a shallow diagonal from our left, and then curving down to the right, with an undulating hem leading to a sharp corner.


Rather than looking towards the taller girl, this figure looks down to the right – towards the lamb – and her gaze parallels the diagonal of the palm. It was this palm which alerted us to the fact that these girls represent two saints. Her hair is held back by a band sewn with many pearls, and she also has strings of pearls around her wrist and neck. Not only that, but the slashed sleeves of her dress are pinned up by brooches hung with a large drop pearls. With so many pearls, we might guess that this is Saint Margaret – as ‘margarita’ is Latin for ‘pearl’ (the Greek word is similar) – but she is not. There’s no dragon, for one thing. The roses and apples tell us she is St Dorothy. If I’m honest, I knew about the flowers – but clearly hadn’t read her Life in enough detail to realise that they were specifically roses – and I don’t remember seeing the apples in any other image: however, they should be there. Again, I am quoting from the version ‘Englished by William Caxton’, as it says in the first edition of 1483, which you can find via this link. Like St Agnes, St Dorothy saw herself as the bride of Christ – as Nuns do to this day – and so He is the spouse referred to here. She was condemned to death by beheading,

… and as she was led to the place assigned where it should be done, a scribe of the realm, named Theophilus, said to her in scorn: I pray thee to send me some of thy roses and apples that thou hast gathered in the garden of thy spouse that thou praisest so much, and she granted to him his desire. And this was in the cold winter time when there was both frost and snow.
…
And this holy virgin bowed down her head, and the cruel tyrant smote it off.
But a little before this, appeared before her a fair child barefoot, clothed in purple, with crisp hairs, whose garment was set full of bright stars, bearing in his hand a little basket shining as gold, with roses and apples, to whom the virgin said: I pray thee, bear this basket to Theophilus the scribe.
…
And as this said Theophilus stood in the palace of the emperor, this child came to him and presented to him the basket, saying: These be the roses and apples that my sister Dorothy hath sent to thee from Paradise, the garden of her spouse, and then this child vanished away. Then he, considering the marvellous work of God in this holy virgin, said anon with a stern voice, praising the God of Dorothy for that great miracle which was showed to him of roses and apples that time, that he that sent to me these things is of great power, and therefore his name be blessed world without end, Amen. And then he was converted to the faith of Jesu Christ, and the most part of the people of the city.

The ‘fair child’ who delivered the basket is often identified as the Christ Child himself, and is occasionally treated as one of St Dorothy’s attributes. A good example is the painting by Francesco di Giorgio in the National Gallery, Saint Dorothy and the Infant Christ, in which it is the Christ Child who is carrying the basket. It only contains flowers – too small, and indistinct to identify – but definitely no fruit – which could explain my ignorance about the apples.

For Michaelina Wautier, as for so many, the basket is enough to identify Saint Dorothy, and not only that – it is beautifully painted. The apples are some of the best I remember seeing, with a delicacy and subtlety of painting that is unparalleled. Fine strokes of red and green paint are delicately interwoven, and only interrupted by a soft sheen of white, where the light reflects off the surface. The form of each fruit, curving round at the end to the dark dimple containing the remains of the blossom, is perfectly realised. However, even if these are heavenly apples – delivered by the infant form of Dorothy’s devotional ‘spouse’ – one of them, on the right of the basket, has a small bruise: it is real, not idealised. I suspect that the roses are Rosa gallica, the Gallic or French rose, the first to be cultivated by the Greeks and Romans, but I’m not an expert (and the Ecologist is in Kenya). However, they are a deep red – and dog roses (Rosa canina) are usually a very pale pink. The photos of Rosa gallica that I’ve seen are not this dark either: the rich colouration could either relate to their heavenly origin, or to the fact that this is a 17th century painting, by which time the cultivation of roses was resulting in a wider range of colours. The basket itself is also rather beautifully painted, and, in terms of baskets, a rather fine example. There are four curving handles, below which the basket is supported by four spherical feet (admittedly only one is visible, but I am extrapolating). In between the handles are wooden finials carved a little like chess pieces, below which hang short chains with three links each – presumably these are purely decorative details. The weaving of the basket itself is meticulously painted, with slight gaps between the weave towards the top and bottom, and stronger rings framing the splayed sides at its rim and base. Michaelina Wautier did paint a couple of Still Lifes which survive – but then, she worked in all genres, one of the features of her work which the curators of the RA exhibition deem remarkable (and yet, I can’t help thinking that most women who painted worked in more than one genre anyway).

The specificity of the faces has led people to believe that this is a double portrait, of a type known as a portrait istorié – in which the subjects are dressed as figures from myth or religion. This explains the ‘as’ in the title of the painting, Two Girls as Saints Agnes and Dorothy. The similarity of the features suggests that they are two sisters. Notice especially the cupid’s bow mouths, the noses with a round, bulbous ends which rise from curving, slightly depressed bridges, and the hint of dimples in the chins. It’s always tricky to make these assertions, though, as what you are looking at, as much as anything, is the artist’s style. Michaelina tended to paint a long, vague highlight along the bridge of the nose, with a separate, irregular highlight at its tip, for example. She painted the softest of lips, and the most delicate hair, lustrous, and combed back from the irregular hairline, where the scalp is revealed in between some of the parted hairs. The girls are so refined that their skin is luminous, and with the elder sister in particular – who I take to be ‘Saint Agnes’ – it appears translucent, with the blood vessels visible beneath. While ‘Dorothy’ looks down to the lamb, ‘Agnes’ looks towards her sister, her mouth slightly open. In both cases the red cloth passes behind the head at eye level.

When see together, it is clear how the red cloth links the two girls and directs our attention towards the directions of their gaze. ‘Dorothy’ appears deferential, while ‘Agnes’ is concerned for her younger sister – or for the fate of Saint Dorothy – or both. We can only hypothesise why they are dressed as these two saints, as we have no idea who they are (there is a suggestion, but it seems to be without foundation). In the 18th century Joshua Reynolds painted portraits historiés to try and raise the status of portraiture: he would far rather have been painting ‘history paintings’. Earlier generations though, especially in cases like this, sometimes used them to stress the sanctity of the sitters. The subjects here would have been the daughters of a wealthy Catholic family in Brussels – where Michaelina shared a studio and lived with her brother Charles – and this portrait may have been painted either because the parents were inordinately proud of their daughters, or because they wanted to demonstrate their eligibility for marriage: wealthy, beautiful, modest, saintly and virginal. Whatever the reason I am only too glad to enjoy the delicacy of depiction, the mastery of form and composition and the rich use of colour, not to mention the evocation of character, and the subtlety with which the identities of the Saints is presented.

The girls may be dressing up and playing make believe, but another reason why they are dressing up is to make us believe in these two saints and in the virtue of their lives. It is the great power of painting to make us believe. After all, when looking at this image there really are no sisters, no saints, no flowers or apples, not even a lamb: there is only paint. And yet, as we will see on Monday, Michaelina Wautier can make us believe that these things were there, that she saw them, and she painted them. And how well she painted them too! I think I’ll have to go to the exhibition in Ghent to see this painting in the flesh…

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271 – Drunk on light

Georges Seurat, Study for ‘The Shore at Bas-Butin (Honfleur)’, 1886. Baltimore Museum of Art.

I’ve mentioned it a couple of times already, but The Courtauld’s enormously successful Seurat and the Sea is selling out regularly – but not too far in advance, fortunately (most days next week are still available, for example). I will be talking about the exhibition at 6pm this Monday, 23 March if you want any encouragement to book!  The following week, Monday 30 March, I will introduce the Royal Academy’s display of works by the wonderful Michaelina Wautier, which I will have seen just a couple of days before. This will give me time to assess whether she really was ‘one of Europe’s most important artists’ as the RA’s website claims. From what little I’ve seen in the flesh – and from photographs – she does seem to have been truly remarkable. However, I’m never entirely sure what the word ‘important’ means – there are so many different ways of assessing importance. I’m sure it will be one of the things that we will consider during the talk, though. Before then I am heading to the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna to see – and review – their next exhibition, Canaletto & Bellotto. This will be the first to compare the travels of the artists who, as well as being master and pupil, were also uncle and nephew. I will let you know what I’ve seen on Monday 20 April, focussing, as the exhibition will, on the artists’ travels outside of Venice. The above events are already in the diary, and soon I will add more: introductions to The Courtauld’s A View of One’s Own (landscapes by women) on 27 April, and Michelangelo and Rodin, at the Louvre, on 11 May – and I’ve already planned what I want to talk about after that.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do then, when there’s time to spare, than 5 minutes before the talk! You should also get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these too will include the link.

This is how today’s painting, Seurat’s Study for ‘The Shore at Bas-Butin (Honfleur)’, appears in The Courtauld’s exhibition, and presumably how it is exhibited at the Baltimore Museum of Art, which owns it. A small wooden panel, measuring 17.1 x 26 cm, is framed by a flat white frame which must have at least twice the surface area of the painting itself. It is so often the way that the status of small works of art is proclaimed by giving them relatively large frames, thus making them take up more wall space. As a ploy it is perfectly understandable, but counter-productive for close viewing: it doesn’t necessarily help us to see them any better. Seurat did regularly exhibit such small works, though, either individually, or framed as a group. They were created either as works in their own right, or as studies for paintings on canvas. He also used them to get to know a motif better, an exploratory process which helped him to understand a particular location and so to decide which views to focus on. He gave these studies the name ‘croquetons’, a term derived from the French word ‘croquis’, meaning sketch. He produced them regularly during his short life, and after his premature death, at the age of 31, 163 were recorded in his studio. Like so many preparatory, or exploratory works, they are relatively freely painted, spontaneous, and sometimes (as far as I’m concerned) more interesting than the controlled and contained works which are derived from them.

In order to look at the imagery with greater clarity, I am going to cut out most of the frame.

We appear to be looking out over the sea, but a faint horizontal line of cream-coloured dots about halfway up the painting on the left would tell us – if we could read it more clearly – that we are looking across the mouth of the River Seine. Bas-Butin is on the Normandy Coast, very close to Honfleur, which Seurat visited in summer of 1886. It is on the other side of the river, and a little upstream, from Le Havre. The sky is a mixture of mottled dabs of light blue and cream, while the water varies from dark blues, near the shore, to greens further out, with the same cream colour intermixed throughout. This cream is the basic colour of the beach, a triangle of which appears at the bottom of the panel in the middle, and the cliff, also seen as a triangle, coming down from the top right of the painting. The bottom right corner is filled with vegetation, defined by a range of greens, blues and pinks. More patches of plants can be seen at the top of the cliff, and across its surface.

I took the photograph above myself, and, as usual, the works in the exhibition are illuminated from above. However flat the frame is, it still casts a shadow across the top of the painting, although there is very little we cannot see. The first image below is a rather low-resolution file (which also seems to be out of focus) from the Baltimore Art Gallery’s website, the second is my image with the shadow cut out.

There’s just a little bit of vegetation missing from the top right corner in my photograph – together with the equivalent strip of sky, of course. The colours are a bit different… probably the fault of my phone, although the following detail, which I also took, appears to be closer to the lighter, sunnier colours of the Baltimore file.

The detail focusses on the part of the composition which I think had attracted Seurat to this motif – the place where the lower point of the cliff (the triangle tumbling down from the top right hand corner) touches the upper point of the beach (the triangle reaching up from the bottom). The seaward boundaries of these areas continue as intersecting diagonals which, opposite the sea, define the area of vegetation in the bottom right corner. It is almost as if a strip of a cream-coloured ribbon, dividing the blue of the water from the green of the plants, has been twisted in the middle, bringing its two edges together to a single point. The just-off-vertical lines which cross the image are the result of the paint brush skipping over grooves in the panel which Seurat may well have scratched in to create exactly this sort of effect – although it’s not entirely clear to me why he wanted to do this.  

The horizon runs a little way above the kink which joins the cream triangles, and just below it you may be able to make out two vessels on the water. To the left of the cliff is a sailing boat, its mast and sail projecting above the horizon. To the left of that a horizontal row of dark dots, with a vertical line roughly in the middle, define a steamboat with its funnel. A little higher, and reaching to the left edge of the detail, are some of the cream dots which mark the opposite bank of the Seine. These undetailed details may be easier to read if I trim the image slightly.

I don’t know if that does make it any clearer. However, Seurat knew what he was looking at, and knew how he wanted to translate it into his own visual imagery – this study was for himself as much as anyone else. One of the things that makes it harder to read is the persistent repetition of the same colours, the result, I suspect, of both practical and stylistic choices. Seurat painted this study ‘en plein air’ (‘in the open air’) in front of his ‘motif’ (or ‘subject’), in true Impressionist fashion – even though he was in the process of re-imagining and re-inventing the Impressionists’ techniques. Plein air painting was made easier by the contemporary development of portable painting boxes, know as pochades or ‘boîtes à pouce’. The latter got its name because, like a palette, the box had a hole into which you could insert your thumb (‘pouce’ in French) to hold it more easily. The small wooden panel for the sketch could be inserted in the open lid of the box, with the palette, and paints, in the shallow box itself, which would be held horizontally. A small box could only contain a few different tubes of paint – and I assume that the fewer paints you took with you the easier it might be. Of course, the other reason for repeating the colours – the stylistic choice – was to create pictorial unity, and thus a harmonious composition. In this respect it is worthwhile comparing strips of the study from the far left and far right of the painting.

The strip on the left (oddly a bit out of focus, I realise) is almost equally sky at the top and sea at the bottom, with the opposite shore – just a few dabs of cream coloured paint – dividing them. On the right we see the cliff, the vegetation at the top (what little remains after I’ve cut out the shadow cast by the frame), and the vegetation at the bottom right corner. Notice how the cream colour of the cliff (on the right) can also be seen in a few dabs of paint at the bottom of the same strip, but also in the sky and sea on the left. But then the lighter greens of the vegetation – and to a lesser extent the darker greens – can also be seen in the sea on the left. The pale blue of the sky continues through the sea, but can also be seen in the vegetation on the right, and, to a very small extent, in the cliff as well. The darker blues of the sea are intensified in the vegetation at the bottom right. The same continuity of colours can be seen if we compare strips from the top and bottom.

I’ll let you look for the matching colours these two details, but suggest you pick out the creams and the light blues in particular. As suggested earlier, Seurat is seeking pictorial unity, showing us that this seascape, or ‘marine’, to give it the name he used, is all lit by the same light, and takes on the same colours. This makes sense, if we remember that the sky, cliff and beach could all be reflected in the water, and that the light reflecting from the water will in its turn fall on the cliff, beach and vegetation, thus having an effect on the way we see them. Seurat was also drawing on colour theory known and practiced by the Impressionists – although very subtly in this case. This theory was, of course, one of the key driving forces of his own personal technique. The creams and light blues can be seen as a lighter, less intense version of one of the main complementary pairings, blue and orange. Placing them next to one another helps to make the surface sparkle, thus creating a fresher image. In the case of this croqueton the individual pointillés (or ‘dots’) are relatively large – but in the finished painting based on this composition they become far more refined. Conveniently, both are included in The Courtauld’s exhibition – so here they are.

There are several differences between the two images, and it’s not just a matter of size (not that you can see that here): the Study measures 17.1 x 26 cm, while the finished painting is 65.5 x 82 cm. Unlike the Study, which is painted on wood, the finished work, now in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Tournai, is on canvas. The proportions are considerable different, with the canvas far taller in proportion to its width. When buying supplies, Seurat always selected croquetons in this particular format. Each pre-prepared format had its own name which related to the genre of painting it was considered suitable for – and this one, not coincidentally, was known as a marine. As far as Seurat was concerned, this was also, presumably, the format which would fit into his boîte à pouce. Given the taller format of the canvas, there was some extra space, which Seurat filled at the bottom of the canvas. He added a broad, sandy path leading down to the beach, and the posts of the breakwaters (which help to prevent coastal erosion). There are also more fully formed plants in the bottom right corner. Notice how he subtly shifted the top of the cliff so it leads in from the top right corner, rather than from a little way along the top of the painting, making it more obviously a diagonal.

The smaller, more refined dots mean that features are more precisely defined. The canvas has a cloud in the sky – but if you look back to the Study you might be able to distinguish the sketchy way in which this is notated. The steamboat and distant shore are far clearer – and also echo one another in form. However, rather than the single sailboat, with its sail reaching above the horizon, in the canvas he has included two small yachts, creating a sense of perspective, and therefore a greater sense of distance. The variation in the colour of the sea – from blue near the shore, to a lighter green further out, is not only more marked, but also very subtle. In some way this is a reflection of what we see in the sky, where the colours are paler on the horizon, darkening towards the zenith, with touches of the darker blue at the very top of the painting. The whole has a calm, limpid atmosphere which is enhanced by the omnipresence of lighter tones, and especially of the cream colours of the beach and cliff. It is a celebration of light.

The summer of 1886 was the second of Seurat’s five marine campaigns, the subject of The Courtauld’s exhibition. Although one of his most productive, the weather was not always kind to Seurat that year. As he told Paul Signac in a letter written two weeks or more after his departure from Paris (quoted in Karen Serres’ superb catalogue),

“The wind and therefore the clouds have bothered me these past few days. The stability of the first days should come back … What else can I say? Well, that’s it for today, let us get drunk on light once again, it’s a consolation.”

Today’s Study was clearly painted on one of the days when the winds were gentle and the seas calm (after last week’s Sondheim, today I feel a Mozart aria coming on…). During the winter months Seurat worked on his more theoretical paintings in Paris, but he took his summers away from the city to clear his eyes. Perhaps as a result of this, the paintings we will be looking at on Monday all turned out like the memories of an ideal holiday: gentle and calm, with every element corresponding to what we wanted.

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270 – Don’t sing a nocturne just yet

Anders Zorn, Midnight, 1891. Zornmuseet, Mora.

I am looking forward to paying a return visit to the wonderful exhibition I saw in Hamburg earlier this year for Anders Zorn (Part II) at 6:00pm on Monday, 16 March. This will be a second chance to enjoy the rich colour and painterly splendour of Sweden’s great artist, a friend and colleague of both John Singer Sargent and Joaquín Sorolla, and just as superb. The talk will be perfectly self-contained for anyone who couldn’t be there for Part I, and will include completely different, but equally fabulous images for those who could. The exhibition has moved, in a slightly different form, to Madrid, where it will be on show at the Fundaçion MAPFRE until 17 May. As you are unlikely to be able to see quite so many of this wonderful artist’s works in the same place for quite a few years – unless you head to his hometown of Mora, in Sweden – I would really recommend it. And if you can’t get there, I suppose the talk might be the next best thing! A week later, on Monday, 23 March, I will introduce The Courtauld’s enormously successful Seurat and the Sea. If you want to see the exhibition in person, book now if you can, as the tickets are rapidly selling out. Talking of popular exhibitions, last Sunday I tried to see Tate Modern’s Tracey Emin retrospective, but it was so crowded that I couldn’t even walk through the spaces. I’ll head back when I can (on a weekday, and when the rush has died down), and may plan a talk for a later date. Instead, on Monday 30 March, I will talk about the marvellous Michaelina Wautier, an unparalleled 17th century female artist who – surprise, surprise – has been almost completely forgotten. An exhibition of her work will have opened at the Royal Academy just a few days before, having arrived fresh from the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna – which, by then, will be hosting an exhibition dedicated to uncle and nephew Canaletto & Bellotto. This will be the first to compare their travels outside of Venice – to London and Vienna – and so to compare the paintings which were the result: I will talk about it on Monday 20 April. All of these events are already in the diary, but you can check there for anything else that might be coming up, including (potentially) The Courtauld’s A View of One’s Own (landscapes by women) and Michelangelo and Rodin, which will be at the Louvre.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do it then than 5 minutes before the talk! You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

A woman is rowing away from us, heading towards the bank of what could either be a river or a lake (we can only see one bank, so it is impossible to tell). She is looking over her right shoulder to check her direction of travel. We can only see the bow (i.e. the front) of the boat, and our point of view suggests that the artist was a passenger, sitting towards the stern: we are effectively travelling with him. The weather is calm, without even the hint of a breeze. If there were one, the surface of the water would surely be rippling, but as it is, the mirror-like surface reflects the emerald-green grass and verdant profusion of bushes and trees growing on the bank, as well as the lavender sky and distant purple hills.

A thin line of reddish-brown runs through the middle of the green. This is the river bank, standing proud rather than sloping into the water. Because of the freedom of Zorn’s technique, the light green grass on the flat surface of the bank and its reflection in the water are rendered with different brushstrokes. He has not restricted himself to exact symmetry, and this creates an ambiguity: is that the reflection of the grass you can see below the bank, or are there also light green plants growing out of the water? The bushes beyond the grass are a mixture of light and dark green according to the fall of the sunlight. Judging by the yellow/gold light on the woman’s hair and on the back of her neck, the sun is very close to the horizon, and so presumably not reaching all of the bushes. The trees are darker still, which could either be due to the species, or to the fall of light – or both. Whatever the reason, the increasing darkness of the plants as you move away from the water helps to create a sense of depth. The interior of the boat is a rich, orangey-red, the separate brushstrokes stretching the full range from touches of yellow to a glowing vermillion.

Behind the woman’s head the green bank stretches off into the distance. Her hair is plaited, and fixed up in a bun. It is only brightly lit (and not that brightly even then) on our right. The horizontal fall of light on her hair, together with the colour of the sky and hills, suggests that it is either dawn or dusk. I find the two pale, vertical forms behind her head hard to read, but the more I look, the more I think they are the sails of yachts moored at the riverbank.

Zorn has carefully observed the geometrical cross-section of the oar handle (hexagonal, but tapering to a rounded handle, I would suggest) and models it with long, smooth brushstrokes of light, mid- and dark brown on the three visible facets. The rowlocks (pronounced rollocks) – ‘fittings attached to the gunwhale (top edge) of a boat that hold an oar in place, serving as a pivot point or fulcrum for rowing’ – are sketchily depicted, looking a bit like two wooden hands reaching around the oar. However, the firm grasp of the woman’s right hand on this oar, with the index finger projecting slightly more than the other three, and the thumb wrapped around the end, suggest that everything is in working order. Her green, striped skirt billows out from her waist, kinking in over her lap and down to her knees, and flares out slightly over the wooden bench on which she is sitting. Dark marks on the orange/yellow interior of the boat suggest the nails which are holding the planks in place. Significantly, the gunwhale (see above) leads directly from the bottom left corner of the painting (which is the bottom left corner of this detail) thus leading our eye into the painting along the diagonal which runs from bottom left to top right.

In the bottom right corner of the painting, the left oar (on our right) has far less clearly defined facets, maybe the result of the lighting – which is true of so much in this painting. The interior of the boat here looks brown, like wood – which is, after all, what it’s made of – and this confirms the position of the sun. At the horizon, its rich orange glow colours the interior of the boat where it falls, on our left. The woman’s left hand is, if anything, slightly better articulated than her right, with the knuckles standing proud, catching the light of the sun, and the lower joints darker as they wrap around the oar. The signature is painted against the brown interior of the boat, just above some yellow-green fabric lying under the oar. In three lines it says ‘Zorn/Mora 91/midnatt’ – the artist’s name, the location and date, and the title of the painting: Midnatt (in Swedish), or Midnight. But the sun is just rising or setting!

Anders Zorn, the artist, was born in Mora, in the Swedish province of Dalarna, in 1860. At the age of 15 he headed south to Stockholm to attend the Royal Swedish Academy of Fine Arts. He left the Academy in 1881 – without graduating – and moved to London the following year. He returned to Sweden in 1885 and married Emma Lamm. The couple spent an extended period in Paris (1888-1896), although they returned to Sweden for regular visits, as well as travelling extensively elsewhere. In 1896 they settled back in Zorn’s hometown, Mora, and remained there until the artist’s death in 1920 – although they did continue to travel widely during that time. Mora lies at 61° north – on a very similar latitude to Muckle Flugga (at 60° 51’), which, with exception of the odd rock, is the northernmost point of Shetland, and therefore also of the United Kingdom. Zorn described this painting as “a bright and chilly Nordic summer’s night” – and yet, to the eyes of those of us living further south, it doesn’t look like night at all. Although this is not the land of the midnight sun (the Arctic Circle lies at 66° north), summer nights can be remarkably luminous this far north. It reminds of a song from Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music, which is set in Sweden. Shortly after the couplet “The sun sits low/ As low as it’s going to go,” it concludes with the following verse:

The sun won’t set
It’s fruitless to hope or to fret
It’s dark as it’s going to get
The hands on the clock turn
But don’t sing a nocturne
Just yet

If you would like to hear the whole song (which is relatively short) sung by the original Broadway cast, just click here.

The pictures so far have all come from a digital file I found online (I’m afraid I can’t remember which one), and the colours are, I think, slightly heightened, if not garish. The details just above and below are ones I took myself, and I think they give a better idea of the true colour, and certainly give a better sense of the surface of the painting, how it is worked and how the paint is applied – even if you can see the gallery light reflecting off the top edges of the brushstrokes. Between them I think they emphasize how the woman rowing the boat is in harmony with her natural surroundings, her mauve top echoing the sky and hills (and their reflections) while her green skirt relates more to the vegetation on the river bank. She is located in the midst of earth, air and water, with the fire of the sun illuminating both her and the interior of the boat.  As such, I find it somehow significant that the red-brown line of the riverbank coincides with the position of her mouth. I don’t know what relevance that has, but it somehow seems apt, and is (to me, at least) visually satisfactory – she is at one with the landscape. The blouse is beautifully painted, with dabs and dashes of the lavender of the sky and the purple of the hills alternating with a pink, not unlike her flushed cheeks. It is as if Zorn is nodding toward Seurat, and his Divisionist brushstroke, which was first fully realised in 1884 with Sunday Afternoon on La Grand Jatte (the subject of another Sondheim musical!), eight years before Midnight was painted. However, I don’t remember Zorn using the Divisionist – or Pointilliste – brushstroke anywhere else.

Looking at both hands together it is immediately apparent that the woman is changing direction. If she were rowing in a straight line, her hands would be next to each other. The hand on our right is lower down, suggesting (to me at least, who has very little experience of rowing), that she is holding the starboard oar (‘right’ in the direction of travel) out of the water, whilst pulling hard on the port oar. I’m trying to work this out logically – although logic often fails me. I think this means that the boat would turn to port – which would imply that she is steering towards the bank. Who knows where she is going, or why, at this time of night? Maybe she is quite simply heading home after a party – the Midsummer Dance of one of Zorn’s most famous paintings, perhaps? We will see it on Monday, when one of the themes we will cover will be Zorn’s return to the province of Dalarna, and the paintings – like this one – that he continued to paint on his regular visits ‘home’ even before he settled back there.

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269 – A – Z (II) – William Nicholson was an Artist

William Nicholson, A was an Artist, from An Alphabet, published by William Heinemann, 1897. UK Government Art Collection.

A few weeks back I wrote a post From A – Z playing on the idea that the letters were Anders Zorn’s initials. I hadn’t remembered at the time that one of the earliest independent works by William Nicholson – whose brilliant paintings, prints, theatre designs and book illustrations I will be discussing this Monday, 2 March at 6pm – was an illustrated alphabet. Today I want to introduce the exhibition at the Pallant House Gallery by looking at the first image from the sequence – the letter ‘A’. However, the following talk, on 16 March, will also be A – Z (II), or rather Anders Zorn (Part II) – a second chance to enjoy the rich colour and painterly splendour of Sweden’s great artist. A friend and colleague of both John Singer Sargent and Joaquín Sorolla, his art is every bit as brilliant as theirs. The talk will be perfectly self-contained for anyone who couldn’t be there for Part I, and will include completely different, but equally fabulous images for those who could.

This will be followed on 23 March by a second visit this spring to The Courtauld for their hit show Seurat and the Sea. If you want to see the exhibition in the flesh, I’d book now. I was planning to go this week, but it’s sold out until the second week of March – so I’ve booked then, in plenty of time for the talk. However, I won’t get to see the other exhibition there for a while, so on 30 March I will talk about Tate Modern’s Tracey Emin retrospective. There will be more on that in the diary soon.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do it then than 5 minutes before the talk! You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

This year’s trips with Artemisia are rapidly booking up, but there are still a few places left to visit Strasbourg from 5-8 June. As well as the city itself, with its rich history, one of France’s most beautiful cathedrals and a notable collection of old master paintings, we will have a day trip to Colmar, a truly picturesque town and home to Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece, one of those remarkable renaissance paintings which really should be seen in the flesh.

Today we have a print – a hand-coloured woodcut on paper. It is the first in a set of 26 – the entire alphabet – all of which are included in the exhibition I will discuss on Monday. Admittedly this isn’t a great photograph – it’s one I took in the exhibition, complete with reflections, but we’ll get to better ones. I wanted you to see the full size of the paper, with a wide, white border around the printed image, and Nicholson’s signature floating below. Often a print like this would be framed with a mount covering most of the border, leaving only the imagery visible – but here the whole extent of the sheet can be seen. In many ways I think it is preferable, as it shows the balance of positive and negative space that Nicholson intended, allowing the bold, powerful imagery to be read clearly. This has then been sympathetically framed in a simple black, which echoes the printed frame around the imagery of the woodcut itself. The red at the outer edge is the colour of the wall in the gallery. The first two letters of the alphabet are displayed on one wall, with the remaining 24 on another. They appear together like this:

Why haven’t they hung them in alphabetical order, though? I always get hung up on little (and probably irrelevant!) details like this. I suspect this choice was made because it is pictorially more satisfactory to have the two figures looking in towards each other: it makes the ‘composition’ of the hang look more contained. But it is also relevant that these two prints are separated from the rest of the sequence because they are both portraits. ‘A’ is a self portrait, while ‘B’ is Nicholson’s friend, former collaborator, and brother-in-law, James Pryde. ‘Beggar’ might appear to be an odd choice for an illustrated alphabet, let alone a friend, but not if you know a bit more about these two artists. They were students together at Hubert von Herkomer’s Art School in Bushey, Hertfordshire, and their friendship was strengthened when Nicholson married Pryde’s sister Mabel – also an artist – in 1893. From 1894 the two men collaborated to design posters for theatrical productions and other advertisements. Notice that the beggar is holding a staff. Rather than using their own names, the pair took their collective title from one they saw – and were apparently amused by – printed on a sack of hay: Beggarstaff. As J. and W. Beggarstaff, most of their surviving work was produced in 1895 and 1896, and, although other designs are documented in later years, most are lost, and their appearance unknown – but they don’t appear to have collaborated after 1900.

Is it a coincidence that An Alphabet was Nicholson’s first major independent commission, and that, if placed in alphabetical order, the two turn their backs on each other? Or that Pryde is cast as the beggar, with an uphill struggle ahead of him? These days, Pryde’s work isn’t nearly as well-known as Nicholson’s, and, as his Wikipedia entry states, ‘He is principally remembered as one of the Beggarstaffs’. However, it’s not as if Nicholson looks entirely positive about his own artistic future, given the intriguing caption – A was an Artist – but more of that later.

The boldness and clarity of conception of this image is what helps to make it memorable. Both colour and line are kept to a minimum, with a matt black background in the upper half, and a grey/beige colour for the floor. These limited means show the influence of Japanese woodblock prints, very much in vogue in the second half of the 19th century, and collected by artists such as Monet and Van Gogh. If you think about it, the composition of today’s print is not entirely dissimilar to that of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers… Japanese art was also an influence on many other artists, including Whistler, whom Nicholson greatly admired. Indeed, it was Whistler who had introduced him to another William – William Heinemann – who published An Alphabet in 1897. The limited colour range of A was an Artist is also typical of Whistler – just think of Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1 (see 151 – Mommie dearest).

The artist (a self portrait by Nicholson, as I’ve said) sits on the ground with his knees to one side and his feet towards us, resting his left hand on the ground on another print from An Alphabet. The label in the exhibition says that ‘Nicholson depicts himself as a pavement artist’, but I’ve always thought that the term ‘pavement artist’ refers to someone who draws – with chalk, usually – on the pavement itself. I’m not sure about its application to a man who has laid a print on the pavement. This reminds me more of the people who hawk prints at tourist destinations, or along the park fences on Piccadilly and Bayswater Road in London. Another print is propped up on the right-hand side, but cut off by the bold black frame.

Nicholson shows himself in profile, which makes the image less personal, but also stronger. His black hair is apparently brilliantined, with the shine created by bright patches of white paper in the black ink, suggesting the reflection of light. A woodcut is a relief print, meaning that areas which are not to be coloured are cut away. It is the top surface, the original surface of the block, which takes the ink. The reflections of light in the hair were made by cutting into the block so that the ink wouldn’t reach them. Thin lines, like the wrinkle in between Nicholson’s nose and cheek, or the folds on the scarf and waistcoat, are especially bravura examples of cutting, as they are made by thin ridges of wood standing away from the rest of the block which was cut away all around them. It would be so easy to take them out with one slip of the chisel or gouge, and impossible to replace.

Nicholson’s head is upright and his chin held high, suggesting a certain pride, even if he is seated on the ground, and dressed in his shirtsleeves. Yes, he has a waistcoat, but without a tie or jacket this outfit would read as working class, suggesting the subject is a humble street trader.

This reading is confirmed by the rolled-up sleeves – a real sense that Nicholson is at the ‘coal face’ of making, entirely down-to-earth, but proud of his honest labours. To the left of the knees we can see what is effectively the ‘horizon’ – the join between the ground and the black background. To the right, the horizon would appear to be lower – but that is the result of Nicholson’s shadow cast on the ground: the light is coming from the left. This shadow has the same intensity as the shadows in the folds of the trousers and the background itself, all of which are therefore unified into one area of black. This lack of variation in tonal values is another of the features which makes the image so clear and so striking. Oddly, the left arm, resting on the floor, does not cast a shadow – but that is presumably to simplify the composition. It also helps to draw a parallel with the image propped up on the right: Nicholson’s left arm reaches out behind him, and rests on the floor, in a similar way to the figure in the print marked ‘D’, whose right arm reaches forward and rests on a stick. There is some form of symmetry, or echo, between these two figures, which implies that the selection of this print is relevant to the interpretation of the image as a whole. The flesh tones of Nicholson’s arms may have a pink wash, but I might be imagining that – or it might have faded. However, the clothing of the figure in the print on the floor is coloured red.

The print of ‘P’, like ‘A’, has a grey-beige floor and plain black background. We’ll see below what these images were, and consider what relevance they have to Nicholson himself. However, what most intrigues me is the choice of the word ‘was’ in the caption, A was an Artist. What was Nicholson thinking? Why not A is an Artist? He was only just starting his career, after all. He was 25 when this print was published, with another 52 years to live (not that he was to know that). Is it a sign of insecurity, not knowing if he could make it on his own without the help of James Pryde (on whom he has, nevertheless, turned his back, and who he has imagined as a beggar)? Or is it the opposite? Maybe Nicholson had supreme confidence in his legacy, and knew that people would still be looking at this woodcut in the future – as indeed we are in 2026. The print reminds us that we are looking at a portrait of an artist who was working in the past, and a self portrait, at that. As such he could have used the image to illustrate a different letter: I was an Artist. This works as a statement, even if it doesn’t function in the standard terms of an Alphabetical sequence. W was an Artist would also make sense, as would N… Whatever the explanation, the phrase is strange, and it is the only print out of 26 in which he uses the word ‘was’. Elsewhere we have the format of B for Beggar, which is one of sixteen uses of the word ‘for’ on its own. There are eight examples of ‘is for’, and one where it is just the letter and the word (X Xylographer – a man cutting a woodblock). ‘A’, though, is where the alphabet starts, and where Nicholson starts – and where he all but suggests he is already finished!

I said above that these are ‘hand-coloured woodcuts’ – but what does that mean? Compare and contrast the next two images.

The one above is a detail from a version in the British Museum, while the other is a detail of the print in the UK Government Art Collection – the one in the exhibition that we have been looking at. I hope you can see that the basic composition, printed in black, is exactly the same: it was printed from the original block. However, the red colour on the print is applied differently. In the BM version (top) the red goes all the way down to the hem of the man’s garment, with a slightly darker brushstroke over the chest. The face is also consistently pink. In the Government print (bottom) there is less colour on the face, the paint does not go down to the hem, but does colour some of the sleeve over the right shoulder. They are, simply, hand-coloured: Nicholson took each individual black and white print, and added colour to the robes of the figure with a brush and watercolour paint. He also added a grey wash to the clothing of the self portrait and grey-beige to the floor. This technique was highly personal, making each print a unique ‘original’, but it was enormously time-consuming. When the sequence was re-released, it was reproduced via lithography: the edition was more consistent, and cheaper to produce.  

But what are the two prints he appears to be selling? And how relevant were they to his personal life, and his career as an artist?

D is for Dandy would turn out to be entirely relevant. One of the aspects of Nicholson’s life and creativity that the exhibition explores – and which I will touch on this Monday – is his self-presentation. Like many artists, he was one of his own best creations, and was always dressed to the nines, whether formally in public, or informally at home – his dressing gown was notorious! He also loved the precise shade of yellow which this Dandy is wearing. Not only did he use it in the costume designs for one of Noël Coward’s earliest plays, but he also had a favourite waistcoat in this shade: in a family portrait by William Orpen (which is in the exhibition) he is wearing it underneath the dressing gown…

Notice how, being a print, in A was an Artist the pose of the Dandy is reversed, a mirror image of the original. However, he has made sure that the letter ‘D’ is the right way round, and appears at the bottom left of the image, as it does in the original – it is a deliberate choice to make sure that the ‘D’ is seen – a confirmation that the identification of the subject is relevant. Unlike ‘A’, D is for Dandy has a white background and floor, with a single thin line for the horizon. Nicholson omits this line in the version seen in A was an Artist, presumably for simplicity’s sake.

There are minor variations in P for Publican. The long, sleeveless coat is maroon, rather than the reddish pink used in Artist, and the front panel of the coat is completely and consistently coloured. Although the image is reversed (with a simplified, and shorter, pipe), he has made sure we can read the ‘P’, but has left it in the bottom right, its position in a mirror image. While the choice of this character alongside his self portrait might appear strange, it is – surprisingly perhaps – another autobiographical reference. When he married Mable Pryde in 1893 it was without her parents’ permission, or even knowledge. They eloped, married in Ruislip, and went to live in a former public house, the Eight Bells in Denham, Buckinghamshire. Shortly afterwards James Pryde came to visit for a couple of weeks – but stayed for a couple of years. They were, indeed, at home in the pub. Or, put another way, they were the publicans…

As it turns out, the basic elements of this composition would serve Nicholson well. In several of his still life paintings, and at least one portrait, the main subject rings out against a profoundly black background. The difference with the later works – as we will see on Monday – is that these subjects are brilliantly detailed, almost mesmerically so. However, the flashing, flashy highlights we can see in the slicked-back hair of this print have their own life in Williamson’s virtuosic application of oil paint which became a hallmark of his portraits and still life paintings. A was an Artist who started as a printmaker.

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Freudian (time) slip

Lucian Freud, Painter and Model, 1986-7. Private Collection.

When I first published this post I suggested that it was an unacknowledged sign of ageing that I am increasingly aware of a succession of artists’ retrospectives. For example, there was the exhibition to celebrate Lucian Freud’s 80th Birthday at the then relatively-recently renamed Tate Britain in 2002. Or the 90th Anniversary exhibition in 2012, the year after his death, at the National Portrait Gallery. Then it was the celebration of the centenary of his birth at The National Gallery in 2022… Nevertheless, with each iteration I have seen something new, and something which has come as a surprise. This time, it is the extent and variety of his works on paper – I had no idea that he drew so much. I will talk about this more thoroughly this Monday 23 February at 6pm when I introduce the exhibition Lucian Freud: Drawing into Painting which has just opened at the National Portrait Gallery. Yes! They are having another Freud exhibition, so soon after the last one! However, the ‘last one’ at the NPG was 14 years ago. How does that happen?!

The week after (2 March) I will talk about William Nicholson, whose career spanned numerous genres and techniques. I always used to think of him as the overly ‘Academic’ father of arch-modernist, and leader of the St Ives School, Ben. However, he was far more than that, as the current exhibition at the Pallant House Gallery in Chichester shows – but then, their exhibitions are always superb. I will return to Sweden for Anders Zorn (Part II) on 16 March. The talk will make perfect sense for anyone who wasn’t able to join me for Part I. There will be many superb paintings from across his career – a result of the way that the exhibition was structured in Hamburg – and there will be plenty more luscious colour and effortless brushstrokes to enjoy, not to mention some even more spectacular painting, for those who did see Part 1. This will be followed on 23 March by a second visit (this year) to The Courtauld, to see what promises to be a truly sparkling exhibition exploring the relationship between Seurat and the Sea. A while back I had suggested a third talk about a Courtauld exhibition, but I’ve decided that it would be a better idea to see the exhibition in question before deciding if it would be a good idea – so keep your eyes on the diary for more information.

If you missed my talk on the Wallace’s exhibition Caravaggio’s Cupid I have recently given an expanded version as a study evening for ARTscapades, and as they have the facilities to record their talks (unlike me) you can catch up with the recording if you book on that link. Today, though, I want to re-post my thoughts about a painting in which an artist gets to grips with the nature of painting itself.

Called Painter and Model, we see a woman standing on the left wearing a brick-red painting smock, covered in paint, and holding a paintbrush between both hands. She is effectively in profile, looking down towards the bottom right corner of the painting, with her pale face standing out against a dark wardrobe which occupies the back left corner of the space. On the right is a battered leather sofa, the colour of which is strikingly similar to the woman’s smock. Lying on it, on his back, is a naked man. If her head is framed by the wardrobe, his is placed against the far arm of the sofa, and is seen full face, rather than in profile. Binaries, and contrasts, are always an important aspect of Freud’s work. The man’s left forearm lies along the back of the sofa, while the right rests on the seat, with the hand just sticking over the edge. His right leg, extended, stretches down so that the heel of his right foot is resting on the floor. The lower half of this leg, and the foot, cast intense, dark shadows on the meticulously detailed floorboards. His left leg is bent, and leans against the back of the sofa. His left foot is tucked up behind the near arm, and can’t be seen. Lying on the floor in the foreground is some of the paraphernalia of painting – tubes of paint, and paintbrushes of different sizes. The walls are in an appalling state of repair – painted yellow, but re-plastered with pink plaster, which has not yet been repainted. However, it still seems to be showing signs of damp, presumably the initial cause of the repairs. A blind has been pulled down over the window, and crumples untidily as if in need of replacement itself. The top of the walls are deep in shadow, but brightly illuminated further down, with the boundaries marked by uneven half shadows, probably cast by an uneven lampshade.

Lucian Freud was renowned for making what might seem to be unreasonable demands of his models. Once his career was established, he became a man of habit, and would paint regularly, either during the day, in natural daylight, or after nightfall, in artificial light. This is clearly a night-time painting – the stark shadows tell us as much. He would work on more than one painting at a time, with the daytime models making way for those arriving in the evening. They would return every day at the allotted time for weeks or months, or even, in some cases, for years. In order for him to discover something ‘unexpected’ and create something new, he would often pose the models in unusual positions, or in surprising relationships to one another. It might seem that he was being entirely controlling, making the models obey his whim. And yet, of course, they didn’t have to be there. Often they were friends or family, but above all, they were people in whom he was interested. If he wasn’t interested, he couldn’t paint. Nevertheless, as a substantial number of his models were women, and, moreover, women who were naked, he was sometimes criticized as a voyeur. I’m sure this painting was intended to confront this claim, as it turns the idea of ‘the male gaze’ on its head.

In terms of the title, Painter and Model, it is surely clear which is which. The woman on the left is the painter, the naked man is the model. In this one bold gesture Freud manages to subvert the whole history of the Western European nude, in which, we imagine, a fully clothed man paints a naked woman, and in the process, he objectifies her. In this painting it is the man who becomes the object, subject to the whim of the female artist. She is standing, upright and secure, whereas he is supine, passive and vulnerable – apparently a complete reversal of gender stereotypes. Of course, it’s a little bit more nuanced than that. Or, to put it in other words, it’s nowhere near that simple. I’m intrigued, for example, that the painting is called Painter and Model rather than Artist and Model, but paint is clearly of the essence. And, whether Painter or Artist, is the woman really the one who is in control? One of the problems for women over the course of Western European Art History was the nature of the female gaze, because, quite simply, it wasn’t allowed. ‘It’s rude to stare’, as I’m sure many of you were told by your parents, and it was particularly rude for women to stare. You were supposed to stand with your hands politely held in front of you, and look modestly down. And if you’re looking ‘modestly down’ all the time, then you can’t look at things to paint them. Women weren’t allowed into life drawing classes until the 20th Century (on the whole): for them to look at a naked man was considered to be inappropriate. But in this painting we see Freud reconsidering the whole issue. Or do we? Maybe we should have another look at the painting. Even in this detail, although more pointedly if we look at the whole image (above and below), it becomes clear that the woman is standing in precisely that appropriately ‘modest’ feminine way, hands held in front of her body, and her face looking down towards the floor. She is not staring at the man, not even gazing at him, despite his unabashed nudity. Indeed, the male gaze is still fully active, but it is the naked model in the painting – the man – who is gazing – even staring – at us. The model seems to be more in command, and more commanding, than the painter.

It becomes more complex when you realise that, given the title of the painting, the woman on the left is both painter and model. Although she holds a paintbrush, she is modelling for Freud as a painter. And she is painted – in more ways than one. First, she is one of the subjects of the painting, one of the models that Freud has painted, but second, her smock is covered in paint. She appears to have used the fabric to clean her brushes in between different brushstrokes, as Freud used to, either on the walls of the studio or using the rags which can often be seen lying on the floor in the background of his paintings. So, Freud has painted her, and she has ‘painted’ herself. Look again, and you will see her smock covered with the same yellow as is used for the walls, the light greys of the damp and of the window frame, and the darker shades of the wardrobe and of the shadowed areas of the sofa, with the smock itself more or less the colour of the sofa. Indeed, the smock is effectively Freud’s palette, an inchoate mass of paint which is surely not unlike whatever palette he used to form this image.

We add yet another layer of complexity when we realise that both models were also artists. On the right is Angus Cook – described as ‘model and artist’ in the National’s 2022 exhibition, or ‘artist and filmmaker’ at the NPG currently, although I can find little about his work online. One source describes him as a poet, and there are also some of his texts about art. Above all, he was part of a nexus of friends and lovers, several of whom feature in Freud’s work. On the left is Celia Paul, a respected artist in her own right. She came to Freud’s attention as a student at the Slade School of Fine Art, where he was a visiting tutor. They went on to have a ten-year relationship, with Paul often modelling for Freud, as she does here.

In the bottom half of the painting we can see five feet – three human, two sofa. It’s a sort of game, and one that Freud played in different ways in different works. Each foot has a different relationship to the floor (and Freud was always interested in relationships). The two carved wooden feet are connected by the sharp line of shadow cast by the edge of the sofa which, together with the glints of light on the curving bulges of these feet, reminds us that this was a night-time painting. Cook’s right heel rests on the floor, while his left foot remains unseen. Paul’s two feet, on the other hand(!), are firmly and securely planted, the toes turned out a little from the heels. And yet, how secure are they?  A curious detail suggests that something might be awry.

Whose paints are these? Stop and think about it: have you seen an easel, or even a canvas? If Paul is the painter, what is she painting, and where, exactly, is the painting itself? Or is she just posing as a painter, for Freud? Are these her paints or his? And look – her right foot is planted on one end of a tube of paint. A tube of green paint. You can see that: the lid was not put back on the tube, and some of the green paint (more brightly coloured in the original than in this reproduction) is squeezing out. Am I wrong in seeing some form of sexual connotation here? Would I be right in going so far as to say that it seems a little bit, well, Freudian?

In case you didn’t know, Sigmund was Lucian’s grandfather. This must have had an impact on the boy, but more so on the student, and, as he came to a fuller understanding of the world, and of the significance of his grandfather’s work, on the adult artist. Both spent a lifetime analysing people lying on couches, for one thing. On Monday we might just find that there were other things that they had in common.

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268 – Martini, shaken… and stirred

Simone Martini, St John the Evangelist, 1320. The Barber Institute of Fine Arts, Birmingham.

I’m really looking forward to talking about The Barber in London this Monday, 9 February at 6pm and I can’t wait to go back to the museum itself. The Barber Institute is part of the University of Birmingham, and I’ve only actually visited once, but it does have the most fantastic collection. However, there is no point going there now, as the building is being renovated, which is why some of the best paintings are currently on loan to The Courtauld. There aren’t a huge number, so we should be able to look at each one in some depth. However, there are paintings by Bellini, Gossaert, Hals, Rubens, Van Dyck, Poussin, Claude, Vigée Le Brun, Reynolds, Turner, Whistler and Monet – among others – so there will be more than enough to see!

I will then talk about two British artists who both painted portraits – although I think that the first, Lucien Freud, who I will look at on 23 February, was really only interested in portraiture to the extent that a face was part of a human being as a whole. The current exhibition of his work– at the National Portrait Gallery – is called Drawing into Painting, and is the first to focus on works on paper. The following week, 2 March, I will turn to William Nicholson, who started life as a printmaker, became successful as a portraitist, and today is best known (perhaps) for creating some of the most exquisite Still Life paintings of the 20th century. His work can currently be seen in a superb exhibition at the Pallant House Gallery in Chichester.

If you weren’t able to make last Monday’s talk, my enjoyment of the Anders Zorn exhibition in Hamburg – which will open soon in Madrid – was such that I gathered enough material to put together two talks. I am hoping to deliver the second, covering the most spectacular portraiture, etchings, the nude and Zorn’s homeland, on 16 March, but I’ll have to wait for a few things to settle down before I can be sure of that – so keep your eye on the diary. I’m hoping that subsequent talks will include Seurat and the Sea, Michaelina Waultier, Tracey Emin and possibly even an introduction to the Canaletto and Bellotto exhibition in Vienna… but more on them soon.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, please let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do it then than 5 minutes before the talk! You should also get two reminders, at 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

Today, though, I want to look at a painting from The Barber Institute which is not currently at The Courtauld. However, it’s not far away: it’s in the Sainsbury Wing, at the other end of The Strand, in Room 58 of The National Gallery. It travelled to London for the Siena exhibition, which ended on 22 June 2025, and has yet to return to it’s Birmingham home… It probably won’t get there before 28 June 2026, though, as that is when The Courtauld’s exhibition ends.

At some point during last year’s Siena exhibition at the National Gallery I was talking about Simone Martini, and mentioned today’s painting – one of the treasures of the Barber Institute in Birmingham – and the next comment, from someone else, was that it wasn’t an especially significant example of his work … or words to that effect. When I wrote about Simone Martini before (last February, as it happens – see 243 – Our most delightful Simone) I started by saying how, as an undergraduate, I and my fellow students held Simone in the highest regard. I wanted to write about this painting today to explain why, however ‘significant’ or otherwise it is, it is still a remarkably beautiful image, and also why, even if there doesn’t appear to be much to say there is still a lot to see, a lot that we can still enjoy, if we slow down and take the time. Yes, it is a relatively simple painting, a single male figure, half length, wearing a blue robe and red mantel, with his hands clasped – but that’s not all it is. That someone has considered it to be significant at some stage in its history is demonstrated by the fact that, framed as it is, it has also been set within an outer, black ‘box’ frame that is lined with red/pink velvet – matching, more or less, the figure’s mantel – which makes the painting itself ring out like a valued jewel mounted in a well-crafted, but not obtrusive, setting.

As originally painted it had – and still has – an engaged frame. Either the flat wooden panel and surrounding frame were carved from a single piece of wood, or the frame was fitted to the panel before the painting began. The whole surface – panel and frame – would have been sealed with size, a fish-based glue, and then covered with a fine linen fabric, the weave of which can be seen on the outer, flat element of the frame where the subsequent layers have worn away. This would have been coated with several layers of gesso, made from gypsum (calcium sulphate), a bit like plastering a wall to create the smoothest of surfaces on which to paint. The initial design would have been drawn onto the white surface, and then the whole frame and all of the background – the areas which were to be gilded – would then have been painted with bole, a red, clay-based paint. This would enhance the orange colour of the gold leaf, which was then applied, burnished, and tooled (patterned with small metal shapes tapped lightly onto the surface with a tiny hammer). This whole process means that the frame is firmly attached to the painting, and the surface of the gold is continuous from one to the other. However, on the left-hand side there are holes in the frame (which you can’t see in this photo, as they are on the side) telling us that this panel was originally attached to another with hinges: this man is looking to our left towards an adjacent figure in what is generally assumed to have been a triptych, or three-panelled painting.

The subject has a halo, so is a saint, and is clean-shaven – the most common way of suggesting that a man was young. Wearing a pinkish-red over blue, the most likely identification is St John the Evangelist, always said to be the youngest of the apostles, and no one has ever doubted this identification. But why would we assume this was part of a triptych, rather than just a diptych? Quite simply, because of his attitude, or mood – one of intense, but suppressed, grief, lamenting the death of Jesus, who was presumably depicted in the panel to the left of this one. At the far left, in the third panel, would have been the Virgin Mary. I can’t find an equivalent as a triptych, but overall the effect would have been similar to the following painting from the Brera in Milan by Giovanni Bellini, dating from about 1460.

The other two panels by Simone Martini – showing Mary and Jesus – have never been located, but then it is surprising that anything has survived from 1320, over 700 years ago. Even this panel shows signs of damage, particularly around the frame – hence the fact that we can see the linen weave, not to mention a number of dents and cracks. Nevertheless, it is still possible to see that the gilding on the frame was itself tooled with a series of circles and dots of different sizes. The flat gold background is also tooled, and is framed by bands containing quatrefoils (four-leafed shapes) which are themselves built up from leaves and flowers surrounded by small circles. St John’s halo appears to sit in front of the tooled frame. However flat we might consider gold ground paintings to be, Martini creates space behind the Saint. The frame is three dimensional, but then if the halo is in front of the tooled framing, and St John’s head is in front of that, then he is being pushed into our space, thus making him look three dimensional, a real presence, standing just in front of us and worthy of our devotion.

The halo is a circular band slightly wider than the tooled frame of the background, and contains similar quatrefoils as well as larger leaf shapes, or hearts. The inner circle of the halo is just wider than St John’s head, which would therefore originally have been encircled by a thin band of flat, burnished gold. Sadly, much of this has been worn away, with the result that in places we can see the reddish bole which would originally have been under the gold. This additional framing element would have helped to make the head stand out just that little bit more – remembering that, as well as patterning the surface, the tooling was also designed to reflect flickering candlelight: the halo itself would have flickered around the more evenly illuminated head. When seen this close we realise how carefully Martini has controlled the level of John’s grief. The brow is just slightly furrowed, the eyelids narrowed (as they always are with Simone), and the eyes looking out of the far corners – as if he cannot bear to look at the dead Christ full on, but has his head turned slightly away. The mouth is also puckered, tight together at the centre but parted on either side, trying to keep his mouth closed, but on the verge of giving way to intense sobbing. However, as the ‘collar’ of his mantle falls around his neck it casts shadows. The deep red space that this creates is like a gash, suggesting a crying mouth, or open wound. The hem of the garment is folded over, revealing an intricate pattern in mordant gilding (gold leaf which has been stuck on top of the paint). The top of this band corresponds to the level of the Saint’s mouth, and the lower edge to the base of his head: every detail has been carefully planned and precisely measured.

The tooled frame of the gold background continues down either side, but does not get to the bottom of the image, which is crossed by what appears to be a parapet with an inscription on it. However, this parapet is not as deep as the tooling is wide: I get the feeling that the tooling is ‘supposed’ to continue to the ground, framing the full length of the standing figure, it’s just that we can’t see it because the parapet gets in the way, and anyway, the painting doesn’t go that far down. The tooling can barely be seen on the right of the painting, and is hidden by John’s right elbow (on our left), where the mantel loops around the blue sleeve.

The parapet itself is marbled – it is clearly supposed to be made of stone. The parallel with the Bellini example is coincidental, but may have a common meaning. Bizarrely perhaps, in the Bellini, the Virgin and St John appear to be standing inside Christ’s sarcophagus, the top of the edge of which can be seen far more than the very thin strip at the front. However, there is still space for an inscription, an elaborate, but stirring, signature: “When these swelling eyes evoke groans, this work of Giovanni Bellini could shed tears”. Simone Martini, on the other hand, has simply written “Anno Dni MCCCXX” – ‘the year of Our Lord 1320’. But then, there were two other panels which could have include his name… and potentially something else. I’m intrigued that St John stands behind this parapet though. Does it imply that he and the Virgin were conceived as being in the sarcophagus, as they are in the Bellini? Or does it relate more to the later tendency, in portrait paintings by Jan van Eyck among others, to show their subject behind a similar structure. Parapets like this work in a contradictory fashion, both separating us from the subject, but also forming a bridge towards them. Practically speaking, it also justifies the half-length image: what is the point of painting the legs if they are behind a parapet? Were images like today’s painting the origin for the use of such structures in early Renaissance portraiture? I’ll have to keep thinking about that!

Simone does make the draperies unnecessarily complicated – although that only adds to my enjoyment of the painting. I love the way that the curve of the mantel around the elbow echoes the equivalent curve of the blue sleeve, and also how the sleeve parallels the continuation of the hem of the mantle from left to right as it emerges from behind the sleeve. I’m also intrigued by the way in which John’s right sleeve has been rolled up. We see the left sleeve (on our right) at full length. There is a deep shadow within the opening, framed just to our left by the vertical fall of the mantel, which also casts shadow. On our left, the right sleeve has been folded back, and then back out again, thus revealing the top of the embroidered gold band.

Great care has been spent on the interleaving fingers which create arcs curving from right to left and then back again, almost like a bridge going over the hands. Martini has even tried to show the thumb of John’s right hand, and even if this is not entirely successful, no one else at the time was getting this close to a naturalistic depiction of hands. There is something about the rhythmic play of the fingers, the different ways in which they overlap, and the arching backwards and forwards, that expresses to me the movement inherent in the wringing of hands. They sit neatly against the blue background, while the right arm, bent at the wrist, also echoes the upward curve of the lining of the red mantel, which appears to be marginally lighter than the outer side. This detail somehow captures the reflection of light from the gilding of the hems rather beautifully, hinting at the magical effect that illumination by flickering candlelight in a dark setting must have created. At John’s left wrist the gold embroidered hems of both the blue sleeve and red mantel emerge from behind the arm at the same point. While the embroidery on the blue sleeve is fully visible as it falls, that on the red mantel flares out and folds back, with the hem undulating to the bottom of the painting. Meanwhile, the very edge of the mantel continues upwards from the same point behind the wrist. I find all of these delicate coincidences, the echoes, the concentric curves and flowing folds astonishingly beautiful – and remarkably expressive.

The hem of the mantle is mapped carefully as it rises in front of the chest and then falls again just below the level of the shoulder. The lighter lining is delicately trimmed by one edge of the embroidered gold, defining its journey around the upper arm in broken curves with a nervy, tentative quality. In a few places the ‘outside’ of the mantel is partially revealed, with different widths of the embroidered gold band becoming visible, glowing out of the darker shadows to our right of the figure. Most of the tooled frame of the background is hidden here, and there is even the suggestion, at one point, that the mantel has actually fallen outside the frame, and so into our space. St John is present, in front of us. Originally, the Virgin would have joined him in lamentation over the dead Christ, in front of whom we must imagine ourselves standing. John is undoubtedly shaken by everything that has gone before, his emotions are stirred, but under control. Nevertheless, the depth of his feelings are made clear in the subtle turn of his head, the angle of his eyes, the pursing of his lips and the delicate, detailed sensitivity of the fall of light and shade, and in the flow of every line. I’ve quoted from the opening speech of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night more than once recently, and I’m going to do so again – but not the first line, this time. I’m more interested in the fourth today: That strain again! it had a dying fall… Orsino is talking about the emotive power of music, but I’m seeing that ‘dying fall’ in every line of this painting. It is a wonder. I am so glad that it can currently be seen at the National Gallery, an introduction, at some remove, to the rest of The Barber in London.

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267 – From A – Z: All about Zorn

267 – From A – Z: All about Zorn

Anders Zorn, Zorn’s London Studio on Brook Street, 1883. Zornmuseet, Mora.

I would love to say that I planned this, but I really didn’t. Last week I was talking about Anna Ancher, who was born on 18 August 1859, and this week I’m moving on exactly 6 months, to Anders Zorn, born on 18 February 1860. Both Scandinavian, they were born far from the capital of their respective countries, Denmark and Sweden, but both trained in the capitals – Copenhagen and Stockholm – and both travelled widely… though few travelled as widely as Zorn. So today I’ve called the post ‘A – Z’, which you can read as Ancher to Zorn, or simply as the latter’s initials. This would make sense, given that I’m writing about a painting that, despite its female protagonist, is really all about Zorn. This Monday, 2 February at 6pm I will talk about the exhibition of his work that I saw in Hamburg a couple of weeks ago, which unfortunately has just closed. However, it is transferring to Madrid (19 February – 17 May) in what I believe will be substantially the same form, although with the addition of a subtitle: Anders Zorn – Travelling the World, Remembering the Land. If you like John Singer Sargent and/or Joaquín Sorolla I really recommend that you join me: Zorn’s work is every bit as colourful, exuberant, and painterly as theirs, and sits in the same area of ‘Realism influenced by Impressionism’ that they – and Anna Ancher – all inhabit. The following week, 9 February, I will look at The Barber in London, the paintings from the Barber Institute in Birmingham which, thanks to the refurbishment of their usual home, are currently on display at The Courtauld. The Barber really does have an astonishing array of masterpieces, including paintings I love by artists I don’t always like.

I’m then going to turn to two British artists who are often associated with portraiture, even though this was only really a minor interest. The first is Lucien Freud, who is being celebrated at the National Portrait Gallery with Drawing into Painting, the first exhibition to focus on his works on paper. I’ll introduce that exhibition on 23 February, and then on 2 March I will turn to William Nicholson. His work can currently be seen at the Pallant House Gallery in Chichester in the next of their superb series of exhibitions looking afresh at unjustly neglected British artists.

I’m entirely convinced that Anders Zorn was one of those artists who not only loved what he did, and never took a break, but who always knew exactly how to present himself. The result of this was that, from the very beginning of his career, people took him entirely seriously. Born in Mora, a little over 300km northwest of Stockholm, he studied at the Royal Swedish Academy of the Arts from 1875 – when he was only 15 – until 1880. He arrived intending to study sculpture, but before long switched to a focus on watercolour, at which he excelled – as we shall see on Monday.

At the Academy’s annual exhibition in 1880 he exhibited a watercolour called In Mourning to great acclaim, and he built on this success by producing several versions of the same subject in the following years. Along with the acclaim, the painting also brought numerous portrait commissions from local wealthy families. However, not satisfied with success at home, he decided to try the international market, and headed to London in 1882. This could so easily be the story of an ambitious young artist (he was still only 22) starving in a garret, but it really isn’t – far from it. He got in touch with the Swedish Embassy to be assured of some good contacts, and after a few months in Richmond, he took an apartment in Brook Street in the heart of Mayfair. He also ordered expensive suits, tasteful calling cards and quality furniture, setting himself up with all the appearance of a successful artist, even if he hadn’t yet had the time for a career. By doing this, though, he was able to present himself as exactly the right, classy, artistic outsider that the great and the good of London would seek out in order to be portrayed. He might have chosen Paris, which was considered the ‘centre of the art world’ at the end of the 19th Century, but he headed to London because it was in England that watercolour first became a Fine Art rather than just a desirable accomplishment for amateurs – thanks to Turner as much as anyone – and he wanted to hone his craft. It is Zorn’s position in London that is celebrated in today’s painting.

At first glance it might not appear to be about Zorn at all – even if we can assume, given the title (Zorn’s London Studio on Brook Street), that this woman has come to look at Zorn’s paintings. We could also assume that all the images in this room are by the Swedish artist – however, there is one exception. It is a well-appointed room – richly decorated with brick red walls and a fitted carpet patterned with brick red and black. We don’t see any of the ‘quality furniture’ I mentioned above, but there is a warm glow coming from the fire, so there is no economising on fuel. Given that the top of the frame of the highest exhibited painting is not visible, we can also tell that there is a high ceiling. This is a large room, warm and comfortably appointed: Zorn shows us that his lifestyle is very far from the romantic idea of a starving young artist. He also shows us how productive he is. Even in this corner of the room nine of his works can be seen, framed or unframed, on the wall or on the floor. A fashionably-dressed woman, clad in black, has arrived to look at the work, and is standing with her back to us, looking to her right so we just see her face, her gaze encouraging us too to look at the pictures on display – she is, effectively, a repoussoir.

These are all details from photos I took in Hamburg, and sometimes the lighting is not ideal. In places you can see light reflecting off the textured oil paint. Details like this are a reminder that, despite being a two dimensional art form, a painting is, in itself, a solid, three dimensional object. This fact is often disguised by official, ‘professional’ photographs. Although Zorn truly was a master of watercolour, the art-loving public would expect to see oil paintings from any self-respecting master. However, this is oil on wood – an oddly old-fashioned support for the 19th century – and this might reflect Zorn’s relative inexperience with the oil medium. Wood provides a harder, less flexible surface, and so it can be useful for painting small details: this isn’t a large work (38.9 x 29.6 cm).

The woman wears a black hat with a very broad maroon ribbon wrapped around it – or a headdress that is mainly built up from this ribbon (…I’m not a milliner!). Her head is beautifully framed by a painting in a flat, broad, gilded frame, and painted sky can be seen around her hat. The ‘profil perdu’ – or lost profile – stands out brightly against what is probably dark vegetation in one of Zorn’s many early landscapes. The visiting woman is looking at a painting of another woman, who also wears a black dress, but with a large white collar, almost like a ruff. This painting is not framed, and two white dots in the top left and right corners tell us that it is a watercolour, on paper, which is pinned to the wall. Two other images have been placed over it. The bottom left corner is covered by another broad, flat, rectangular frame, containing an image of a young man (probably…) looking down. The top right of the watercolour has a Japanese fan (… or at least a Japanese-style fan) propped in front of it. This is the one image I mentioned that is not by Zorn. It shows him to be a member of the avant garde: artists such as Whistler, and others in the Aesthetic Movement, who were strongly influenced by Japanese art. The peacock feathers which are in front of what I assume is a mirror are another feature connecting Zorn to the latest trends in British art: the Aesthetes would swoon.

Sitting on the mantelpiece is a small white box with a red ribbon: little flashes of red like this are almost a signature motif for Zorn. If we tone this colour down to the maroon of the woman’s hat, we can see the same colour echoed across the painting. It is used on the fan, in the watercolour (between the woman’s wasp waist and her arm), and in the painting on the far left. It isn’t that different to the brick red colour of the wall, all of which adds to the sense of a warm, harmonious setting. At the top of the painting is an oval image in a flat, gold frame. It shows a veiled woman looking down to our left. Anyone who knew Zorn’s work – or his reputation – would have heard about this painting. You have too: I mentioned it above.

In the lower half, there is another watercolour pinned to the wall. As far as I can see it shows two women walking arm in arm, the one on our left wearing a long lavender-taupe skirt, and on our right a long black dress and a broad, pale-coloured hat. She may also have a furled umbrella over her arm… Light comes into the studio from a window behind us, to the right, and casts the visiting woman’s shadow onto the patterned carpet – the pattern built up over black with short, painterly strokes of the brick red paint. The woman’s outfit includes a cinched black jacket, which falls below the hips, vented at the back. There are two yellow buttons at the top of the vent, one side of which is turned back to reveal a yellow lining. The skirt is gathered beneath a form of tail, which hangs down below a bustle, and there are two more layers of the skirt further down (and yes, I know as little about describing dresses as I do about hats). The painting of the young man appears to look down towards the fire, and beneath it is a narrow, portrait-format painting which is probably also a watercolour. It has a broad, olive-coloured mount (usually used for works on paper) and a narrow frame, and, judging by the sheens of pale paint which cover the surface, it is also glazed. The greens and yellows in this painting – together with a splash of red – suggest that it is an image of a garden. There are some fire irons lying on the floor in front of this framed, glazed watercolour, and they lead our eye into the room from the bottom right corner of the painting. The glow of the fire, illuminating the interior of the fireplace and the edge of the mantel, is a deliberate contrast with the daylight shining into the room. The framed watercolour, resting on the floor, casts a shadow on the wall. I think Zorn is showing off his ability to paint different types of light, even in these small details.

The painting at the top that I said people would have known about is none other than In Mourning, the watercolour that made Zorn’s name at the Royal Swedish Academy of the Arts in 1880. The one depicted in the studio is presumably one of the later versions which he is using as a form of calling card in London. The version on the right is the one I saw in Hamburg – the original – which now belongs to the Nationalmuseum in Stockholm. What won people over was the extreme delicacy of the depiction – both in terms of technique and emotional involvement. Particularly admired was the transparency of the veil: extraordinary skill for someone who was only just graduating. Zorn’s ability to articulate the subject’s neck is also commendable. Not only is her head tilted to her left, but also twisted round towards us slightly. As a result, as she looks down, she appears to be looking at the ground in between us and her – a modest, averted gaze meant to disguise the extremity of her loss, but which, artistically speaking, also encourages empathy in the viewer. The gossamer collar is another remarkably virtuosic detail, while the broad wash of colour, in bold strokes at the bottom left, is a clear reminder that this is a painting – a performance of skill. For his whole career Zorn’s paintings are always performative: he is always reminding you precisely how brilliant he is, although in an entirely charming way.

However, the idea that the woman In Mourning is looking at the floor in between us is determined by the context, when we are only looking at her. Where does she appear to be looking when hung high on the wall in Zorn’s studio?

I am entirely convinced that he has set up a trail, a series of shared glances to lead our eye around the painting. In the small oil version we cannot see the position of the mourning woman’s eyes, but the position of her head suggests that she is looking towards the painting below her to the left. There are flashes of red and yellow in this latter painting, which make me think that it is one of the images painted during his first visit to Spain at the age of 21. It appears to show a woman looking to our right – so effectively towards the visitor in the studio. The visitor is also looking to our right, at the woman with the large white collar in the watercolour, who is looking down. It’s not just the visitor looking at her: the figure in the Japanese fan is facing to our left, and so also looking at the woman with the white collar. The latter’s neck is strongly tilted downwards, as are her eyes – as if she were looking towards her feet.

In the broader context she could even be looking at the painting below her – as could the young man in the small, framed image, who I previously suggested was looking towards the fire. If we follow their gazes we can see another face – but it isn’t a face in a painting: it appears in front of the olive mount, and so must be one of the reflections in the glass.

It is, in fact, a full-length reflection of a man in a dark suit with a white collar. His hair is dark, and his eyes are seen as pools of dark shadow. The edge of his nose catches the light, but his mouth also appears to be shadowed: it looks like he has a moustache – as Zorn did. Half-way down the right-hand edge of the garden scene we can see the reflection of a hand and a bright flash of white cuff. Who else could it be but Anders Zorn, watching over the visitor’s shoulder, offering information and advice, on hand to take a commission to make her look just like the woman with the large white collar? The fire irons lead our eyes into the painting, yes, but specifically they lead us to the glazed image bearing the reflection of the artist, a self portrait which is effectively looking out towards us. The fire irons lead us to his image, and they are balanced in the bottom left hand corner by his name, the signature on the patterned carpet. This really is all about Zorn – his studio, his works, his image, his name… his visitor.

His technique is superb, his understanding of the craft unparallelled, and his ability to promote himself, frankly, second to none. If In Mourning was the starting point of his career – the ‘A’, if you like, then ‘B’ is for Brook Street. On Monday we will see the rest of the journey, taking us all the way to the ‘Z’ for Zorn.   

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266 – A Room of One’s Own

Anna Ancher, Evening Sun in the Artist’s Studio at Markvej, after 1913. Skagens Museum, Skagen, Denmark.

Over the next two weeks I will be giving two talks about Scandinavian artists. This Monday, 26 January I’m starting with Anna Ancher, the wonderful but relatively little-known (as far as the UK public is concerned) Danish artist. Her exhibition is on at the Dulwich Picture Gallery until 8 March, and so still accessible to many of you. The following week, Monday, 2 February I will talk about Anders Zorn, whose work I have just seen in Hamburg. The exhibition I visited closes this Sunday, which doesn’t give you much notice. However, it is travelling to Madrid, so if you like what you see – which I’m sure you will, if you like either John Singer Sargent or Joaquín Sorolla – you will have several months to get there (19 February to 17 May). A week later (9 February) I will introduce The Barber in London– the selection of masterpieces from the Barber Institute in Birmingham which are currently on loan to The Courtauld. Further events will be listed in the diary as soon as I have pinned them down, but should include introductions to the National Portrait Gallery exhibition Lucien Freud: Drawing into Painting on 23 February and to the William Nicholson exhibition at the Pallant House Gallery in Chichester on 2 March.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do it then than 5 minutes before the talk! You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

One of the glorious things about the paintings of Anna Ancher is that they are so simple, so straightforward, and so easy to understand. And yet there is nothing banal about them: she got to the heart of a scene and saw the beautiful in the everyday. Admittedly this particular painting is not entirely typical of her work – but it does include many elements that are. It was never formally exhibited in her lifetime, and was only found, in her studio, after her death. This is why it is exhibited without a frame: the photograph shows it against the buttercup-yellow wall on which it is currently hung in Dulwich.

The painting is like a character study, preparatory for a more fully thought-out work, but it is the character study of a room, and of a specific time of day. It is an exploration of light at a particular moment, when, as the sun heads towards the horizon, light refracts across a tangent of the earth’s surface and only the orange wavelengths reaches us – or, in this case, reach the far side of the room opposite a casement window. The city of Bath, in the South-West of England, can look especially beautiful at this time of day. The orange light enhances the already-warm colour of the Bath Stone – a ‘honey-coloured oolitic limestone’ – from which most of the city is built. The glow is enhanced when seen against its complementary colour, the darkening blue of the sky. But that’s Bath, in England, and this is Denmark, and the very north of Denmark at that. This is ‘evening’, and in Skagen, where Ancher was born, where she grew up and where she worked, evening could come within a 7-hour range, according to the time of year. The sun sets at 15:30 in the depths of winter, and 22:23 at Midsummer, when the day is 10 ½ hours longer than it would be in December… but then, it’s only slightly further North than Aberdeen, in Scotland, or at about the same latitude as Sitka, Alaska…

Born Anna Kirstine Brøndum on 18 August 1859, her parents ran Brøndum’s Hotel in Skagen, a coastal town at the very Northern tip of Denmark which saw an influx of artists keen to explore the light of this coastal fishing colony. The 19th century saw many such ‘retreats’, including St Ives in Cornwall (visited by Anders Zorn, whose work we will enjoy next week). There was also Cullercoats, just North of Newcastle (frequented by the American Winslow Homer), and Staithes, in Yorkshire (where Laura Knight lived for a while) – and these are just the ones I’ve mentioned in my talks. I say ‘retreats’… They may have been a chance to get away for the artists, but for the local residents their remoteness, and the harsh climate they had to endure in order to eke out a living, was anything but a choice. For Skagen, it was a new phenomenon in the 1870s, with the first two artists staying at Brøndum’s Hotel in 1872. More came the following year, and in the summer of 1874, there was a young artist from the island of Bornholm, South East of Copenhagen: Michael Ancher. Anna was on the verge of turning 15, but the two bonded over art, with the older man offering tuition to the younger girl. They were engaged three years later, and married on Anna’s 21st birthday, 18 August 1880, at which point they moved into the Garden House of Brøndum’s Hotel. In 1884 they moved into a larger house in a street called Markvej, ‘Field Road’ or ‘Way’. Michael was extremely supportive of his wife’s career – they collaborated, and exchanged ideas (as we will see on Monday) – and yet she didn’t have her own studio until an extension to the Markvej property was built in 1913. This very studio is the subject of today’s painting: a room of her own (precisely what Virginia Woolfe said a woman needed to be a successful writer). Given that the extension was built in 1913, this painting is dated ‘after 1913’.

However, I do wonder if this is actually 1913 itself: the room is so tidy, to the extent of being empty. But then, Anna Ancher seems to have had a habit of putting things away. In the 1960s, when the Markvej house became a museum dedicated to the work of both Anna and Michael Ancher, thousands of sketches were discovered. Anna had, apparently, ‘hidden her oil studies away in drawers, cupboards and closets’, according to the catalogue of the exhibition. I’d be interested to know why the think the studies were ‘hidden away’ rather than just ‘put away’ – in order to be tidy… Either way, this sketch is not something Ancher had exhibited. Maybe she was just trying to capture this phenomenon, this effect of light, in order to be able to use it elsewhere, or maybe she was using the study as a tool to look more closely at the subtle variations of colour and light, and to practice her ability to paint them. Alternatively, she could have been worried that, as a painting in its own right, it might not have been received well – or even, understood – unpeopled as it is, and devoid of narrative. For its day, it is remarkably innovative, especially given the more conservative attitudes prevalent in Denmark at the time. Things have changed, though, and studies such as this are now key to our understanding of Anna Ancher’s work. And despite what I said, this room is not empty: it is full of light – and colour. And it is, of course, the colour of the light that affects everything else we see.

This is the very top of the painting, with the sunlight glowing somewhere between orange, amber and peach on the right-hand wall. We do not see the ceiling of the studio at all, and in the dim light of dusk, at the top of the painting the corner of the room cannot be distinguished. However, at roughly the same level as the top of the patches of orange light, the corner comes into sharp focus. The right-hand wall is slightly lighter, while the wall facing us takes on a marginally darker shade of lavender.

This differentiation in tone is even clearer if we look lower, seeing the full extent of the patches of sunlight. The darker area on the opposite wall reaches from the sharply-defined corner past irregular, diagonal strokes to bolder, horizontal marks. Gradually, as the contrast between the lit wall (on the right) and the wall in shadow becomes less significant, these get lighter: further from the corner the opposite wall is, of course, closer to the window itself.

If you have the opportunity to get even closer to the paint surface, the way in which the golden glow is established seems remarkable – even incredible. There are small, tentative dabs of the brush in subtly varied shades – orange, amber and peach I have suggested, but I would add salmon, terracotta and a deep buttercup yellow as well (although the perception, and naming, of colour is notoriously personal). The rectangles of light are only loosely defined, separated by sections of the apparently-lavender wall. However, the framework of the window itself, projecting the light and shade onto the wall, does not seem regular. This is presumably due to obstructions to the sunlight both inside and outside the room. There could be trees in the garden, and often – and we know this from other paintings which we will see on Monday – Ancher arranged plants on her window sills. The irregularity of the brushstrokes implies a sense of movement, though, as if the sun might be shining through leaves which are rustling in the breeze.

The furnishing of the studio is spare – although of course it could be that clutter has been cleared, and space has been created, simply to allow the artist to paint a study of space. However, the arrangement of objects looks spontaneous, rather than the controlled composition of so many still life paintings (you could, however, argue that this painting is exactly that: a Still Life). Two canvasses lean against the right wall in the back corner. The further one is built up with extreme economy of means – two vertical strokes of paint framing several loosely-applied horizontals. The nearer canvas has a cream-coloured frame, and a darker, taupe or mushroom-coloured surface – presumably a ground, as there is no visible imagery. The bottom of the frame stands away from the wall, and the canvas casts a triangle of shadow behind it – or rather, almost a triangle, as the wall has substantial wainscotting which affects the fall of the shadow. The contrast between the pale lavender of the wall on the right, and the darker tones of the opposite wall are particularly clear in this detail.

Closer to us, in the corner of the painting, are a small, circular console table with a slender stem supported on three curving legs, and what looks like a bureau or desk – it appears to have a roll top. On the far right, coming down the edge of the canvas, there are black details – but I’m afraid I haven’t been able to work out what, if anything, they represent. The edge of a curtain, hanging in the corner, perhaps?

This detail is taken from a different photograph to the one I started with, and I think the colours are slightly closer to the original – although I’m not convinced it is possible to remember exact colours. What is clear is that, around the bottom left of the patches of sunlight, the wall looks more blue. The wall may not have been ‘coloured’ at all, though. In all probability it would have been painted white, or off-white. One of the phenomena that Ancher was investigating is the way in which we experience colour. Not digitally, in an absolute sense, but by comparison. Blue and orange are opposite each other on the colour wheel – they are colour opposites, or complementary contrasts. It is the orange light that makes our mind read the colour of the wall as the absence of orange – or the opposite of orange: blue. This was an essential element of Impressionist Colour theory, and it’s worthwhile remembering that the Impressionists were contemporaries of Anna Ancher, if from an oldeer generation. She first met her future husband in 1874, the year of the first Impressionist Exhibition. However, her first visit to Paris, with Michael, was not until 1885. The 7th Impressionist Exhibition had been in 1882, and the 8th – and last – was in 1886, so she didn’t get to see them. However, in 1899 the couple settled in Paris for 6 months: they would have had more than ample opportunity to see the work of Claude Monet, for example, to whose experiments with light and colour this study comes closest. But then, she could also have seen his paintings in Copenhagen.

Getting closer still the precise forms of the furniture become clearer – as does the way in which Ancher has put them together. The rim of the circular tabletop is defined by two, maybe three curving brushstrokes, and the stem by three or four which splay out as they rise. Of the two objects – boxes, or books? – on top of the table, one is formed by small, overlapping parallel strokes, while the other has a few bold, straight lines. Maybe this is actually her palette! Both objects, together with the roll top of the desk, catch orange light reflecting from the wall. The left side of the tabletop is lighter than the right, the light reflecting from the wall being shadowed from the side that is closer to us by the lower object.

Stepping back again, the way in which the darkness of the opposite wall is affected by the light on the right becomes clearer now, I hope – the patch of deeper lavender coloured brushstrokes seems to spread from the corner at a level with the sunlight, the colours being subtly modulated across the surface. Close up we see the material of the paint itself, the brushstrokes and the subtly modulated tones and hues. From a distance we see the light of the setting sun, like a solid entity hovering, immeasurable, just in front of the wall.

Above all what Anna Ancher painted was a precise, compassionate observation of the way people lived. However, far rather than being banal, mundane, or down to earth, she lifts these situations out of the particular into the timeless and universal. She captures the beauty of everyday life, relishing the calm, the space, and especially, the light. One day I would love to make a ‘pilgrimage’ to Skagen, but am glad that, until 8 March, I can see these paintings in Dulwich. I do hope you can make it, too. If not, maybe you could join me for the talk on Monday?

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265 – Dance of Death

Pablo Picasso, The Three Dancers, 1925. Tate Modern, London.

Last year, Tate Modern was 25 years old, and Picasso’s The Three Dancers, painted in 1925, was 100. This has inspired an exhibition of Tate’s entire collection of works by the Spanish master – something which was notably lacking when the museum first opened. Indeed, as I remember it, today’s painting was the only work of his to go on show. As you may have noticed, people love to complain about things, and the absence of most of the work by one of the 20th century’s unchallenged geniuses meant that the new institution was instantly awarded a black mark by many observers… Still, they are all on view now (well, almost all), and I will be talking about the resulting exhibition, Theatre Picasso – staged truly dramatically by artist Wu Tsang and curator Enrique Fuenteblanca – this Monday, 12 January, at 6:00pm.

After this I will give two talks about Scandinavian artists, responding to exhibitions of their work. The Danish Anna Ancher, who I will talk about on 26 January, is currently being exhibited beautifully at Dulwich Picture Gallery. Anders Zorn is on show in Hamburg – and if you can’t get there before it closes on 25 January, you will be able to catch the exhibition later in Madrid… I will talk about him on 2 February, so you’ll be able to see if its worth a trip (spoiler alert: it is!). A week later (9 February) I will introduce The Barber in London – the selection of masterpieces from the Barber Institute in Birmingham which are currently on loan to The Courtauld. Further events will be listed in the diary as soon as I have pinned them down.

If you do book any of these events, Tixoom will send an email with the ticket – effectively a link to the talk – within seconds. If it doesn’t arrive within 24 hours, do let me know and I’ll try and sort it out: it would be easier to do it then than 5 minutes before the talk! You should then get reminders 24 hours and 15 minutes before the talk, and these will also include the link.

At first glance the relationship between this painting and its title is entirely straightforward: we can see The Three Dancers clearly. All three stand on one leg, with the other raised and bent at the knee. The central dancer raises both hands, holding those of the other two. They in turn hold hands behind the central figure’s back. And that – for me at least – is our first ‘clue’: something is going on behind someone’s back. They are all inside, dancing next to a pair of French windows which open onto a balcony. The right door is partly open, with the head of the central dancer framed against the sky, shown as darker blue when not seen through glass. The balustrade, made of thin metal balusters and an equivalent thin rail, can be seen behind the figures through the windows. The wall on either side is decorated with patterned wallpaper. It seems a surprisingly mundane, domestic space for such a performance to be taking place, even if the sight of three people dancing together might be familiar. One reasonably famous example would be the Three Graces in Botticelli’s Primavera (c. 1480, Gallerie degli Uffizi).

The formal similarities are clear: three people dancing, each holding hands with the other two, some arms raised, some lowered, and even a suggestion that the dance might, in some ways, involve a circular, twisting movement. At least two of Picasso’s figures appear to be female – at least, they have breasts – but that might be deceptive. In 1924, the year before this was painted, Picasso designed – and staged – the ballet Mercure for Count Étienne de Beaumont – a rival of Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, for whom the Spanish master had previously been working. The piece was choreographed by Léonide Massine, with music by Erik Satie. One element of the performance involved three male dancers cross-dressing as the Three Graces, with sexually specific characteristics made out of crudely cut cardboard – hence the ambiguity about what we might be looking at here. Before I take this any further, though, I wonder if another painting – more recent than Botticelli – could have been a source for Picasso. If these are two women and one man (which is possible), then, once they have finished dancing, they might go out onto the balcony and sit down. If they did, they might end up looking like Manet’s The Balcony (1868-9, Musée d’Orsay). Or maybe this is just a result of both artists living and working in Paris at the time, where such balconies were commonplace.

But why do I think that at least one of the dancers might be male? It comes down to a statement Picasso made in 1965 to the British Surrealist artist (and collector) Roland Penrose, who was arranging the sale of the painting to the Tate Gallery (as it was then known) at the time. Picasso suggested that, rather than The Three Dancers, the painting should have been called The Death of Pichot – and this has led art historians to try and work out what the relevance of that event to the painting might have been.

The mention of Surrealism is not coincidental. Picasso was always his own man. He never wanted to be part of a group – however much the Surrealists themselves might have wanted him to join them. He employed so many of the same tools, after all – notably the fact that anything can be read in more than one way. Like the multiple viewpoints of Cubism, which fragment the picture surface and layer the imagery, the interpretation of art can also involve seeing things from different points of view. Visual imagery can be read in more than one way: not so much double entendre as double voir… The different ways in which Picasso uses this slippage between one thing and another helps to build up both the meaning of the painting, and the different characters of the individuals depicted. To be honest, I’m not sure how much of what follows is written down elsewhere, it’s not something I ever remember reading about, apart from the basic idea of who the three dancers might be. It is an interpretation I developed working for the Education team at Tate Modern from May 2000, when the museum opened, to 2008, when I ran off to join the ‘circus’ (again).

Ramon Pichot was, like Picasso, a Catalan artist: they met in Barcelona, and both travelled to Paris in 1900, together with a third man, Carles Casagemas. After the First World War Pichot went back to Spain, but returned regularly to Paris. On one of these visits he died suddenly, and unexpectedly – even though it had been known for some time that he was ill. The date was 1 March 1925, and Picasso was painting The Three Dancers, inspired, no doubt, by the Three Graces in Mercure. Technical analysis shows that he changed his original ideas, though – possibly as a result of Pichot’s death. The figure on the right can be read in a number of different ways. I find the main profile more ‘masculine’ than that of the other dancers, but I don’t think there is any real measure to justify that. You could, however, argue that it isn’t really a profile at all, but a shadow. There are two faces here: a small, brown one, with an angular profile and a black eye, and a larger, black one, the forehead and the nose defined by the pink arm of the central dancer, with the lips and chin delineated by the sinuous black outline curving against the blue sky. This face has a small, pale dot of an eye near to the brown face’s nose. As the black outline continues behind the figure, it could represent the shadow of the smaller person. Or maybe this dark, looming presence, more substantial than the small brown face, expresses Pichot’s death. His left arm, painted white, is raised above his head, where his hand meets the pink equivalent belonging to the central figure. In both cases the fingers are defined by the black lines between them, which terminate in small dots. However, as these lines start at the black head, they could also be read as the black profile’s hair. I wouldn’t worry about ‘either/or’ with these interpretations: ‘both’ is usually closer to the mark.

The dancer on the left is more complex. Arched over, its head tipped back, and with a leg kicking up behind, this is the most energetic figure. It is also, apparently, the most clearly gendered: there are breasts. As to how many breasts there are – well, that is open to question. I’d argue for four, seen from multiple view-points, expressing the energetic nature of the dance, as if they have been seen at different times from different angles. One looks like an eye – or at least a black ‘eye’ shape containing a pink circle with a black dot in the centre. Above and to the right of it is the corner of another black ‘eye’ shape, but with a rounded breast and very protuberant nipple in solid black seen ‘in profile’ at the base of the arm. To the left of that is another pink shape, more like the naturalistic profile of a breast, in pink, but edged with black on our left and white on our right. This dancer holds the white hand of ‘Pichot’ with her pink right hand, the black lines – the fingers – intertwined. The curving arm looping away from the torso leaves a circular gap through which the sky can be seen, as can the top of the balcony, and a section of one of the balusters. But there is also a red circle, with white lines, apparently floating in space. Given Picasso’s tendency to read anatomical details in terms of geometry, I have little doubt that this blue circle can be read either as a gap, though which we see the sky, or as an alternative (blue) breast. This superfluity of anatomical detail shouldn’t surprise us: this woman has two faces, after all. One is like a crescent moon, looking to our right, with a blank, vertical black oval for an eye and a profile showing her nose and slightly parted lips, a concave forehead and rounded chin. It has an innocent, awe-filled expression. The other is more animalistic, violent even, with blood-red lips on either side of an open, downturned mouth bristling with the sharpest of teeth. The ear, at the top of the head, appears to belong to this face, as does the vertical black eye containing a white dot for a pupil. Who is this two-faced woman? And is the term ‘two-faced’ relevant in the way that the English would use it: someone who is dishonest in some way, doing something behind someone’s back (that’s the second time I’ve used that phrase)?  Or is it just a hangover from Cubism? Before I answer that question, though, let’s have a closer look at their dance.

Although there was never a doubt that these dancers are, indeed, dancing, their activity is confirmed by the position of their legs. They are all standing on one foot, and not all of them in a position that would be stable were they still. The woman on the left raises her right foot behind her, bending the leg at the knee. Notice how the toes are defined in the same way as the hands at the top right of the painting: black lines, terminating in small dots, in between each. This helps to create some of the unity of the painting: however disparate the different elements may appear, they do all belong together. The central figure appears more poised, the weight born on the right leg, with the left bent up behind it. The figure on the right – Pichot – raises his left knee, keeping the weight on his straight right leg (notice how the black shadow comes down behind the white leg, spilling onto the floor as a rectangular pool).

At the top of this detail you can see the circular element of sky – or breast – with the dancer’s arm curving around it. A similar section of blue sky, with the black bar of a baluster, can also be seen, inexplicably, in the middle of the diagonally-striped skirt. Could this be another sexual reference? Another part of her anatomy? Picasso was capable of being remarkably crude.

In my interpretation of the painting, I think it is entirely relevant that the face of the central figure appears against the deep blue sky. The window on the left is closed, that on the right is partly open, and in the space between we see the head of the central figure. This may appear to be another woman – the circle could be one breast, the curving black line around the pink and white form another. However, I think this figure represents a man: knowing that the ballet Mercure had three men cross-dressing as the Three Graces could be relevant. Why do I think that it’s a man? Well, for one thing, the position of the arms. Both are raised on diagonals going away from the torso. For those with a knowledge of Italian art, this won’t mean much, but if you are more familiar with Spanish painting – as, let’s face it, Picasso was – the gesture may be more familiar. Compare it, for example, with this painting from the Prado by Diego Velázquez.

Spanish artists are more likely to show the crucified Christ in this way – but why would it be relevant to the Three Dancers? If one of them is Ramon Pichot, who are the other two? As I’ve said, Picasso arrived in Paris in October 1900 in the company of two other artists: Ramon Pichot, and Carles Casagemas. Both Picasso and Casagemas got to know a woman called Laure Antonie Gargallo, also known as Germaine, who had married the sculptor Vital Florentin in 1898 – this marriage was short lived. She worked as a model for both Picasso and Casagemas, but Casagemas wanted more. He fell desperately in love with her, even asking her to marry him – but his love was not requited. In his desperation he even tried to shoot her – but only succeeded in grazing her temple. However, he then turned the gun on himself, with greater success. His suicide is often cited as triggering Picasso’s ‘Blue Period’. This didn’t stop Picasso himself having an affair with Germaine between 1901 and 1903. And then, in 1908 (or 1906, sources on the internet are contradictory) she married Ramon Pichot, staying with him until his death in 1924.

Casagemas died in 1901, and Pichot in 1925. Germaine, however, lived on until 1948, and so was the only one of the three still alive when The Three Dancers was completed. This is why I can’t help seeing this painting as a Dance of Death, with the windows representing the passage to a world beyond the one we are in. The window on the right is partially open, with Casagemas, crucified by his own obsessive love, seen against the open sky. Pichot is next to the open door, and is the next to pass on, his looming, black, shadowy profile in front of the sky seen through the glass. Germaine, however, is still in the room, her head – her faces – seen against the wallpaper. And, looking at the wallpaper, I’ve realised something today that I should have noticed before: the pattern is made up of three vertical strokes bound together, like The Three Dancers tied together – forever – by their tangled relationships.

I don’t know if this interpretation is what Picasso had in mind, but it makes sense to me. Maybe it all came from Picasso’s subconscious. Or maybe it is just a coincidence. I know that the dance we see doesn’t express their precise relationships, but it does at least allow for connections which evolved over time. Other people – most people, apparently – interpret the figure on the left as Olga Khokhlova, Picasso’s first wife, a dancer with the Ballets Russes. They married in 1918. I can’t see that this image would represent Picasso’s feelings towards her in 1924, but then I don’t know what they were. Their son Paulo had been born in 1921, and his affair with Marie-Thérèse Walter didn’t start until 1927… but that’s another story. There are many other stories, and some of them will come up on Monday. I’ll leave you to think about this one, though.

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The End of the Rainbow

John Constable, Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows, 1830-31. Tate Britain, London.

Happy New Year! I’m looking forward to getting going straight away, and even before Christmas has officially ended. On 5 January 2026 at 6:00pm (which is the 12th Day of Christmas) I will be talking about Tate’s superb Turner & Constable exhibition, which is worth seeing for a superb selection of works from both artists, including many which haven’t been seen in the UK for decades, if not for more than a century. It is also worthwhile for the exploration of the ways in which the careers of thee two artists intertwined. I find it astonishing that there has never been a large-scale exhibition looking at the relationship between Turner and Constable before: they had so much in common, and yet were so remarkably different, they were colleagues, and rivals, and yet, also… but we’ll talk about that on Monday.

This will be followed by another Tate exhibition, Theatre Picasso, on 12 January. I will then give two talks on Scandinavian artists. The Danish Anna Ancher, whose works are currently exhibited so beautifully at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, will be on 29 January, and the great Swedish painter Anders Zorn will be the following week, 2 February. An exhibition of his work is just about to close in Hamburg, but as it is then travelling to Madrid (where his stylistic relationship to Joaquín Sorolla will become all the more clear) it will still be topical!

In the spring I’ll be giving three talks related to The Courtauld, and the first will be on 9 February, covering the superb selection of paintings from the Barber Institute in Birmingham which are on loan to the former – as The Barber in London – while the latter is being refurbished. But back to Turner & Constable – well, Constable, at least. It’s an old blog, as you know, but edited considerably while still retaining references to the days of lockdown.

I originally wrote the post in May 2020 as Picture of the Day 47 – Salisbury Cathedral, and reposted it in January 2022 as Return to the Rainbow, partly because I needed to correct a mistake I had made, which was all the more embarrassing because somewhere, in an admittedly obscure publication, I had committed the error to print. I’m posting it for a third time because it has become relevant in a whole new way…

Sometimes a painting is asking to be talked about. I heard on the radio, shortly before I originally wrote this, that the foundation stone of Salisbury Cathedral was laid on 28 April 1220 – 800 years before the post. This, in itself, made me think about today’s painting, but then I had been reminded of it the day before while writing about the Pathetic Fallacy (Day 46 – Psyche III). Having said that, it was already in my mind. The preceding week I had been challenged to include three words in my blog – ‘crepuscular’, ‘vicissitudes’ and ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’. I succeeded with the first two in POTD 41 and 42. This is the only painting I can think of for the third.

On October 23, 1821, Constable wrote to his friend, John Fisher, saying that, ‘It will be difficult to name a class of landscape in which the sky is not the key note, the standard of scale, and the chief organ of sentiment’ – by which he meant that the sky would set the emotional tone of the painting. This is, as close as you could reasonably want, a statement acknowledging something that would not be named for another 35 years: the Pathetic Fallacy. It was defined, and discussed at length, by John Ruskin in the third volume of his Modern Painters, published in 1856. We use the word ‘pathetic’ in such a different way now. Back then it was related to feeling, as in pathos, and not to being weak. It was a mistake, or fallacy, Ruskin said, to attribute feelings (pathos) to inanimate objects – such ideas would be the imaginings of an unhinged mind. However, he did go on to say that, poetically speaking, this was not a bad thing, as long as the emotion it produced was genuine: ‘Now, so long as we see that the feeling is true, we pardon, or are even pleased by, the confessed fallacy of sight, which it induces’. Even if it gets the name of an error, the Pathetic Fallacy is one of the essential tools of the artist’s – and poet’s – craft.

It came into play a decade after Constable’s letter, when he worked on this particular painting. His wife Maria had died in 1829, and Fisher wrote to him suggesting that he might want to paint Salisbury Cathedral as a way of occupying himself during his grief – effectively a form of therapy – saying, ‘I am quite sure that the “church under a cloud” is the best subject you can take’. 

Before I go any further, I should clear up a potential source of misunderstanding. Constable had two friends called John Fisher, one of whom was also a patron, and both of whom lived in Salisbury. One, the patron, was Bishop of Salisbury, and the other, with whom Constable corresponded more regularly, and in whom he confided, was the nephew of the Bishop, and was an Archdeacon at the Cathedral. This can only have led to confusion in the 19thCentury, and it still does today.

Constable’s letter of 1821 had been written after a summer of ‘skying’, as he called it – going out onto Hampstead Heath and painting the sky, so he could get better at it, and it would become easier, and more natural for him. He was already familiar with the weather. He was the son of a corn merchant who owned mills, and young John often had to man them himself. You need to know when a storm is coming, because if you don’t disable a windmill it could be destroyed. As a result he was entirely adept at reading the weather. By the autumn of 1821, he was also adept at painting it. He favoured a contrast of light and dark, of blue sky and cloud, so that the ground itself would be a patchwork of sunlight and shadow. But the sky in today’s painting is more than usually stormy: he really does seem to have taken Fisher’s suggested title, the “church under a cloud” to heart. Indeed, so bad is it, that lightning is striking the roof of the North Transept – the part of the church to the left of the crossing if you are looking at the High Altar.

Is this an autobiographical reference? I would say ‘yes’, particularly given that Fisher had suggested this very subject in his letter of August 1829. But other things were going on at the time, things in which both Johns – Constable and Fisher (Jr) – were particularly interested. In 1829 the Catholic Emancipation Act was passed, and both thought this might pose a threat to the Church of England, the Established Church. Not only that, but debates were already underway for what would become the Reform Bill of 1832, one result of which was to give the vote to a large number of nonconformists. Another threat, perhaps, to the Established Church. Indeed, one subject for debate was that the church should actually be disestablished, a notion strongly contested by both Constable and Fisher, who were both ardent supporters of antidisestablishmentarianism. The church was under more than one cloud. In the painting it appears as a physical storm, with lightning striking the roof of the church. Constable himself was undoubtedly going through ‘Stormy Weather’ after the death of his wife. And ‘The Church’ as a whole – not just this building – was going through its own political storm, a result of changes in political thought. Would the Established Church survive? 

The answer would seem to be given to us by the rainbow. As we saw in POTD 37 – Noah, the rainbow is a symbol of hope and optimism, given to Noah as a sign of God’s covenant that he will never again destroy the earth, as he had with the deluge. Constable acknowledges this symbolism, and with it, tells us that not only will he personally be alright – he will survive his grief – but also that he knows that the church will ride the political storm. However, the rainbow was not part of Constable’s original plans for the painting: it was not in his first sketches. It is an idea which came to him later on. It is certainly not something he witnessed first hand. No one ever has – nor ever could. [Or that’s what I thought when I first wrote this post – and I’m going to leave the next paragraphs so you can see what I said first time around…]

How can I be so sure? Well, it comes down to the geography of the church, which is, as churches should be, orientated: the altar faces the East (POTD 38). The North Transept sticks out to the left of the building – where we see the lightning strike – and the façade of the Cathedral that is so clearly visible (Constable was a master at manipulating light) is at the West End. The rainbow forms an arc of a circle (following the science of optics it cannot do otherwise), which appears to stretch from Northeast to Southwest, given that it cuts across the Cathedral on a diagonal. I don’t know if you know this, but you only get a rainbow when it is both rainy and sunny, and if you are looking at a rainbow, then the sun must be behind you. The sunlight travels over your head into the rain, and the light reflects back from the back of the raindrops. As it enters and leaves each raindrop it is refracted, each wavelength of light being refracted by a different amount, thus splitting white light into a rainbow. The light then comes back towards you, and makes it look as if the rainbow is in front of you. Here’s a diagram, thanks to the Met Office:

So, if we are looking at the rainbow as Constable has painted it, the sun must be behind us, i.e. in the Northwest. But Salisbury, and indeed, the whole of Europe, is in the Northern hemisphere, and so the sun never gets anywhere that is not South. It is impossible to see a rainbow in this position. But that doesn’t matter. This isn’t science, this isn’t a photograph, this is art – and the rainbow expresses hope. After all, the spire of the Cathedral passes in front of the darkest area of cloud and then up into the light. Again, this is a symbol of optimism.

Nowadays Salisbury Cathedral has gained something of a reputation as the must-see building for any self-respecting Russian spy, and they are not wrong – it is a fantastic building. The spire is the tallest in the country, and the cloister and cathedral close are also the largest in the land. The main body of the church is remarkably coherent stylistically, having been completed in a mere 38 years – not long for a building of this size that was started 800 years ago. It is well worth the visit, and, once we can travel again, I would recommend that you go. We are all “under a cloud” at the moment, but like Noah, like Constable – and like Salisbury Cathedral – we will get through it. 

By the way, Constable was not being careless when he chose to paint the rainbow here. It’s worthwhile remembering that other myth about rainbows – that there is a pot of gold at its end. Even if this is, in itself, unscientific (were there no ground in the way a rainbow would form a complete circle, and so it wouldn’t have an ‘end’) there isn’t gold at the end of this rainbow, but lead. Or rather, a house, called Leadenhall. Which is precisely where Archdeacon John Fisher lived. I’ve said it before: art is alchemy, turning base metal into gold. Constable is not only showing us his gratitude to Fisher, he is also reminding us where true value lies. The gold at the end of the rainbow is friendship.

OK – so that’s what I said back in April 2020. But compare and contrast the following:

When I set up these blogs I see the images in a certain way, but I know that sometimes they shift: I do hope you are seeing them side by side. I am incredibly grateful to Brian Plummer – a resident of Salisbury and one of the trustees of the Salisbury Museum – who both took and sent me the photograph on the right. Clearly Salisbury has changed a bit in the last two centuries, but this is the cathedral seen, if not from exactly the same place, at least from almost exactly the same angle. To the right of the lamppost, and just above the trees, you should be able to see the very tops of the pinnacles of the façade, which is in the same relationship to the spire as it is in the painting… and a rainbow can be seen very clearly arcing around them. I still can’t entirely explain how this is possible! The physics are right, and the Met Office diagram confirms the fact: if you are looking at a rainbow then the sun should be behind you. Or rather, if you are looking at the centre of a rainbow while facing it flat on, the sun must be behind you. But you could then turn away from it, and still look over your shoulder to see it… the sun wouldn’t be behind you then. That’s not a very good explanation, but it must be something like that. We humans don’t exist as infinitesimal points in space, after all, and we also have a tendency to move around and look all around us as we go. It is probably relevant that a rain drop is a small sphere – so maybe the ‘behind you’ idea of the sun can relate to a wider arc… Whatever the explanation, it doesn’t get away from the fact that Constable would never have stood outside painting one of his ‘six footers’ in the rain, nor does it take away from the idea that the rainbow in his painting is primarily a symbol. He may well have seen a rainbow here, or hereabouts, and then adjusted it to curve so beautiful around the other forms in the composition to land on Fisher’s house…

However (and this is me coming back to the painting in 2025), it is worthwhile pointing out that even if rainbows can, and do, occur in this geographical location, this particular rainbow is impossible in Constable’s painting: the sun is in the wrong position to create it. The light is coming from the upper right corner of the painting, and the sun might even be too high for a rainbow to form. I’m not the only person to say that – here’s a link to an article in The Guardian from about 11 years ago, in which John Thornes, an emeritus professor of applied meteorology at Birmingham University, says as much. However, I have recently learnt (and probably should have known before) that the rainbow was only added after the painting was first exhibited in 1831. This idea is expounded by a Tate Research Publication from 2017, in an introductory essay by Amy Colcannon, the main curator of Turner & Constable. To make things clearer, I’m just going to quote from that:

The absence of any mention of the rainbow in descriptions by critics reacting to the painting on its debut showing in 1831 – critics who, as detailed below, fixated on the ‘chaos’ of Constable’s sky – as well as our knowledge from Constable’s correspondence that he reworked the painting after its debut, point towards the possibility that the rainbow was a posthumous tribute, added after Fisher’s death on 25 August 1832.

The painting has a very important place in the current exhibition as Constable himself chose to exhibit it in the same room as a painting by Turner in the Royal Academy’s Annual Exhibition of 1831. The critics had a field day, as the comparison between the two paintings summed up everything they had always said about the two artists, with one of them referring to ‘Turner’s fire and Constable’s rain’ while another talked of ‘Fire and Water … the one all heat, the other all humidity’. But of course, it is comparisons like this that we will be discovering on Monday – so I do hope you can join me!

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264 Caravaggio: If music… (b).

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, The Musicians, 1597. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

The two one-painting exhibitions in London at the moment have a lot in common, and so do the artists who are represented. Apart from anything else, music and love are major themes, and in my blog last week I quoted the opening of Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night – ‘If music be the food of love…’ The same quotation is relevant today, so… play on! However, in Caravaggio’s Cupid, currently on show at the Wallace Collection (the subject of my talk this Monday 15 December at 6pm) love triumphs over music – and everything else, for that matter: omnia vincit amor. This is my last talk for 2025, but I’ll be back in the New Year to introduce Tate Britain’s superb show tracing the relationship and rivalry between Turner & Constable. That will be on Monday 5 January, and I’ll visit Tate Modern the following week (12 January) to explore Theatre Picasso. This truly lives up to its name: it is the most dramatically staged exhibition I have seen for years. I’ll be going to Hamburg shortly after to see the Kunsthalle’s exhibition dedicated to Swedish master Anders Zorn. He was one of a triumvirate of painterly, impressionist-inspired masters, perhaps not as well known as the other two, John Singer-Sargent and Joaquín Sorolla, but equally brilliant: I’m really looking forward to it, and to telling you all about it on 2 February. Before that, though, I want to look at another Scandinavian artist, Anna Ancher, to give you more of a chance to see her marvellous, calm and colourful paintings which are currently on show at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. I saw the exhibition earlier this week, and was completely won over. I will be talking about her on 26 January, and will get more information onto the diary as soon as I can!

Today’s painting is typical of Caravaggio’s early work, depicting half-length, contemporary figures clearly and crisply, using rich colours, and often including beautifully detailed still life elements. His subjects were cardsharps and fraudsters, fortune tellers and gullible youths, boys offering food and wine, performing or being out-manoeuvred: the vulnerable and the manipulative inhabitants of the low-life world he had come to occupy in Rome. He settled in the Eternal City in 1595 at the age of 24, having first arrived there a few years before. In this particular work there are four youths who seem more interested in us, or in what they are doing individually, than they are in each other. They are closely, almost claustrophobically arranged, a compact composition in which the figures overlap and interlock, thus making them, of necessity, a ‘group’, even if they are not currently interacting. This is demonstrated most clearly, I think, if we try and focus on the individuals. In the details that follow, I have cropped the image to include everything that we can see of each of the four figures – and have added other details in between.

Most prominent is the lutenist. While music is clearly a major theme of the painting – these are, after all, The Musicians – no music is being played. This boy, or man – it is hard to pinpoint his age – is currently tuning his lute. His left hand turns one of the tuning pegs, while his right thumb plucks a string, the tips of his fingers resting on the teardrop-shaped soundboard. Rather than looking at his instrument, he gazes out towards the viewer – towards you – his eyes half closed and his mouth half open, a face that is totally relaxed, and either seduced or seducing. His auburn hair contrasts with dark, arching eyebrows, creating an appearance that is both unusual and arresting. We know that this is one of the first paintings – if not the first – that Caravaggio made for his patron and host the Cardinal del Monte when he became part of the prelate’s household, the Palazzo Madama, not far from the Piazza Navona. As well as being interested in the visual arts, del Monte was also an active patron of music, providing financial support for the training and performance of young castrati, the male sopranos who were an essential feature of the musical culture of the time. If this musician was one of their number, it might explain why his appearance is so arresting, and why his precise age is hard to pin down.

Technical analysis shows that his right arm was painted first, and then the full, red drapery which encompasses it was added on top. The brocade cloak, or shawl, flows over his elbow and frames his hand, its curve echoing the arch of his wrist. It fills out the figure, and broadens the form, and it is this, as much as anything else, that gives the lutenist his prominence. From his shoulder the brocade crosses his body on a diagonal, in opposition to the neck of the lute. Together they form an ‘X’ in front of his chest, the top ‘V’ of which helps to frame his sultry gaze. His left elbow is hidden behind the unclad arm of the boy on the right, while his head tilts towards that of the figure at the back.

The sculptural form of the lute is precisely defined. The soundboard catches the light entering the room from the top left, while the back, or shell of the instrument is cast into shadow, with the exception, perhaps, of the top ‘rib’. However, there is not much detail, and we can’t see all the strings. Sadly, despite its wonderful appearance, the painting is not in a very good condition. After the death of the Cardinal, the painting passed into the hands of a French collector, and was later briefly owned by another Cardinal, the famous (or infamous) Cardinal Richelieu. However, by 1675, we know it belonged to the Duchesse d’Aiguillon, as it is mentioned in an inventory of her collection. By then the canvas had been stuck to a wooden support, from which it was later removed. At either stage this may have resulted in losses to the surface, and could, consequently, explain the lack of detail in some parts of the painting (I’m indebted to Keith Christiansen’s 2017 catalogue entry for this painting on the Met’s website – you’ll have to scroll down and click on their ‘catalogue entry’ button – and, while I’m about it, I’d also recommend his Instagram feed: @keithartnature).

Despite the damage, details have survived – the subtle variation in the angles of of the fourteen pegs, and the light catching the strings passing over the end of the fingerboard, for example. There is even a beautiful and delicate arabesque formed by a long, untrimmed string, spiralling away from one of the pegs and over the lutenist’s brightly illuminated chest.

The figure at the back is also a musician: he holds a cornett, or cornetto. In case you are, like me, unfamiliar with this baroque instrument, I have included an image of a 17th century version – from the Museu de la Música in Barcelona – which I have rotated to be in a roughly equivalent position (however, they do come in many different lengths and forms). If you want to know how a cornett is played, and what it sounds like, there is a good video on YouTube made by The Academy of Ancient Music (apologies for the ad – you’ll be able to skip it after a few seconds).

The cornett player in our painting, like the lutenist, looks out towards us with his mouth slightly open, and has similar dark, arched brows – although they are a better match with his hair. Being in the background he is also more in the shade – helping to create what limited depth in the painting there is. This is enhanced by the darkness of his hair, and the black fabric which is draped over his left shoulder (at the back) but not, it seems, his right (the shoulder closer to us). We can see the curve of this shoulder outlining the hand tuning the lute, not far from his own right hand, holding what must be a fairly short, so high-pitched, cornett. We also see the hint of a white sleeve – but that could be either around the cornett player’s right wrist, or the lutenist’s left forearm. This apparent elision of forms brings the two figures together, as does the mutual lean of their heads, tilting towards each other on the picture plane, even though one figure is closer to us than the other. The implication is that these people are in harmony with one another, even when they are not playing. I was about to say ‘even when they are not performing’, but they are definitely performing – either for us, or for Caravaggio – turning to to look at us with their mouths open and those ‘come hither’ eyes. They might conceivable be singing, but I think sighing would be more likely. Having said all of that, you may recognise the cornett player, as the same model occurs in paintings throughout Caravaggio’s career.

It is universally accepted as a self portrait. These two images may not look identical, but it’s worthwhile remembering that the artist was 26 when he painted the image on the left (although I can’t help thinking that he was flattering himself somewhat – making himself look more like ‘one of the boys’), whereas Ottavio Leoni’s drawing, a detail of which is on the right, dates from 1621, eleven years after Caravaggio’s premature death at the age of 39, when he had lived through at least a decade of difficulty. Why he should choose to put himself into this composition is not clear – although it would undoubtedly have placed him at the heart of the Cardinal del Monte’s establishment, thus making him look both cultured and sophisticated: he clearly knows about music… and love. You could even argue that he was trying to show us that he had risen above the low-life… although we know that he himself hadn’t, and wouldn’t. His paintings, however, did, becoming predominantly Christian in subject matter, and he would later show himself as an onlooker at many religious events, and even, sometimes, as a participant, as we saw last April with 221 – Caravaggio: the witness witnessed.

If we move on to the third character, the way in which all four are interlocked and indivisible is especially clear. Although I have cropped the detail to include everything we can see of this boy, and nothing more, we can still see all of the self portrait – cornett included – and half of the lutenist. Caravaggio painted directly onto the canvas from the live model, rather than relying on preparatory sketches, whether drawings or painted studies (none of either survive). This was one of his most remarkable innovations. However, it would be a mistake to think that he had all four people in front of him at the same time. They appear to have sat for him individually, and the precise, controlled composition slots them close together like a well-cut jigsaw. Precisely how these four figures could have occupied the three-dimensional space is not entirely clear: if this were a real space, there might not even be enough room for all of their limbs. However, until we start to question this, it is not a problem, especially given that the patterning of the surface is so good. In some ways, the composition is not unlike another form of composition: music. Primary and secondary themes play off one another, with melodies interlocking and interweaving just like these people. The character of each is distinct, although not necessarily thoroughly developed. This boy in particular is a bit of a mystery: we don’t know what he looks like, even if we can see ‘more’ of him: he appears to be wearing the fewest clothes. If we hadn’t realised before, what becomes clear from the figure in white is that, if this is a scene from contemporary life, then these models are in costume: no one has ever dressed quite like this in everyday life. He appears to have a sheet slung over his right shoulder, which crosses his otherwise naked back (which is accurately, subtly and brilliantly modelled) on a diagonal. It is tied around his waist with a thick, dark, plum-coloured sash. The boy is sitting on the edge of a box, or table, slightly higher than the lutenist, and looks down at a musical score in what I read as calm, focussed preparation.

However damaged the surface of the painting, we can tell how brilliantly crafted this manuscript was. The music cannot be read, but we can tell the difference between the thick, pinkish cover of the book and the darker edges of the pages, and then see the light catching the corners, where the top page has curled up, casting its own corner, decorated with a large letter ‘B’, into shadow.

This book is just one of the still life elements in which Caravaggio both delighted and excelled in the earlier stages of his career. Another score sits on the table with a violin resting on it. They are so brilliantly conceived that I will show you more details below. The sash is tied in a bow, the ends of which appear to caress the white fabric beneath them. Bows like this occur more than once in Caravaggio’s oeuvre, and here, as in other places, it is as if we are being invited to tug on the end, and release the bow, or to toy with the loops, or the knot – but that’s probably an idea that I am transferring from another painting, Caravaggio’s voluptuous, seductive Bacchus in the Uffizi. If you don’t know it, click on that link! In our painting, the white drapery forms a turbulent swirl just beneath the belt, and wraps in numerous folds around the boy’s thigh. There is clearly enough fabric to cover his knee, but enough leg is visible to prove a point: these models are wearing less than they would normally.

This manuscript is an especially bravura piece of painting, with one page curled up, catching the light on one of the battered corners at the top, and casting shadow on the page beneath. The curl of the page mirrors the curl of the drapery next to it, and forms a counterpoint with the folds behind. Again, the music is illegible – which it may always have been – although this section was so badly damaged that a fair amount has had to be reconstructed, apparently.

The still life continues to the left with the violin – we have just seen its bow resting on the shadowed page. Caravaggio is known to have owned both a violin and a lute, and both appear in the Victorious Cupid currently on show at the Wallace Collection which we will be looking at on Monday. However, it seems too small to be a violin, certainly when compared to the lute. It could be a violino piccolo – a feature of baroque music – but it might simply be that, like the models, Caravaggio was looking at the instruments at different times, and adjusting the size according to what would work for the composition.

The still life extends to the bottom left corner of the painting, where we see vine leaves just catching the light, extending from the perfectly painted bunches of grapes above them. In between them and the end of the violin is the knee of the lutenist, who, like the boy with his back to us (is he the violinist? Or a singer?) has an uncovered knee, so close to the front of the painting that you might even think that it is in easy reach. Close to his hand resting on the soundboard – the hand that will pluck the strings – are two more hands plucking grapes.

These belong to the figure who takes up the top left corner of the painting. We see almost the full length of his right arm – a vine leaf gets in the way of his wrist – and just the ends of his left fingers. We can also see his shoulders and some of his chest, but there is no evidence that he is wearing any clothes at all. But then he does have wings: is this Cupid, or another performer dressed up as Cupid? His quiver hangs over his right shoulder on a very thin thread, with the sharp points of five or six arrows projecting from behind his right arm. Apart from this very thin strap, there is no sign of any other attachments: he is not ‘wearing’ the wings, so they must be part of him. This tells us that it is the God of Love himself, Cupid. He echoes – and transposes – the pose of the figure on the right. One of them is turned towards us, the other is turned away, but each has an unclad arm fully visible, and both look down, intent on what they are doing. Both also convey a sense of innocence, in opposition to the open-mouthed worldliness of the companions they are framing.

But why grapes? One suggestion is that, if this is Cupid, then we are clearly in the world of allegory, and while the other three are musicians, they are also a representation of the idea of ‘Music’ – which is what an allegory is. Most artists at this time, when painting an allegory, would have turned to the textbook, Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia. Published first in Rome in 1593, I would suggest that this may just be too early for it to be entirely familiar in 1597. In 1603 a second edition included illustrations, which were often more influential – and we are definitely to early for that. As a feminine noun, La Musica, like so many other personifications, was seen by Ripa as a woman – but Caravaggio was never one to follow the party line. As it happens, Ripa does mention a lute and a viol (an early form of violin, which the latter ‘eclipsed’ in the 17th century) and an open score, but he also says that music should be shown with wine, ‘perche la musica fù ritrovata per tener gli animi allegri come fà il vino…’ (‘because music was found to keep the spirits cheerful like wine does’). Maybe we’re getting in there early with the grapes, which Cupid is plucking in preparation. This was Caravaggio’s first Cupid – young, innocent, busy. A few years later, and painting for Vincenzo Giustiniani, his next major patron (who lived just round the corner from del Monte), Caravaggio would produce a very different image, brash, bold, and inherently destructive. It is that Victorious Cupid which we will be talking about on Monday.

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263 – Vermeer, playing with your imagination

Johannes Vermeer, The Love Letter, about 1669-70. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

My next two talks are dedicated to single works by two artists who had a lot in common – and yet were completely different: Vermeer and Caravaggio. They both worked in the 17th century painting religious subject matter and genre scenes, and both produced relatively few works. They died young, and were all but forgotten soon after their early deaths, only to be rediscovered in the 19th and 20th centuries, reaching an unparalleled level of popularity in the 21st. As a result, every painting by them is fascinating – and the arrival in London of even a single work associated with either of these masters is something to be celebrated. This Monday, 1 December (how is it December already?) we will start with Seeing Double: Vermeer at Kenwood. We will explore the Guitar Player in depth, taking it as a stepping-off point for a consideration of Vermeer’s career as a whole, and compare it to a remarkably similar, although by no means identical painting which is on loan to Kenwood House from the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Two weeks later, on 15 December, I will turn my attention to Caravaggio, as his remarkable Victorious Cupid will be on display at the Wallace Collection: it has never been shown in public in the UK before.

The New Year kicks off with talks introducing two Tate exhibitions, Turner & Constable at Tate Britain on 5 January and the following week (12 January), Theatre Picasso at Tate Modern. After that my sights will be set on Scandinavia, with the Dulwich Picture Gallery’s exploration of the richly coloured paintings of Danish artist Anna Ancher. At the moment I have this planned for 26 January. Just before then I’ll be heading to Hamburg to see an exhibition of the great Swedish artist, Anders Zorn. Despite giving a couple of talks about his work around five years ago, and a few visits to Stockholm, I’ve seen very few of his paintings – so I can’t wait! He was a contemporary of, and equivalent to, John Singer Sargent and Joaquín Sorolla. Like them, his works are highly painterly, with full, lush brushstrokes, and, like Anna Ancher, his paintings are vibrantly coloured with a richness that contradicts the dark and brooding notion of ‘Scandi Noir’. That talk should be on 2 February, but I’ll post more details in the diary in the New Year… if not before. Today, though, I want to look at a painting by Vermeer which has some features in common with Kenwood’s The Guitar Player. Music is one of its themes, and yet it goes by the name of The Love Letter.

Vermeer manages to give us the impression that we have stumbled on something we should not see. We’ve arrived at a doorway to witness a scene which appears to invert the standard social order – a maid lording it over her mistress. Not only that, but neither has been doing what they should, judging by the appearance of the outer room – dark, dirty and messy – not to mention the inner room, which may be well appointed, but is nevertheless showing signs of neglect.

A curtain has been drawing back – and maybe it shouldn’t have been. There is a real sense of theatrical revelation though, a bit like someone sharing the gossip: ‘look what I’ve just seen…’. It is a curtain that very probably belonged to Vermeer, and he used it in other paintings, notably The Art of Painting. It’s also worthwhile remembering that some paintings were covered by curtains on rails – in part, to keep the dust off them – and sometimes artists even painted trompe l’oeil curtains to make what was being revealed appear more real, and to remind you that it was a valuable work of art by an esteemed artist. The curtain also has a classical reference, but I won’t go into that now. In this case, Vermeer is playing with both ideas – what is being revealed in the back room, and the suggestion that this is a painting that is worth looking after. On the left wall of the entrance hall – or whatever the room is – there is a map, a reference to the world outside this house. Vermeer may well have owned several maps (although I can’t see any in the inventory of his belongings), but he could equally well have borrowed them, choosing them sometimes for their significance, and sometimes, simply for their appearance. Here, I think it is a reminder that we are coming into the story from ‘elsewhere’, but also that whatever is going on in these rooms is in some way connected to the world outside this house – which is where the letter that the lady is holding must have come from.

Although drawing back the curtain has revealed the inner room, the lower half of the painting is, in some ways, more revealing. For one thing, our point of view becomes apparent. On the right is a chair, upholstered in red velvet with gold trims. It is facing directly towards us, so that the front of the seat is parallel with the bottom of the painting. Our view is cut off just below the tassels along the front of the chair. The bottom of the painting probably coincides with the threshold of the adjacent room. This implies that our viewpoint is relatively high, with our supposed eye-level demonstrated by the perspective. The bottom edge of the map, and the diagonals of the diamond floor tiles, create orthogonals which continue to the vanishing point of the painting, just above and to the right of the brass ball on the chair back. Looking at the bottom of the map, though, what is most striking is the state of the wall – dark muddy drips staining the light paintwork. This is the only painting by Vermeer that I can think of in which something is actually dirty – and this is just one of the signs of neglect. The messy, crumpled paper on the chair itself, and the objects in the doorway, are others.

A broom leans against a wall behind the door, and two slippers are left on the floor. Between them they take up the full width of the doorway. They are not in their proper place, and nor are they put to their proper use. The household chores – and the management of the household – are apparently being neglected. The maid would be responsible for the former, and the lady of the house the latter. Maybe the lady of the house has other things on her mind… Not only that, but once you get close enough you can see that the crumpled paper on the chair is actually sheet music. Even though what is written makes no sense, musically speaking (Vermeer seems not to have been worried about that), the implication is that the harmony created by well-played music has been set aside. This might have a bearing on the state of the household: there may be discord, and disorder.

Having negotiated these obstacles to get into the room, we are in the presence of a finely dressed lady and a maid – presumably her maid. The difference in status is marked by their clothing. Whereas the lady wears a yellow satin jacket trimmed with broad bands of fur, as well as a pearl necklace and earrings, the maid has a plain brown top over a chemise, plain blue skirts, and no jewellery. However, the maid stands over her mistress, dominating her. Not only that, but her left arm is ‘akimbo’ – a pose almost always adopted in 17th century Dutch portraits by men rather than women (although there are a few exceptions). You could see this as an equivalent of contemporary ‘manspreading’, allowing the men to take up more space and so look more important. Not only that, but the maid’s headdress is quite tall, and catches the light brilliantly, thus enhancing her importance within our visual field. Nevertheless, there seems to be a good relationship between the two. We do not know what has happened – and that is one of the great strengths of Vermeer’s art. He gives us so much of the evidence we need to work out what is going on, but not everything: we can tell our own stories through his paintings, and they can all be different. The lady is holding a letter, which appears to be unopened. She looks round, and up, towards her maid – who has presumably given it to her (although we have no way of proving that she has) – and the maid looks back, her face slightly lowered, with the hint of a smile. The lady is clearly concerned, the maid, somewhat amused. Her stance is down to earth, matter of fact, though: whatever the contents of the letter (and how could she know?), it clearly isn’t going to affect her that much. However, the two are pictorially bound together. Quite apart from the fact that they are perfectly framed by the door, the top of the maid’s white apron, which we see above the blue overskirt which has been hitched up, continues along the line of the white fur trim of the lady’s jacket, tying them together visually. The upper edge of the brown sleeve on the maid’s left arm also leads to the top of the lady’s head, and the inside of the crook of her elbow is level with the top of the gilded leather panel we can see through her arm. Both coincide with the lady’s right eye: everything in Vermeer’s compositions was always very precisely planned, and extremely specific. Notice the placement of his signature at the bottom left of the detail above, for example – not stuck away in a corner at all, but conveniently close to the action.

Given the title the painting has now, how do we know it is a love letter that the lady is holding? The musical instrument is one of the clues – as is the crumpled music we have already seen.

It is a cittern, as you can see by comparison with this example (from the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford), which was made in Italy around 1570, and is attributed to Girolamo Virchi. Citterns tend to have a flat back, as opposed to the rounded back of the lute, and the strings are made of metal, as opposed to the gut, which is used for lutes. As a result, they sound very different. In the interpretation of Dutch 17th century paintings this difference is important for a very specific reason: the Dutch word ‘luit’ was used as slang for the female genitalia – which can have implications for any woman holding a lute, or any man playing one anywhere near a woman… Nevertheless, the cittern is still a musical instrument, and given that we are in the 17th century, and that Shakespeare probably wrote Twelfth Night around 1601-02 at the beginning of the century, it is well worth remembering that the play opens with the lines,

If music be the food of love play on
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.

So, as likely as not, given that the woman is (or was) playing music, we are probably being invited to think that she is in love. The paintings in her room support this suggestion.

Not only has drawing back the curtain allowed us to see what is going on in the inner room, but, as this detail shows, it has also revealed most, but not all, of the upper of two paintings. I’m sure there’s not much we can’t see, as the curving line of the fabric traces the height of the distant trees: all that is hidden must be sky. This could be a version of a real painting. As we will see on Monday, it was quite common for Vermeer to use paintings he knew. Some were in his mother-in-law’s personal collection, some were by artistic associates – members of the Guild of St Luke in Delft – and some might have been passing through his hands as an art dealer. However, he would often edit them, taking just one detail, or changing their scale, according to the composition he was working on. I don’t know if anyone has ever found a source for this particular image, but I’m sure the trees have been edited to fit the curve of the curtain. It is a landscape (though in a portrait format, but this isn’t unusual), with a path or track leading towards us in the bottom right corner. There is a single figure, which I see as a man walking towards us – his two legs are distinct (a woman would be wearing a full-length skirt). I’m assuming he’s walking towards us as that was a reasonably common occurrence in Dutch landscape paintings. He is, arguably, the last thing to be revealed by drawing back the curtain, leading us to ‘dis-cover’ (quite literally) a man approaching us. This may well relate to the contents of the letter, which might inform the lady that a man is returning from the outside world.

The lower painting is another common genre in Dutch 17th century painting: a seascape. Billowing clouds are seen against a clear blue sky, and are lit at the top by bright sunlight – fair weather, if windy. There is a single sailing ship approaching us, listing to port (OK, I don’t know ships well enough to tell if it is approaching us or going away – but it makes sense to me that it would be approaching, in which case I can at least tell it is listing to port… or, leaning towards the left in the direction of travel). Notice how the maid is so overtly associated with this painting: her shoulders are painted against the lower edge of the frame, so that her head is framed by the ebony surround. Her tall, rounded, white headdress catches the sunlight coming through the window of the inner room in the same way that the clouds catch the light in the painting.

Seascapes can refer to many different journeys – our journey through life, for example, or the status of a relationship: ‘Stormy weather, since my man and I ain’t together’, to quote Ted Koehler (1933). Here the sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy, and even if the sea must be rough because of the wind (the bottom of the painting is not at all clear) it does imply that the person on the ship is making a speedy journey. The two paintings suggest – to me at least – that someone is on their way home and making good time. I’m assuming it is the lady’s lover… It is not clear whether she is married or not, though. And is she really the lady of the house, or one of the daughters? Is this an accepted relationship, or a secret between her and her maid? Again, Vermeer gives us all of the clues – but doesn’t draw any conclusions. We are left to decide, and then, if we so choose, to moralise.

There is no doubt that this woman is a member of a wealthy household, though. It’s not the art – most members of the merchant classes in the Dutch Republic (who were, after all, the ruling classes in the 17th century) had paintings, and many paintings, on their walls. But the brilliant illumination implies large windows, which implies a lot of glass, which implies a lot of money. The gilded leather panel also suggests wealth, even if it wasn’t especially expensive: this example was one of Vermeer’s studio props, and also appears in his Allegory of Faith. The mantel piece was also a way of showing off your wealth, with carved columns supporting a projecting shelf. It could be carved from wood or stone, or, for the richest, fine marble. To be honest, it’s hard to tell what this one is made of – it could be painted wood, or it could be stone, but not, I think, marble: this isn’t the richest of houses. There is also a dark green satin pelmet around it to make it look more refined. One of the things that is not as expensive as it appears is the lady’s jacket, which is the same as the one worn by The Guitar Player. The original probably belonged to Vermeer’s wife, and is mentioned in the inventory drawn up in 1676, the year after the artist’s death: a ‘yellow satin mantle with white fur trimmings’ – it was kept in the ‘groote zael’, or great hall. For those of you familiar with ermine, the fur worn by members of royalty, you will realise that this doesn’t look quite right: the black spots are too large and irregular – and don’t look like the tips of tails. This is a cheaper white fur (possibly rabbit) which has been died with black spots – to look like ermine. This is the sort of information you can find in what is my go-to source for Vermeer – Essential Vermeer. People often ask me what books I recommend, but I think this website beats everything for the amount of information it covers, the detail it includes, and the number of different approaches to Vermeer and his art that it explores. I’ll see you in 2027 when you’ve finished reading it all…

Whatever its material, the mantelpiece is profoundly rectilinear, with the vertical column supporting a horizontal mantel. The paintings, too, emphasize horizontals and verticals, and are framed by the vertical door jambs. This allows us to measure the movement of mistress and maid – the former leaning to our right, the latter tilting her head to our left. Notice how these movements echo the forms of the two highest billowing clouds in the painting behind them, and how the lean of the lady echoes that of the ship, as if she too is listing in the wind.

As I’ve already suggested, neither is doing what they probably should be doing. A laundry basket has been placed on the ground in what I presume is the groote zael of this house – which I imagine is not the right place for laundry. The maid could have plonked it there while delivering the letter. Next to it is a blue sewing cushion – and sewing, which implies occupying yourself in a focussed manner to put something right or to make something good, was commonly seen as indicating domestic virtue, something that every good woman should aspire to. And yet, the sewing cushion has been put aside, left on the floor (not even on a table), while the lady sits and strums. But then, If music be the food of love…

Despite the blue sky in the painting, maybe things are stormier than we think – it’s not plain sailing. The dark, dirty streaks on the wall beneath the map could have told us as much – and despite the brilliantly illuminated interior maybe the outlook is not as bright as it might appear: there could be clouds on teh horizon. But remember, this is just one interpretation – there are many others which could be equally (or more) valid. And, as we shall see on Monday, that is one of the things that keeps bringing us back to Vermeer.

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262 – Stand well back

Joseph Wright of Derby, The Annual Girandola at the Castel Sant’Angelo, 1775-76. Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool.

Wright of Derby: From the Shadows – the exhibition at The National Gallery which I will be talking about this Monday, 24 November at 6pm – is one of those exhibitions which takes a small slice of an artist’s life and covers it both beautifully and thoroughly. It’s not a large exhibition, but it is very rich, and there is more than enough to look at and think about to make a visit to Trafalgar Square worthwhile even if you do nothing else. The paintings look superb, the design is perfect, and the lighting is both evocative and appropriate. To avoid cutting further into that ‘small slice’ – which in some ways I did in August with 254 – Joseph Wright, changing your point of view – today I will look at a superb painting by Wright which falls outside the range of the works in the exhibition. Nevertheless, it does use many of the techniques the artist had learnt from the ‘candlelights’ and ‘moonlights’ which are the subject of From the Shadows.

The following week, 1 December, my starting point will be the first of two exhibitions in London this winter which focus on one loaned painting, Double Vision: Vermeer at Kenwood. The second will follow two weeks later, on 15 December, when I will look at – and around – the Wallace Collection’s Caravaggio’s Cupid. These two talks will be followed in the New Year with two more which will introduce exhibitions at Tate – Turner and Constable (Tate Britain) on 5 January, and Theatre Picasso (Tate Modern) on 12 January. More news is bound to follow soon in the diary.

At first glance you might wonder if we are looking at a natural – or manmade – disaster. In the dark of night the most enormous explosion seems to have taken place, an eruption of fire amid sizeable buildings. Fortunately, though, we are at a safe remove, with two tall umbrella pines acting as a screen, letting us know how far away we are from the fire, the smoke and all the sparks: we are definitely standing well back. A dark row of buildings marks the edge of a town, or city, with the furthest building – as far as we can see so far – being a large church with a notable dome. To one side of it, palaces are lit up with the golden glow of the conflagration, and facing it a round building is all-but enveloped by smoke. Sparks fly up into the sky in all directions.

Looking closer, though, the sparks might seem a little too ‘tidy’ to result from an uncontrolled fire. It may have been obvious to you before, but all this heat and light is the result of a firework display. The concentrated energy of the upward motion of the sparks allows us to track their origin to what appears to be an open space in front of the church. As the sparks rise their colour shifts from yellow to orange as they lose their energy – both in terms of movement and heat – and their parabolic trajectory starts to be noticeable. However, there is more than one type of firework. The main column of sparks, which opens out rather like a display of tall flowers in a narrow vase, is clearly bursting up from the ground, but there are also rockets which, in this detail at least, shoot along diagonals behind the trunks of the pines. The smoke which envelops the circular building would also appear to have developed from the base of the firework display.  

Getting closer still another thing becomes more obvious (although to some, again, it may have been obvious before). We are in Rome – or near Rome, at least. The church is none other than St Peter’s, and the round building in front of it the Castel Sant’Angelo. To the right of St Peter’s is the ‘Loggia di Raffaelo’, decorated by the great renaissance master, but almost completely inaccessible to the public today.

The top floor is open, supported by a row of columns (although it has now been glazed, to protect the frescoes), whereas the floor below has an arcade, with each arch framed by pilasters. Compare and contrast the above: I think it’s fair to say that Joseph Wright has been pretty accurate in his depiction – although he has heightened the drum of Michelangelo’s dome.

Accurate, that is, until you think about the relative locations of St Peter’s and the Castel Sant’Angelo. The latter is far closer to us in the painting – so it should appear to be far larger, potentially even blocking our view of the basilica, given the distance between them. However, Wright clearly wants us to see both: he wants us to know where we are. Given the angle of the rockets, they would appear to be flying out from the Piazza San Pietro, inside the enclosing arms of Bernini’s colonnades. However, the title of the painting tells us that this is not the case – the girandola was taking place at the Castel Sant’Angelo. Apart from the rooves of this structure, and the land immediately around it, there wasn’t much more open space in this part of Rome in the 18th century: the dramatic avenue leading from the Castel Sant’Angelo to the Piazza San Pietro – the Via della Conciliazione – was only started in 1936 on the orders of Mussolini. It involved the destruction of a row of buildings between two narrower streets to create the impressive width of the avenue, which wasn’t completed until 1950. There is no evidence of these buildings, or of the distance between the castle and the basilica, in Wright’s painting, though: this is a topography that depends on the ‘symbolism’ of notable buildings rather than on geographical accuracy.

The same is true further to the left. What stands out is the dome of the Pantheon, resting on its cylindrical walls. Standing a little closer to us is a column, with specks of light reflecting from its surfaces, suggesting that they are highly decorated with sculpture. This must be one of the two columns in Rome with spiralling reliefs. The assumption, in the texts that I have read, is that it is Trajan’s Column, probably because it is the more famous of the two (just to make the point, there is a plaster cast of the entire thing in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London). However, the Column of Marcus Aurelius would make marginally more sense. Looking from the right place on the Pincian Hill the Castel Sant’Angelo would appear to be to the left of the façade of St Peter’s, and the Pantheon would be off to the left – but far further off than Wright has suggested. You might even be able to find a place where the Column of Marcus Aurelius appears in front of the Pantheon – but it wouldn’t be the same place: this may be an amalgam of different views from the Pincian, with the buildings out of scale to allow them to be identified, and visible. However, this suggestion is thrown out of kilter by a building that could be a church with an octagonal ‘dome’ – although the structure is really a broad lantern with sections of a sloping roof. I think this is the Ospedale di Santo Spirito in Sassia. Again, compare and contrast:

On the façade Wright has painted the standard tripartite division of a church, whereas the building is divided into four – an early Renaissance ‘error’ in the revival of classical architecture, perhaps. It could be that he was making assumptions about the way in which such a gable-ended building is usually structured. I don’t know any other buildings in Rome with this sort of octagonal lantern, although they may have been altered, or hidden, since the 18th century. The gothic tracery of windows of the Ospedale’s lantern do seem very close to what Wright has depicted. If this is the Ospedale, though, it is at the Tiber end of the Via della Conciliazione – Mussolini’s 1930s avenue – and so not far from the Castel Sant’Angelo. It is nowhere near the Pantheon or either of the two columns. What Wright has painted is not an accurate cityscape, but a genre of painting known as a Capriccio – an imaginary landscape (or cityscape) ‘cutting and pasting’ known buildings – or invented ones – into a ‘capricious’ arrangement. It is a fantasy, a scrapbook of known monuments. However, the occurrence he is depicting – La Girandola – was a matter of historical fact.  Here’s another, more topographically accurate version of a similar occasion – or possibly even the same one – that Wright painted at about the same time (1776), which is now in the Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery: Firework Display at the Castel Sant’Angelo.

The Girandola of the title was a mechanism for mounting fireworks. They were set into a circular structure, and aligned in such a way that the force of the rockets firing out of it caused the entire thing to revolve – like a Catherine wheel, or pin wheel firework, but on a far larger scale. It took place annually – as the title of the painting suggests – on Easter Monday, but there could also be a girandola to celebrate the inauguration of a new pope. Wright left England on his own version of the Grand Tour in 1773, and was in Rome from 1774 to 1775. He would have been there for the conclave which elected Pope Pius VI in February 1775, but it seems far more likely that he witnessed the girandola of Easter 1774. On returning to England he would have used sketches he made in Rome, together with his memories of the event, to complete the paintings, adding in more or less artistic license along the way.

In both cases – the paintings in Liverpool and Birmingham – he paired the image with an equivalent of Vesuvius erupting. Although he did travel south to Naples to see the volcano, which was going through what is termed an ‘eruptive sub-cycle’ in the 1770s, it is very unlikely that he witnessed a ‘major’ eruption – although you wouldn’t know that from the paintings. He was an artist, after all. The pairing was quite deliberate – fireworks from the earth compared with handmade eruptions, or, to put it in his own words, “The one the greatest effect of Nature, the other of Art that I suppose can be”. Both would have been considered manifestations of the Sublime, defined by Edmund Burke in 1757 as the experience of encountering something that inspires awe, terror, and astonishment, producing the strongest emotions the mind can feel, saying that ‘whatever is in any sort terrible or is conversant about terrible objects or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime’.

Fireworks are, of course, dangerous, hence the instruction I remember from my childhood to ‘light blue touch paper and stand well back’. I suspect that the people operating the girandola may not have been given this luxury – nor was ‘health and safety’ a consideration for the people lowered by rope from the lantern of the dome of St Peter’s to light all the candles you can see illuminating it in the background of the Birmingham painting. The candlesticks are still there: you can see them if you look over the balcony of the lantern of St Peter’s to this day (but only on the side facing Rome).

In both paintings, though, Wright clearly was standing well back. For the Liverpool version he imagined himself to be far enough away to allow him to include the two umbrella pines – even if experience would suggest that he probably invented the entire foreground landscape. As I said above, the pines create a dark screen against which the strength of the brilliant illuminations can be measured, and they also allow us to trace the almost random path of the rockets – one of which has exploded, illuminating the edges of nearby clouds. They also encourage us to look into the depth of the painting, thus acting as a form of repoussoir.

And yet – as this detail suggests – even this far away may not be far enough: a rocket is landing at the foot of the pines, in the foreground of the painting. This would surely induce anxiety in the minds of anyone physically present – but safe as we are at home, looking at our screens, or in the comfort of the art gallery, it need not concern us too much. This too is part of the experience of Burke’s ‘Sublime’ – the knowledge that such awe and terror exist, and yet, we need not be afraid: we get the thrill, but not the danger. It even allows us a space to enjoy the fear – not unlike watching a thriller on T.V. The British, in particular, seem to love a good murder – just think about Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doyle – maybe (just ‘maybe) this is the heritage of the Sublime gradually bubbling away… The paintings in From the Shadows are, on the whole, more domestic, and might not, at first glance, appear to produce that much of a threat. But the size and scale of the solar system, or the inevitability of death, are nevertheless bound to present an undeniable sense of awe… as we will find out on Monday.

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261 – Joining the dots

Anna Boch, During the Elevation, 1893. Mu.ZEE, Ostend.

I confess that I have never visited the Kröller-Müller Museum in Otterlo, despite the fact that it has the most extraordinary collection of paintings: before the opening of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, for example, this was the best collection of his work. The majority of the paintings in the National Gallery’s sparkling exhibition Radical Harmony: Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists come from there, and have been loaned as the result of a major expansion. Having seen the exhibition – which I will be discussing this Monday, 17 November – I am keener than ever to go: a stunning building, in extensive parkland far from the madding crowds, with one of the best collections of early modernist paintings – I can’t think why I’ve waited so long! More of that on Monday, though. The following week, on 24 November, I will return to the National Gallery to see the truly illuminating (and beautifully lit) exhibition Wright of Derby: From the Shadows. This will conclude the first part of my 2 + 2 + 2 series – two talks about exhibitions at the National Gallery, two talks on exhibitions inspired by the loan of a single painting, and two on shows at Tate. Next up will be Double Vision: Vermeer at Kenwood on 1 December and Caravaggio’s Cupid (at the Wallace Collection) on 15 December. Tate Britain’s Turner and Constable and Tate Modern’s Picasso Theatre will follow in January – keep an eye on the diary for more information. Meanwhile, back to Radical Harmony.

It is a sunny day, with bright light flooding the path which leads from the bottom left corner of the painting to a shadowy building located in the top right, thus creating a diagonal which also draws our eye into the painting. The building, and the people outside it, cast purplish shadows along an opposite diagonal. These people appear to be approaching the large, half-open doorway with their heads bowed. As this is a painting they do not move, of course, but other details suggest that they are not moving anyway: a child has her feet placed firmly on the ground next to each other, and a man leans over a chair, his right knee resting on its seat. The heel of his right foot falls on the central vertical axis of the painting, and this, like the gentle diagonals, helps to create a sense of harmony and balance across the painting. This order is enhanced – subconsciously perhaps – by the placement of the building. The bottom of the wall is located roughly a third of the way up the right-hand edge, while the left side of the wall is just over a third of the way from right to left.

There is nothing about the architectural detailing to tell us that this is a church. The dappled walls are a purplish grey – not that dissimilar in hue to the shadows on the ground – while the inner edge of the door frame, which is catching the sunlight, is built up from dashes of a cream-coloured paint. There are flecks of this same light colour among the darker shades of the purple-grey walls. It is clearly a large building – the door is nearly twice the height of the people outside – but there is no decoration, no ‘symbolism’, to tell us that it is a church. So how do we know? In part, we rely on the behaviour of the people depicted: they bow their heads in reverence. Of course, the title also helps: During the Elevation. This is a key moment during the Mass: it is during the elevation of the host, when the priest ceremonially lifts the communion bread, or wafer, above the altar, that transubstantiation takes place. In Roman Catholic belief this means that the bread becomes the actual body of Christ. Hence the reverence: God is imminent, physically present among these people. So strong is the faith of this devout community that the church is full, and people remain outside. One of the large, green shutters of the door has been pushed open to reveal the shadowy interior, but all we can see is a dark grey rectangle, and the indistinct form of a woman near the door who is wearing what is presumably the same sort of dark, hooded cape and white headdress worn by the two women stood next to the child outside. It is not clear why the man at the back of the group has a chair – but maybe he cannot stand for the full duration of the Mass. Nevertheless, he is standing at this significant moment, having turned the chair around for support.

Behind him – or rather, to our left of him, on the picture surface – we see the clues which, even without the title, would have told us that this is some form of church, or chapel: crosses in a graveyard. The shadow of the church cuts a firm, straight line through the grass and plants, with both light and dark greens surrounding the two crosses we can see here. One tilts dramatically to the right, almost as if in reverence, just like the members of the congregation, but also implying that this is an old settlement, its fabric subject to decay. Both crosses appear to be the same purple as the shadow – and that is because the side we see is in the shade: only the right edges catch the sun.

There are maybe as many as eight more crosses visible here – one is cut off by the frame at the far left of this detail, and one is just a vertical stroke of paint (so might not be a cross at all). Again, a sense of history (or geographical insecurity?) is revealed by the various angles at which they lean. The shadow of the church does not create such a clear-cut line here, but that is presumably because the ground is not so flat, or the plants are growing more unevenly. The sun shines brightly on parts of the wall surrounding a building beyond the graveyard. It has an orange-red slated roof, and its gabled end is in shadow. Behind it are dunes, with patches of vegetation growing in the sand. We are on the edge of the sea, in a small fishing village in Belgium not far from Ostend.

If we move down the left-hand side of the painting a little, we see a riot of different coloured brushstrokes. While the roof of the back section of the building has a series of parallel strokes, elsewhere the application of the paint is not directional. There are short flicks of the paint, dabs of light and shade, and small, luminous dots. The colours in the shadow are far more varied than they are in the sunlight, where there is a pale lime and a darker bottle green, almost as if the brilliance of the sun is bleaching some of the colour out. In the shadow we can see pale blues, lavenders, pinks and greens, and touches of black (or is that a very dark purple?). The crosses, on the whole, are built up from single bold strokes, although these are modulated somewhat according to what is growing around them. This variety of types of brushstroke really goes to show the problems with naming this style ‘Pointillism’. First, in English, the word ‘point’ has a slightly different meaning to the equivalent in French. The translation into English of the French word ‘point’ (pronounced ‘pwuh’) would be ‘dot’, whereas in English, the word ‘point’ suggests – to me at least – an almost infinitesimal, dimensionless mark. Even if we define ‘point’ as ‘dot’, this painting is not built up from dots. Yes, there are dots, but there are also dabs, dashes, flicks, and strokes, not to mention some broad areas of palin colour. A better name for the style might be ‘Divisionism’, a term which is often used. This is because the individual colours are divided into separate brushstrokes, rather than being blended together on the palette before being applied to the canvas. The reasoning behind this comes from Seurat, who thought that, when mixed on the palette, the colours lost their original brilliance. However, if applied separately, and in small brushstrokes, the original colours would blend in the eye, and not only would they maintain their luminosity, but they would also interact with one another to create an unparalleled freshness. This freshness, together with the liveliness of the painted surfaces, are just two of the most striking features of the National Gallery’s exhibition. However, the name which the artists themselves settled on was ‘Neo-Impressionism’. They saw themselves as taking a new approach to Impressionist ideas about light and colour, and the ways in which these technical means were used to say something about the contemporary world, while also giving their paintings a greater sense of permanence, harmony, and often, even, political relevance – which was, in its own way, radical.

Whatever the initial impulse, many artists adopted Seurat’s technique – but they all had their own way of doing it, in the same way that we all have different handwriting. The Belgian artist Théo van Rysselberghe was impressed by the paintings by Seurat and Signac which he saw at the eighth (and final) Impressionist exhibition in Paris in 1886. He invited them to contribute to the next outing of the Brussels-based group Les XX (Les Vingt – ‘the twenty’), of which he had been a founding member just three years before. The roll call of artists changed, inevitably, and as one moved on, another was invited to take their place. In 1885 they were joined by the only woman ever invited to become one of Les Vingt, Anna Boch – the artist of today’s painting.

She too had taken up the gauntlet thrown down by Seurat and Signac, and, like her male contemporaries, she did so in her own way. In the detail above, taken from the bottom left corner of the painting, we can see that she must have sketched the long, thin lines which define the flagstones of the path using the purple ‘shadow’ colour, before continuing with a variety of colours and strokes. The grass in the shadow is particularly dark here, but there are also some wonderfully rich buttery yellows along the edge of the path. The tendency with these paintings is to stand at a distance – to try and get the effect of the brushstrokes blending in the eye – and that is a good way to see them, but not the only way. The artists wanted to create optical vibrations, so it is also rewarding to get as close as you can to see how just how they managed this – if indeed they did – and precisely how they applied the paint. Just beyond the path Boch uses short, horizontal, apparently ‘painterly’ strokes (even if they are too short for this to be truly ‘painterly’, you can at least see the marks of the individual hairs of her brush, reminding us that this is indeed paint). Elsewhere there are flicks of colour, and tiny dots – notably in the lavender of the shadows at the top right.

The dots are most evident, though, around the sharp edge at the front left corner of the church. Note especially the tiny off-white dots which come down in a band to the left of the wall and over the blunt pyramid on top of the feature projecting to our left of the church, the architectural function of which I can’t explain. These light dots contrast strongly with the dark corner of the wall itself, built up as the purple of the shadows increases in intensity as it gets closer to the edge. Most of the rest of the sky appears to consist of light, powder-blue dabs on top of a slightly greyer ground. The intention is to make the edge of the wall more vivid: boundaries are often a key feature of Neo-Impressionist paintings. There is a certain artificiality to many of them, and this was intentional: seeking geometrical forms, and simplifying what you see, as if trying to discern the Platonic ideals behind the vagaries of our worldly existence, while also creating harmony within contrasts. When thinking about Neo-Impressionism we tend to focus on colour, but tone – the variation of light and dark – was also fundamental to Neo-Impressionist thought. They were interested, whether they knew it or not, in abstract values, and their art turned out to be an important stage in the development of abstraction – not that this was a conscious goal. However, the idea that abstraction was on the horizon (a deliberate choice of word) is perhaps best illustrated in some of the later landscapes by Henry van de Velde – as we will see on Monday.

The extreme variation in brushstroke adopted by Anna Boch is best seen on the roof of the building to our left of the curious architectural form. The edges of the roof are defined by short, curved, brushstrokes of white paint, almost like the rectangular ‘tiles’ of the Impressionist tache, or ‘mark’, created with one short stroke of a flat brush. The roof itself, though, is made up of a series of long, parallel, diagonal strokes made with a fairly dry brush. This has left little paint behind, with the pale beige ground visible behind the broken, uneven strokes. This technique might remind you of another artist, one who is far more famous now than he was then. To my eye, this roof looks just like Van Gogh. The painting dates to 1893, whereas Vincent died in July, 1890. His work was still not well known to the general public – but Anna Boch was not the general public. Van Gogh’s reputation amongst his colleagues was running high, and in January 1890 – just six months before his death – he was invited to exhibit with Les XX. Six of his paintings were exhibited, and one of them, The Red Vineyard, was actually sold – the only one of his paintings sold from an exhibition during his lifetime. And yes, it was Anna Boch who bought it. Until recently, if she was known at all, she was known as the woman who bought a Van Gogh. Independently wealthy, she was able to pursue a career as an artist, and to collect the works of colleagues she admired. However, until recently her own paintings were relatively little known. An exhibition of her work staged at two venues, Ostend and Pont-Aven, took place between 2023 and 2024, and this has finally put her more firmly on the map. It has certainly led to her inclusion in Radical Harmony at the National Gallery, even though her work was not collected by Helene Kröller-Müller. We can’t be sure why not.

This detail is from a different digital file – most of the rest are my own photographs. I didn’t have this particular detail, or at least, I didn’t have it with this clarity. I’ve mentioned several times that the shadows are ‘purplish’. Here, admittedly, there is no ‘ish’ about it – purple, mauve, lavender, however you see this colour, that is what it is. This complements – optically – the colour of the path, a light, creamy yellow. Anna Boch, like the other Neo-Impressionists – and the Impressionists before them – is relying on a colour theory which, however much it must have been inherently understood by artists across the centuries, only dates in a systematic form to 1839, when Eugène Chevreul published On the Law of the Simultaneous Contrast of Colours. Simply put – and you know this already – the three primary colours red, yellow and blue can be mixed to make the three secondary colours green, purple and orange. In a colour wheel, the opposite colours are called ‘complementary’. This is a version published by Chevreul 25 years later which makes the point more subtly – and with 72 different hues.

Basically, we don’t see digitally, but by comparison. On entering a dark room we are first struck by the absence of light, but our eyes – and minds – soon get used to it. It is the same with colour. The absence of light is dark, and if the light is seen as yellow – as sunlight so often is – then the absence of that light will be the opposite of yellow on the colour wheel – purple. Hence the purple shadows in this painting. Not only that, but if painted next to each other, the yellow will make the purple look more purple, and vice versa – so if dots of these colours are intermingled, the surfaces will look all the more vibrant. This is the basis of the use of colour in Neo-Impressionism. The artists constantly sought harmony in contrast. They applied the same rules to colour, to light and dark, and, for that matter, to people. I’ve never seen anyone state it this explicitly – or simplistically – but we are all like the individual dots of colour. Each of us has our own character, and we all work together to build society. All you have to do is to join the dots, sharing different opinions to connect with the rest of your community with harmony – and preferably, with respect, just as Anna Boch paints her subjects here. Precisely how you interpret this idea is, like the way in which the different Neo-Impressionists applied their paint, completely up to you. We’ll look at the choices they made on Monday.

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260 – Saints, Martyrs, and Saints in waiting (More of the ‘More things’)

Fra Angelico, The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs and The Dominican Blessed, about 1424-25. The National Gallery, London.

This week I reach the end of my exploration of the Fra Angelico exhibition in Florence, looking at his Students and Successors on Monday, 3 November at 6pm. This will include popping back into the Palazzo Strozzi to see the last section of the exhibition I haven’t covered, dealing with the work that he – and his workshop – carried out in Rome. It will also introduce the ‘School of San Marco’ with a rich array of paintings by artists who flourished in the 16th century whose work, like the work of Fra Angelico himself, can best be seen in San Marco itself. If you haven’t managed to catch all four of the talks, I did a slightly reduced version for ARTscapades, and they are still available as ‘catch up’ recordings of two study evenings which I named (slightly inaccurately it turns out) as ‘Origins’ and ‘Influence’.

After so much time among religious orders, I will take a week off before switching to political radicals, with the socially engaged and artistically engaging works of Seurat and his Neo-Impressionist circle. The talk, Radical Harmony, will introduce the National Gallery’s popular exhibition of Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists on Monday 17 November. I will then move back a century, and to the Enlightenment, with another National Gallery exhibition, Wright of Derby: From the Shadows on 24 November. The last two talks this year will look at two single-painting exhibitions, Double Vision: Vermeer at Kenwood  (at Kenwood House, Hampstead) and Caravaggio’s Cupid (at the Wallace Collection), on 1 and 15 December respectively. They’ll go on sale soon, so keep your eye on the diary!

If you read last week’s post you’ll realise that I’m playing catch up. Last week I wanted to talk about all of this painting, the panel to the right of centre of the predella from Fra Angelico’s Fiesole Altarpiece, but I realised that there was just too much to say. So this week I will look at the rest of this panel, and cover the two outer panels as well – although maybe not in quite so much depth. Having talked about the top row of figures already – the forerunners of Christ – what remains are the Saints and Martyrs. I’ll start in the centre row, going from left to right, and then carry on with the bottom row from right to left… I’ve found a different digital file for this week – one which is embedded in the online catalogue entry by Dillian Gordon – and I’m using that here as it isn’t cropped as close as the other version available on the NG’s website. If you look closely you can see the wooden edge of the panel, and the barb where the engaged frame has been removed. Using this one allows you to see the figures round the edges more fully.

The five figures we can see clearly in this detail are all carrying palm leaves – a symbol of victory over death, and often held by angels who are about to hand them to someone who is being martyred: these people are all martyrs, they were all killed because of their beliefs. At the front of the group, on our left, is the protomartyr, the first person to be killed because he was Christian: St Stephen. His story is told in the Acts of the Apostles, Chapters 6 and 7. A deacon in the early church, he criticized the Sanhedrin for not following God’s law, and this led to him being being dragged out of the city of Jerusalem and stoned. He is often shown with a stone, or stones, resting on his head or shoulders, and there is one, looking like a small white blob, at the top of his back where the green robe joins his gold collar. Behind him are Sts Cyprian and Clement, a bishop and a pope respectively, whose names are written on the gold bands of their hats. The next two, in blue and red, have the same robes as St Stephen, with a small, patterned rectangle in front of their chests, apparently hung over their shoulders. They must also be deacons. One supports a millstone, and the other, a grill: the latter is perhaps one of the better known saints, St Lawrence. The other is St Vincent of Saragossa, who was thrown into the sea with this millstone tied around his neck. However, as so often in the attempt to murder Saints, this didn’t work: even tied to a millstone his body floated to the surface.

Moving further back the first two of of these martyrs cannot be identified, but they are followed by St Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, whose name is on his mitre. He was a widely revered figure, and, with a feast day on 29 December, he was a regular part of the extended Christmas celebrations. There was a chapel dedicated to him in Santa Maria Novella, the mother church of San Domenico for which this predella was painted, which might explain his inclusion here. Next to him is the early Dominican martyr, St Peter, his head and shoulder red with the blood from wounds inflicted by the cleaver (head) and dagger (back) with which he was killed. The two men in pink, with blue hats (rather than the red, which becomes more common) are the brothers Cosmas and Damian, doctors, who are best known as patron saints of the Medici family because, unlike the Medici, they were actually medics. However, at the time this was painted the Medici had not yet attained the level of power, or patronage, for which they are now famous, and the inclusion of Cosmas and Damian in this image relates to their high status within the church from as early as the 4th century.

In this detail, the man holding an arrow at the far left is assumed to be St Sebastian – even though he is fully dressed. This seems unusual in Tuscany, where he is almost always depicted in little but a loin cloth (however, he is often shown as a young, well-dressed nobleman in the Marche – notably in paintings by Carlo Crivelli). It is not as if a saint couldn’t be shown nearly naked: the hermit Onuphrius on the opposite panel is wearing nothing but a garland of leaves around his waist, for example. The bishop saint, holding a heart with ‘yhs’ (an abbreviation of ‘Jesus’) inscribed on it many times is St Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, and the soldier with a silver helmet could be St George – but there are plenty of other soldiers to choose from, if we’re honest, and without a dragon we can’t be sure. It is suggested that the man with blood round his forehead could be San Miniato – but he had his head chopped off at the neck, so this wound would seem irrelevant. St Nicasius of Rheims had the top of his head removed, but he doesn’t seem to have been revered much outside of France. However, his story is told in the Golden Legend, apparently – and as that was compiled by a Dominican, Jacopo da Voragine, it would have been well known among the Dominicans who commissioned (and painted) this altarpiece. The identification of St Christopher seems more secure, even if he doesn’t appear in the way you might expect (the Christ Child is not sitting on his shoulder). As a giant who acted as a ferryman across a deep river, he usually carries a staff, which, given his size, is often shown as an uprooted tree – and he is certainly carrying one here. Also, given that he was regularly striding through water, he tends to have bare legs. This figure is one of the four in the predella who are kneeling on one knee rather than two (I mentioned them last week), and this allows Fra Angelico to show that he does indeed have bare legs. Finally, we have Sts Sixtus II and St Erasmus, another pope and bishop, who once more are identified by the inscriptions on their hat bands. However, for three of the martyrs here there is no possibility of guessing who they are – which again begs the question: did Fra Angelico know? Given that there is no documentation for the altarpiece, it is very hard to say. In most commissions for altarpieces, or any church decoration, the patron would get advice from a religious figure, and usually someone from the church for which the work was being commissioned, to help in deciding who or what should be included, and this advisor could also make suggestions to the artist. But in this case, the artist was one of the patrons, as he was painting for his own church. He, and all of his fellow friars, were very well educated… so they could have discussed it amongst themselves. Alternatively, they could have turned to the prior – or some especially gifted theologian among their number – for advice. It seems likely that the Fiesole Altarpiece as a whole was one of the first paintings that Fra Angelico executed on taking the Dominican habit – and I wonder if he is including all of these saints, martyrs, and forerunners of Christ as part of his preparation, or as ‘revision’ of what he has learnt so far having joined the order? I even wonder if these are the ‘notes’ he is taking to visualise – and so learn – who all the saints and martyrs were.

Apart from the Virgin Mary, in the position of honour at Christ’s right hand (at the top right of the left-hand panel), this is the first time we have seen any women. So here they are, finally, on ‘the distaff side’ – at the left hand of Jesus. Unfortunately, though, there is very little that is certain, and few clues to identify the paltry number of figures represented – but then, this was an all-male convent. The woman carrying the cross is St Helen, mother of the Emperor Constantine, who travelled to the Holy Land and discovered the True Cross – the Cross on which Jesus was crucified. Her name is also written on her crown: Sancta Lena. Behind her is a nun carrying a lighted candle. This is St Bridget of Sweden – who we will see on Monday in a later painting by Fra Angelico: the reason for the candle will become clear. Before founding her own order (the Bridgettines), she had been a Franciscan tertiary – one of whom is shown in the Franciscan habit, with a rope belt, just next to her… This could be one of her companions, I suppose, but there is nothing to say precisely who it is.

Again, with the exception of St Catherine, with her wheel, in the centre of this detail, it is hard to tell who any of the figures are – although the woman carrying a cross just next to her is probably St Margaret of Antioch. However, like St George, without her dragon we can’t be sure (there are some tentative suggestions for more of these saints in the catalogue entry, if you would like to follow them up). The fact is, although the names of many saints were known, it’s not as if anyone had researched them and their history. The Golden Legend, the collection of stories of the lives of the saints which I mentioned earlier, was gathered together in the 1260s by Jacopo da Voragine, a Dominican friar and later Archbishop of Genoa. The fact that he was a Dominican is probably not coincidental – but everyone knew the Golden Legend anyway: it was one of the texts which was used to teach people to read.

Even at the front of the group, closest to Jesus, the identification of these women is not obvious – with the exception of St Agnes. She is usually shown carrying a lamb (‘agnus’ in Latin), but here it has become, specifically, agnus dei, the Lamb of God, with the addition of a crossed halo and a red wound in the chest. This is relatively rare, but not unknown. Two of the women are not carrying palms leaves – so they must be saints who were not martyrs. The catalogue suggests they could be Mary and Martha – i.e. Mary Magdalene, identified since the time of Pope Gregory the Great as Martha’s sister – but I can’t see any signs or symbols which could confirm that. Neither is wearing red, nor are there signs of penitence, to imply that one of them could be the Magdalene. Nor is there a jar of precious ointment, which, with her long red hair, is her main attribute. Even the identity of the woman at the front of the group is not clear. She is not a martyr – unlike the woman in red next to her, who is holding a palm leaf. The first female martyr is said to be St Thecla, a follower of St Paul, although as her life is first reported in the apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, dating to the second half of the second century, her feast day was removed from the General Roman Calendar in the 1960s. Nevertheless, she is still revered in some churches, and would have been, generally, in the 15th century. It would certainly make sense to have the female protomartyr just below St Stephen, her male equivalent. However, if this is her, this is the first time I have seen her in a painting. This leaves one last woman, the closest woman to Jesus after the Virgin Mary, but who would that be? The National Gallery catalogue states, quite simply, that it is ‘Saint Anne (diagonally opposite the Virgin)’. This would make sense, but there is no visual evidence to support the identification, nor have I ever come across ‘diagonally opposite’ as a category. Not only that, but I can’t think of another representation of St Anne by Fra Angelico, and I have a feeling that the Dominicans weren’t especially interested in the story of the Virgin’s origins. The Immaculate Conception was a specifically Franciscan doctrine, and the feast day was not approved for the church as a whole until 1476 – and that was by a Franciscan Pope, Sixtus IV. Not only this, but St Anne usually – but not always – wears red: this woman wears a cangiante blue/pink robe. You could argue, of course, that Fra Angelico doesn’t always use the ‘standard’ colours, and indeed, that these colours weren’t ‘official’ anyway. For example, he dresses St Peter in yellow and pink rather than yellow and blue, as we saw when we looked at the opposite panel a couple of weeks ago. However, the blue/pink colours of this woman’s robes are the same blue and pink as the clothes worn by Adam, two rows above her. If Adam leads the forerunners of Christ, who better to lead the only row of women than Eve? A comparison with Andrea Bonaiuti’s Harrowing of Hell (also known as The Descent into Limbo, by the way) might help here, as it did last week.

In Bonaiuti’s painting, Adam is wearing a long blue robe. At his left side (the ‘distaff side’) – just in front of him from our point of view – is a woman in pink. Who else would this be at the front of the gathering than Eve? Fra Angelico’s work for San Marco makes several references to paintings in Santa Maria Novella – most notably the Crucifixion – and I think this is another example. I’m sure that, in this predella panel, he is painting Eve – he’s even chosen to paint Adam and Eve in similar blues and pinks. Bonaiuti shows another woman, in red, in the top row, and this is a similar red to the one worn by St Anne in Masolino and Masaccio’s Virgin and Child with St Anne in the Uffizi. Having said that, I can’t see any reason why St Anne should be placed here in the crowd. At Noah’s left hand, this woman is far more likely to be Mrs Noah, who had a far greater presence in Christian mythology than she does in the Bible.

The remaining two panels include characters we have already met, and who we will meet again when we discuss the School of San Marco in the talk this coming Monday. Narrower than the other panels, they were placed at the base of the two pilasters on either side of the altarpiece. They frame the rest of the predella, and all of the people depicted have something in common: they are members of the Dominican Order, the Order of Preachers. You can see this clearly: they are all wearing the black and white habit – although, if you look closely, a few people are wearing minor variants, a result of their differing status within the order. They kneel in adoration of Jesus and of the heavenly host – which they frame – and, in doing this, they are effectively the predecessors of the Dominican intercessors who are present in the frescoes of Fra Angelico we saw in last Monday’s talk: people setting a good example which we should follow. And the people depicted here are especially good. All but two have beams of light radiating from their heads – and at this point in history, that means that they are on their way to Sainthood, but haven’t got there yet, so are not worthy of a full halo. They have been beatified as a result of their sanctity, but, as yet, no miracles have been performed in their name, so they have not yet been canonised as Saints – although after this image was painted, some were.

This is the bottom row on the left hand panel. The four women at the front wear a white tunic and scapular just like the men above them, but rather than the black, hooded, cappa they have a black cloak, and a black veil over their heads. They are Dominican nuns – considered the secondary order, with the friars as the primary order. Behind them is a man who appears to be one of the friars, but he is wearing a black scapular, rather than a white one. He is a member of the tertiary order – the third order of Dominicans. He follows the Rule of St Dominic, but does not live in the convent – he lives at home, and carries out the normal life of a layman, while remaining entirely devout.

On the other side there are four more women, but they have a white veil over their heads, rather than a black one. Rather than nuns, they are female tertiaries – who, like the male tertiaries, also live outside a convent while following the Rule. Behind them are two men dressed a bit like the others in black and white, but we can see their belts clearly: they are not wearing the scapular, and nor are they wearing the cappa. They wear a cloak without a hood, but they do have black hats. Also, unlike the others in these two panels, they do not have the radiance of the Blessed. In some way they must be related to the commission, they could even be the patrons of the altarpiece. As I’ve said before, though, the Fiesole Altarpiece was paid for by the bequest of Barnaba degli Agli (hence the appearance of St Barnabas, the ‘fourteenth apostle’, on the altarpiece and in the predella). These may be some of his relatives. Dillian Gordon suggests they could be Jacopo and Domenico, two of his sons, as he left his ‘right of patronage’ of the convent to them: their appearance here makes perfect sense. If you want to know more about the Blessed who can be identified it would be worthwhile consulting the catalogue yourselves, as I only want to mention three of them.

All are labelled, either in black or white script, and usually against their white or black clothing: the writing reflects their Dominican heritage. However, this man, in the top row, and closest to the centre on Jesus’s left – so the highest in status on this particular panel – has his name written on his open book. His mitre – the two-pointed hat – tells us he was a bishop, and the open book suggests he was either a preacher, or was learned (or both). That might not help much, as this is the Order of Preachers, so they all preached, and they all had to be learned in order to preach orthodox beliefs as part of their mission to combat heresy. However, they had to learn from someone. Even a scholar as great as St Thomas Aquinas had a master – and this is the man. The Blessed Albertus Magnus, as he is named here (c. 1200-1280), was a German Dominican who wanted to align Aristotelian philosophy with Christian belief, a task that St Thomas Aquinas perfected. He was finally canonised, as St Albert the Great, in 1931.

Two rows below him is the most important of the women in the right panel. She is named as ‘b. caterina’ – Beata (or Blessed) Catherine. Look at the delicacy with which she is painted – the tiny dots of white marking the fringing all around the hem of her headdress, for example, and the gilding of her bible, including the edges of the leaves of parchment. A Dominican tertiary who used her freedom to travel widely and speak truth to (male) power, in 1461 she was canonised as St Catherine of Siena (1347-80) by Pope Pius II – notably a Sienese pope. In 1939 she became co-patron of Italy (alongside St Francis, thus bridging the two major mendicant orders), and since 1999 she has also been one of the patrons of Europe. At the beginning of the 16th century a convent for nuns was dedicated to her on the opposite corner of the piazza from San Marco, and that is where the artist of the image on the right must have learnt to paint: Plautilla Nelli, some of whose works we will see on Monday.

And finally, on the left panel, in the second (or even third?) row down, and third from the right – so in no especially important place – is ‘.b.vi˜ce˜ti.’ – although the squiggles are above the vowels. They mark abbreviations: the Blessed Vincenzo (1350-1419), who was canonised as St Vincent Ferrer in 1455. Given that both St Catherine of Siena and St Vincent Ferrer are named among the Blessed, these names must have been written before 1455. As I said a couple of weeks ago, given that it would have been difficult to add names to the altarpiece after it had been completed – which would have involved either moving a sizeable, weighty altarpiece, or clambering over the altar with the black and white paint – it seems far more likely that these names, and those on the other panels, were part of the original conception of the predella. St Vincent Ferrer would later be painted by one of Fra Angelico’s successors as an ‘official’ Dominican artist, Fra Bartolomeo, and that’s St Vincent, above one of the cells of the extended convent of San Marco, in the detail on the right. We’ll talk about Fra Bartolomeo more on Monday, too – so I do hope you can join me.

If you got to the end of this excessively long post – congratulations! And if you’ve read all four – well, I just hope that they will encourage you to spend more time with the panels themselves the next time you can get to the National Gallery. Thank you!

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259 – There are more things in Heaven and Earth…

Fra Angelico, The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs, about 1423-4. The National Gallery, London.

So far I have discussed most of what can be seen in the glorious Fra Angelico exhibition/s in Florence, covering the first room in San Marco and most rooms in the Palazzo Strozzi. However, if you manage to get to Florence, there is always more to see, and that is the reasoning behind the third and fourth talks. This week, on Monday 27 October at 6pm, we will be At home in San Marco, even though Fra Angelico didn’t actually change his allegiance from his own ‘house’ as a friar, San Domenico, just outside Fiesole. He was certainly at home there, and I will start with the work he produced for that convent, before moving back down the hill to San Marco. The majority of the talk will be about the frescoes he and his workshop carried out in the cells and communal spaces there. The week after (3 November) we will will thinks about his Students and Successors, looking at the work he executed outside of Florence towards the end of his life – in Orvieto and Rome – and introducing some of the assistants who worked alongside him (including Benozzo Gozzoli and Zanobi Strozzi). The talk will also cover the so-called ‘School of San Marco’ – artists associated with the convent in the 16th Century who could, as both artists and Dominicans, be counted as Fra Angelico’s ‘successors’. These include Fra Bartolomeo, Fra Paolino, and Suor Plautilla – the first Florentine woman recognised as having had a successful career as an artist.

I’ll need a week off after that for a change of gear, with two talks about exhibitions at the National Gallery: Radical Harmony – Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists on 17 November, and the week after (24 November), Wright of Derby: From the Shadows. I’ve nearly settled on the talks for December, but keep changing my mind – so keep your eyes on the diary for more information.

Today though, having talked about two of the panels from the predella of Fra Angelico’s first major altarpiece (or, at least, the first that survives) I will move on to a third – the one to the right of centre. I had originally intended to cover the whole panel, but there’s so much in it I’ve decided I’ll have to look at it in two posts. This week we’ll look at the top row of figures, with the others to follow next week – and I’ll add in the last two smaller panels at the far left and right as a coda. Trust me, with a couple of notable exceptions the people represented in them are really rather obscure – unless you are a Dominican historian.

At first glance, the structure of this panel looks much the same as the one I discussed last week. Apart from the fact that everyone is facing to our left (because they are looking towards Jesus in the centre of the predella) there are, again, three rows of holy figures kneeling in prayer or adoration. We know that they are all holy, as all have haloes, and, once you get closer, you will see that, as before, the haloes in the lower two rows are ringed with black, but in the top row they are not. However, if you look back at last week’s panel – The Virgin Mary with the Apostles and Other Saints – there is a difference. In that composition there was more space, with figures like the Virgin Mary, St Jerome, and St Paul the Hermit slightly isolated from the others. In this panel the composition is more crowded, and even though one or two figures stand out, on the whole they appear more tightly packed. Indeed, last week’s panel included 52 individuals. This week, there are 65… I can’t explain why this should be, apart from the fact that, in Hamlet’s words (Act 1 Scene 5) ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’. OK, so Shakespeare had not been born when this was painted, but you get the idea – and that’s why I’ve decided to talk about the panel over two posts. The haloes tell us that these figures are holy, and the word ‘saint’ comes from the Latin ‘sanctus’, which also means ‘holy’. However, not all of these figures are Saints, in the traditional sense.

Unlike last week, when I started with the characters nearest to Jesus, who would therefore appear to be the most important, I want to start with those furthest away, at the top right. This will make it far easier to understand what they have in common, and so to work out who some of them are.

The ease of identification is the result – as it was for some of the otherwise obscure Saints last week – of having their names clearly painted on the panel. Two of the characters here have scrolls on which their names are inscribed – we would call them Zeccharia and Habakkuk. They are Old Testament prophets – people from the Jewish scriptures whose prophecies Christians interpret as referring to the coming of Jesus Christ. Even without their names, we would suspect that they are Old Testament prophets, as they hold scrolls. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but more often than not anyone holding a scroll comes from the Old Testament, and anyone with a Codex (a book with turnable pages, as opposed to one you unroll – basically what we would now call a ‘book’) is from the New. That’s quite simply because scrolls came before codices, the latter appearing in the 1st century, and developing to become more dominant by the 4th – thus paralleling the development of Christianity itself. Each of the two prophets points to his scroll, and looks at the other – but neither seems that happy. It could be that they disagree about what will come to pass, but I suspect it’s because they know that things will go badly before they get better: the Messiah will suffer before we are redeemed. The other two in this detail are also thought of as prophets – Daniel’s name is written just below the gold neckline of his robe, while Jonah’s is written on his book – the Book of Jonah (thus demonstrating that the scrolls vs. codices distinction is not clear cut). Why did Fra Angelico use their names rather than symbols to identify them? Well, he’s got to fit 65 people onto this panel, and there probably wasn’t space for a den of lions, let alone a whale.

More prophets in this detail: Joel has his name on his shirt, like Daniel, while Ezekiel’s is on his rather fancy hat. Isaiah and Jeremiah on the other hand have theirs on their scrolls. David’s is on his harp, which is odd, as it is unnecessary. He is wearing a crown, and and everyone here is a prophet. Only two Kings are thought of as prophets, David and Solomon, and David was the one who played the harp (he is believed to have written the Psalms). He would be instantly identifiable, even without the name. However, there are two more here who must remain anonymous: the men in yellow and black. With no name and no identifying features we would be guessing. Nevertheless, they have haloes – so must be ‘holy’. On reflection, this might appear odd. In the Catholic church such Old Testament figures were rarely given the title of ‘Saint’. However, in the Greek Orthodox faith they were – Agios Esaias would be St Isaiah, for example. Because of the close ties between Venice and Constantinople, this tendency crossed the Mediterranean, and there are churches in Venice dedicated to St Moses and St Job as a result. For Fra Angelico’s painting, it is clear that the forerunners of Christ are worthy of a place in heaven, and also that as holy men they should have haloes too.

Getting closer to the centre, and so to Jesus in the central panel, there are two more unidentified people, in black and red. The character in blue is Joshua – his name, written as ‘Jesue’, is on his blue robe (but I couldn’t read that until I found out what it said from Dillian Gordon’s catalogue entry!). The identity of the figure at the left of this detail should be straightforward: a man holding two stones slabs – which we tend to call ‘tablets’ – with writing on them. The one in his right hand is held up towards us, and is inscribed ‘NON ABEBIS DEOS ALIENOS’ – ‘you shall have no other gods’. This is the first of the ten commandments, held by Moses. His brother Aaron, the High Priest, is further to our right. Apart from the fact that the gold band around his hat is labelled ‘ARON’, this type of conical headgear – not unlike the papal triple tiara, but without the three crowns – was often used to represent the High Priest in Italian art. The crossed bands over his chest also suggest a priestly air, as does the otherworldliness of the blue/yellow cangiante robe, even if he is not wearing the breastplate of 12 precious stones with which he is often depicted. The final figure here might come as a bit of a surprise. It is, undoubtedly, St John the Baptist. He wears a camel skin robe under a pink cloak, and carries a staff topped with a cross, picked out in silver leaf. This is an entirely traditional way of representing him. He also looks out and gestures towards our left – so towards Jesus – as if to say ‘Behold the Lamb of God’, the words with which he recognised Jesus as the saviour. I’m not convinced he’s looking at us, though – he seems to be looking over my right shoulder. John the Baptist is an entirely New Testament character, even if he did quote Isaiah (‘I am a voice crying in the wilderness’) – but he was one of the forerunners of Christ. Indeed, because of the quotation from Isaiah 40:3 in John 1:23 he is often regarded as the last in the line of the Old Testament prophets, and is sometimes referred to as the Precursor – the man who came immediately before the Saviour – hence his place among the forerunners of Christ.

One last group – for today. The man in red remains unidentified but the others do not – even if there is some question as to who one of them is. On the right, holding a knife, the silver blade of which has largely worn away, is Abraham, prepared to sacrifice his son, Isaac (who is not seen). The colour combination of a pink robe covered by a blue cloak, lined with yellow, is especially attractive, I think. The man holding the house-shaped box is also well known, although it’s worthwhile bearing in mind that the object he holds is symbolic, or a model. Made up of small sections of light brown material, the ‘roof’ also has a series of dots. These are nails, hammering together planks of wood, and together they make the ark. This is Noah, although clearly you couldn’t get a pair of every animal into this tiny model. It has a hole in the roof – presumably for the raven and the dove to fly out, and for the dove to fly back in.

So, who are the last two? Who would be closest to Jesus in this image? An old man (he has long white hair, and a long white beard), wearing pink and pale blue. All of the people we have discussed so far are probably kneeling: we cannot know that for sure, as we cannot see as far down as their knees, but as the bottom row in this panel – and in the one we saw last week – are all kneeling on two knees, it seems likely. This figure is one of only four in the two panels who are kneeling on one knee, with the other raised (there was an unknown Franciscan and St Peter in last week’s panel, and we’ll get to the fourth next week). This makes him take up more space, and overall he also seems a little larger than the others, suggesting that he must be important in some way. Not only that, but we can see one of his feet – the only visible foot in this panel (and it may be relevant that he is not wearing shoes). It’s also worthwhile noting that, going from left to right, these characters are in the order they appear in the Old Testament – until you get to St John the Baptist, that is. Indeed, those with large, easily identifiable names or symbols are all in order – with the exception of Zechariah and Habakkuk… which might explain their debate. I did wonder if the small names in black could have been added later, but Dillian Gordon points out that, ‘The inscriptions identifying the figures, written in minute white letters on a black background or black letters on a white background, following the Dominican colours, are clearly contemporary. It would have been extremely difficult, not to say impossible, to add them neatly once the altarpiece was in situ’. I should have thought of that. It would have involved clambering over the altar – but I’ll come back to it next week! However given that the figures on the left – at least – are in ‘chronological order’, it would imply that the man on the far left of the panel should have come first – and indeed he did. This is Adam. I’ve always found it surprising that, in paintings of The Harrowing of Hell, the first person out is the first person in: Adam. Even the man responsible for the fall is forgiven, and enters heaven. So who is that who comes just after him? It’s interesting that Dillian Gordon isn’t sure – and I can see why. She suggests that it is either Eve, or Abel. My first response is that this figure has short hair, and so is probably male – but then, so do some of the female martyrs we will see next week. However, the hairstyle and the face look more like those of a young man to me – the cheeks have less of a rosy glow, and the hair doesn’t seem to have been ‘dressed’ in any way – unlike the women. Also, if Adam is fully dressed, in pink and blue, why would Eve be wearing animal skin? I’m sure it’s Abel, Adam’s able son.

However, he has three ears of wheat which appear to be tied to his right thumb (the left hand is covered by his animal skin: I wanted this pale area to be the lamb that he sacrificed, but you can see that it really isn’t, if you zoom in close enough on the National Gallery’s website). This doesn’t seem to make sense, as ‘Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain [his brother], was a tiller of the ground’ (Genesis 4:2). So it might make more sense if this were Cain holding wheat, although as Cain was the first murderer (a result of the first example of sibling rivalry) he seems even less likely to get into heaven. I am convinced that it is Abel. I do think Eve is in the painting, though, and we’ll come back to her next week, and I do have circumstantial evidence that this is Abel.

As I’ve said before, Fra Angelico’s Fiesole Altarpiece was painted for the high altar of the church of San Domenico, just outside of Fiesole. San Domenico was the second Dominican convent in the area of Florence, and was the ‘daughter house’ of the first, Santa Maria Novella. The detail above was painted between 1367 and 1369 by Andrea Bonaiuti in the Chapter House, now known as the ‘Spanish Chapel’, of Sant Maria Novella. I wrote about it over five years ago when discussing The Devils – although I have trimmed them off the right hand side of the image to make the remaining section clearer. Jesus has beaten down the gates of hell, crushing a devil beneath them, and has taken Adam by the hand to lead him out.

Immediately behind Adam is a young man in green carrying a lamb – surely Abel’s sacrificial lamb – and he is followed by Noah, clutching the model ark with a hole in the roof, not unlike the one we’ve seen before. This is effectively – with the exception of one unidentifiable figure – the same order as in Fra Angelico’s painting. This fresco could even have been his model. As the mother convent of his own, it is extremely likely that Fra Angelico would have been familiar with the Chapter House in Santa Maria Novella, and as an artist, he would have been especially interested in the work of his artistic forerunners. I can only assume that the three ears of wheat in the Fiesole predella panel are a reference to an obscure element of Dominican theology… unless you know otherwise?

Further back Aaron and Moses are standing next to David, and beneath the latter’s harp is St John the Baptist, who, as a relatively recent arrival, still appears to be making his way to the back, introducing the saviour to people who would never have seen Jesus in the flesh before. Again, the arrangement is not entirely dissimilar to Fra Angelico’s composition. I think Eve is also one of the number, as is Mary’s mother, St Anne – but not in this detail: I will come back to them next week. Before then, though, we will explore San Domenico, and it’s daughter house, San Marco, in the talk on Monday.

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258 – Who’s Who in Heaven?

Fra Angelico, The Virgin Mary with the Apostles and Other Saints, about 1423-4. The National Gallery, London.

Greetings from Florence! I’m currently in the middle of introducing a second group to the delights of the first half of the 15th century, with a rich array of works related to the career of Guido di Pietro, who we now know as Fra Angelico. The day before I left home I talked about the earliest works in his career (as currently exhibited at the exhibition Fra Angelico in San Marco), and on Monday 20 October (the day after I get back) I will explore the superb range of paintings spanning the rest of his life As seen at Palazzo Strozzi.  We will return to the convent to think about Fra Angelico: At Home in San Marco on 27 October, exploring the frescoes he painted for the friars’ cells, and for the communal areas of the building, as well as a selection of manuscripts he made for the Dominican order. My last talk in this series (3 November) will introduce some of his Students and Successors, as well as discovering what remains of the artist’s work after he left Florence. We will also explore the ‘School of San Marco’: painters including Fra Bartolomeo, Fra Paolino and Plautilla Nelli – the first woman recognised as having a successful career as an artist in Florence – who were the most important Dominican artists of their day.

Subsequent talks will cover two exhibitions from the National Gallery, Radical Harmony on 17 November and Wright of Derby: Out of the Shadows on 24 November, and they will go on sale soon. In December I will probably be talking about Vermeer at Kenwood, the Barber Institute at the Courtauld, and Constable and Turner at Tate… Details will be in the diary before too long!

As a reminder, this is the predella of Fra Angelico’s first major altarpiece, originally painted for the high altar of San Domenico in Fiesole, the priory he joined sometime between 1418 and 1423. The convent (a term which can refer to the homes of either nuns or friars) remained his ‘House’ for the rest of his life, despite the widespread assumption that he moved to San Marco in Florence when the Dominicans took over that building in 1436. The church of San Domenico developed over the centuries, and the altarpiece was adapted by Lorenzo di Credi in 1501, changing it from a polyptych to a single-panelled pala. At some point in the 19th century the predella was removed from the convent, ending up in the hands of a dealer, and later, in 1860, it was acquired by the National Gallery. I talked about the central panel two weeks ago, so this week I will turn to the panel which has the next highest status – at Jesus’s right hand (or, from our point of view, to the left of centre).

Similarly to the way in which the angels are arranged in the central panel, there are three rows of figures in brightly coloured clothing. However, as you look from right to left (and so away from the centre of the altarpiece) there is a gradual decrease in colour, with more neutral hues and monochrome costumes. This is related to the decreasing status of the subjects the further away from the centre they are and, more specifically, who they are and why they wear those clothes. Even on this scale it is possible to see that all of the figures have circular gold haloes, and so they must all be saints. What you might not be able to see is that the haloes of the bottom two rows are ringed with black paint, just like the angels in the central panel, whereas those in the top row are not. However, you should be able to see that here.

Starting closest to the centre (on our right), no figure is closer to Jesus than the woman at the top right. Kneeling in prayer – as all the figures are – she wears a long blue cloak which also covers her head. This cloak has an olive green lining, and is trimmed with a gold hem. Her dress is pink. On her shoulder we see a star, derived in part from the medieval canticle Ave Maris Stella – ‘Hail, Star of the Sea’. In it, she is compared to the Pole Star, which sailors use to navigate, the implication being that we should use her example as our guide in life. The Latin for ‘of the Sea’ – Maris – was also a pun on her name: Mary. All Catholics are supposed to have a special devotion to the Virgin Mary, but for Dominicans she has a particular significance. In his superb book, Fra Angelico at San Marco, William Hood compares each convent to a beehive, and,  ‘…like a honeybee every friar had his place in the collective at whose heart was the Virgin Mary, the legal abbess of every Dominican convent, or by extending the metaphor one could even say its queen’. It is perhaps for this reason that Mary is seen not only closest to Jesus in the predella, but also separated from everybody else. Just below her is St John the Evangelist in his older embodiment as the author of the gospel, rather than being shown as the youngest of the apostles. His quill is held, rather curiously, in his left hand: I can only assume that this is for purely aesthetic reasons. But then, he is using his right hand to offer his gospel to Jesus, which might explain also explain it: holding the bible in his right hand might be seen as more suitable (everyone trustworthy was assumed to be right-handed, especially given that the Latin for ‘left’ is sinister). John’s arm is clad in the same rich blue worn by Mary, and this colouristic similarity creates an affinity between them – as does his pink cloak lined with green, colours which are also used for the Virgin’s clothing. Bizarrely, the open page of his bible is illegible, made up of scrawled lines, whereas elsewhere on the panel there is writing which can be read – but perhaps that is because the first verse of St John’s gospel is so well known ‘In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God’. His gesture is therefore important: the bible – the Word of God – is here being held towards Jesus – the Word of God…

The remainder of the figures in this detail (I’ve repeated the same one), have been identified as ‘apostles’, but that creates a bit of a problem. We ‘know’ there were twelve of them, but here there are fourteen. Even after Judas’s suicide there were twelve: the community gathered together to appoint a replacement, St Matthias (see Acts 1:15-26). Nevertheless, St Paul is often represented as one of the number, because, together with St Peter, he was seen as one of the first heads of the Church after Christ. Indeed, he is depicted in this panel. Just to our left of Mary there is a figure with short grey hair and a short grey beard carrying a pair of keys. These are the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven which Jesus said he would give to St Peter. Now, St Peter very often wears yellow and blue, but here he has yellow and pink. There is a real sense that Fra Angelico wanted Mary to stand out, and if Peter was also wearing blue that might not happen. However, given that he is wearing pink he is more closely associated with the man to our left of him, who has a longer, darker beard and a receding hairline. He carries a sword, which, like one of Peter’s keys, is picked out in silver leaf: this is St Paul. Consequently, the first two heads of the Church are in the top row, and are more-or-less the closest to Jesus after Mary. It’s only ‘more-or-less’ because there is another figure squeezed between Peter and Paul. He has white hair and a long white beard, and is wearing green – which is the most common way in which Italians represent St Andrew, the brother of St Peter. However, as yet we haven’t sorted out who all these people are. If we have St Paul and St Matthias numbered among the apostles, that would still only bring us up to thirteen. So – who is the fourteenth? This is what it says in Acts 14:13-14

Then the priest of Jupiter, which was before their city, brought oxen and garlands unto the gates, and would have done sacrifice with the people.
Which when the apostles Barnabas and Paul heard of, they rent their clothes, and ran in among the people…

So Barnabas – who travelled widely with St Paul and is mentioned more often that Matthias – also appears to be counted as one of the twelve. It’s clear, though, that the role of ‘apostle’ is not strictly limited to the number originally chosen by Jesus. Nevertheless, if we include Barnabas together with Matthias and Paul we have arrived at fourteen. However, although St Paul is clearly distinguishable, the others are not. Have a look, though, at one of the figures who stands out in the lower row in the detail above. He wears a cangiante pink and yellow cloak (see the previous post for an explanation), which in itself makes him more prominent. He also seems to take up a bit more space than anyone else in this row, with one elbow sticking out to our left, and the book held up to our right. Now compare him to the figure standing in the position of honour – at the right hand of the throne (i.e. on our left) – in the Fiesole Altarpiece. This part of the predella would have been directly below this Saint.

It is surely no coincidence that both have short grey curly hair and beard, and have a receding hairline. They wear cloaks which are mainly pink, but also include yellow, and their other clothes are blue. Both figures are carrying a red book. It is also no coincidence that the figure in the main panel is St Barnabas. He occupies the position of honour as he is the patron saint of the donor, Barnaba degli Agli, who died in 1418, twelve years after the convent had been founded. It took a long time to finish the building – partly, no doubt, because the Dominicans have a vow of poverty, and had run out of money. In his will Barnaba ‘left 6000 florins towards the completion of the church, as well as liturgical furnishings and chalices’ (quoting from Dillian Gordon’s superb catalogue entry, to which I am also indebted for many of the identifications below). This sum covered not only the completion of the church (which was consecrated in 1435) but also twenty cells for the friars.

It would be all but impossible to name all fourteen of the figures in the detail above, although that hasn’t stopped people trying. St John the Evangelist and St Matthew were both apostles and evangelists, and it is possible that St Matthew is the figure holding a quill to our left of St Barnabas. But then, St Barnabas has a quill as well, and he didn’t write any of the bible. Admittedly there is an apocryphal Epistle of St Barnabas, but no one after the fifth century or so seems to have considered it relevant.

There are even fewer certainties about the members of the group at the bottom right, although it may include the remaining two evangelists, Sts Mark and Luke. Three figures hold a book, and one, on the far right, a quill, so these attributes wouldn’t appear to help. However, it has been suggested that the saint at the bottom right is St Luke. He is closest to Jesus in this row, and as the patron saint of artists, he might have been granted a higher status by one of his own trade. Luke does often (but not always) wear red and blue.

The top row on the left of the panel has some figures who are more easy to recognise. Going from right to left (and so, theoretically, in decreasing order of importance) we can see St Silvester, an early pope, who can be identified quite simply because his name is painted across the white strip on his robes. Behind him are three bishop saints, each wearing a mitre – St Hilary, Bishop of Poitier (with his name on his blue cope), St Martin of Tours (the name is on his book), and another, who remains unidentified. If you can’t see the writing – or any of the other details – look up the panel on the National Gallery website and zoom in! The next figure stands out because he wears the black cappa and white tunic of the Dominican order. He is also wearing the white scapular, which hangs across the chest and down below the waist, although here the end is out of site, hidden behind the saints below. This is the founder of the order, St Dominic himself. The lily is a sign of his purity, while the star in his halo denotes his unquestioned sanctity. The book is open at a paraphrase of Psalm 37:30, ‘The mouth of the righteous speaketh wisdom, and his tongue talketh of judgement’ – which could be taken as expressing the Dominican mission to suppress heresy though preaching, their wisdom founded on a profound study of orthodox beliefs. Next to him is another unidentified bishop, and then St Gregory the Great. He was a pope – hence his ‘hat’, the triple tiara – and was considered to have been especially inspired by the Holy Spirit. Indeed, if you can see a small white blob on his halo in front of his forehead, it is a tiny representation of a dove speaking into his ear. Next to him is another bishop wearing a deep blue cope covered in what I would have assumed were fleur-de-lis – which might have led me to assume that this is St Louis of Toulouse. However, he doesn’t have a Franciscan habit under his cope. Instead, there are three golden balls resting on his bible: it is St Nicholas of Bari (aka Father Christmas – the gold is for giving). The saint to our left of him is wearing a Franciscan habit (brown, with a rope belt) quite simply because this is St Francis – he is holding his hands out to show the stigmata. The row is completed by (yet another) unidentified bishop.

In the middle row, again going from right to left, we can see St Jerome, in his red cardinal’s hat and, unusually, a pink robe, then St Anthony Abbot, with beard and staff. There are two Benedictines in black, one with a stick, St Benedict, and another, who might be one of his followers, St Maurus. The two bishops could be St Augustine and St Zenobius (one of the patrons of Florence), and then another Dominican. Slightly plump, with a star at his chest and a book, this is the great theologian Thomas Aquinas. Another Franciscan is followed by two monks in white. I realise I am in danger of merely listing, and it really is worthwhile looking closely at the details – so here is St Paul the Hermit, wearing something that looks surprisingly like a basket.

St Paul was said to be the first ever Christian hermit, living in the Egyptian desert for 97 years – dying at the age of 113. He lived near a spring of clear water, next to which grew a palm tree which provided not only his food, but also all the materials he needed for clothing – and the detail is fantastic. Look at the care with which every strand of the woven palm leaves is depicted – the frayed ends, the veins, the variations of light and shade, and even the projecting fronds at his right wrist, everything seems so delicately painted, and the figure can only be around ten centimetres high. Now have another look at the predella as a whole (either at the top or bottom of this post), and think about the level of detail which Fra Angelico has included in almost every figure, and you’ll realise that this painting is truly remarkable.

I think it’s rather charming that, as the first hermit, St Paul is shown suitably isolated. Behind him a monk in brown is followed by two Carmelites in white, and then St Giovanni Gualberto, founder of the Vallombrosan Order, with one of his companions. Usually they wear a greyish brown habit, often darker than this, and with far fuller sleeves, but here they really doesn’t look that different from the Franciscans – although there’s no rope belt. Next to them is a bishop saint with a Franciscan habit under his cope – so this is St Louis of Toulouse. The last three are St Onophrius, a hermit who wore nothing but leaves, and two other unidentified monastic figures.

There are several things I find remarkable about all of this. The first is that, although we can’t identify every figure now, Fra Angelico would have known who every single one was. The second is that he could characterise them all, and had designed every single figure – even though there must be a considerable contribution from the workshop. Having said that, the panel is too small for more than one person to be working on it at any one time – but the master could have handed it over to his assistants when he had done the most important parts. The next is that this is just one of five panels from the predella, which would have been on the high altar out of reach of everyone except the officiating Dominicans. Even then, how could they have stopped to look at the whole company of heaven during Mass? Or would they have returned later, individually, for prayer and contemplation, gradually working their way through, naming every figure and addressing a different, appropriate prayer to each individual saint? Or is this painting ‘simply’ an act of devotion, painting each figure to illustrate the respect due to them, even if no one subsequently bothered to address them individually? Or – and this may make more sense – is the fact that we know that the artist knew who they all were enough? This would mean that we know that they are all identified saints, which adds to our understanding of the power of Christianity, given that so many recognised figures witnessed their faith, and died in that faith (the saints who are called ‘confessors’) or died for that faith (the martyrs)? We don’t need to know who they all are, we just need to know that somebody did, and that there are so many of them. And remember, so far we have only seen two of the five panels of this astonishing predella. What we find in the remaining three is in some ways more surprising. But then, the remarkable richness of Fra Angelico’s work is surprising, and that is one of the things we will think about on Monday.

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257 – Unite the Kingdom (of Heaven)

Fra Angelico, Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven, about 1423-24. The National Gallery, London.

I have just returned from my first visit to the glorious exhibition Fra Angelico in Florence. Spread across two venues – Palazzo Strozzi and San Marco – it is the most comprehensive collection of works by this Dominican master that have ever been brought together. The curators want us to reassess the way we appreciate his works – and they are entirely successful. Since the 19th Century Fra Angelico has been seen as clinging on to the tails of the medieval (and, as a result, he was very much in vogue post-Pre-Raphaelites), but he now emerges as one of the great innovators of the Florentine Renaissance, up there with Masaccio who was, as it happens, slightly younger than him. To understand his work fully, and to put it in the appropriate contexts – both the artist’s life and faith (which were pretty much one and the same thing) and also the artistic developments of the time – I have planned four talks. The first, this Monday 6 October, is called The Melting Pot, and will reflect the remarkable range of styles and influences current in Florence in the first quarter of the fifteenth century. It will build, as much as anything, on the San Marco section of the exhibition, and on the first room in the Palazzo Strozzi. In addition to the earliest paintings by Fra Angelico, there will also be works by Ghiberti, Masaccio, and Gentile da Fabriano, not to mention an artist from another religious order, Lorenzo Monaco (the clue is in the name). After I’ve been back to Florence to see the exhibition again, I will return to continue the series with As seen in the Palazzo Strozzi (20 October), which will walk us around the remainder of this, the larger part of the exhibition. Fra Angelico 3: At Home in San Marco on 27 October (going on sale after the first talk, with a reduced price for those who have attended that one) will take us back to the Priory to look in detail at the many frescoes which the artist and his workshop carried out in the friars’ cells, and in the communal spaces. Finally, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors (3 November) will look at the artist’s work after he left Florence, and at his heritage. This will include not only the students and assistants with whom he worked, but also some ‘official’ Dominican artists from subsequent generations, including Fra Bartolomeo and Plautilla Nelli – arguably the first successful woman who worked as a painter in Florence.

Beyond that, I’m already looking to cover two exhibitions from the National Gallery (Neo-Impressionism and Joseph Wright of Derby), and three exhibitions of Loans to London (from the Barber, of a Vermeer, and a Caravaggio). But more news about them later – keep an eye on the diary, as I’m still juggling my dates! Today, though, I want to look at one of the National Gallery’s paintings by the hero of the moment.

There are actually eight paintings by Fra Angelico listed in the gallery’s catalogue, only one of which has made it to Florence. Five of them (see above) originally belonged together as the predella panel of one of his earliest surviving works: the San Domenico Altarpiece – painted for the high altar of the eponymous church in Fiesole, which is where Fra Angelico’s vocation and career are first recorded, and which remained his ‘house’ throughout his life. Because of its rich detailing, these five panels are hard to look at thoroughly in the National Gallery. It is, in its own way, encyclopaedic, and given that the individual figures are so small, it is all too easy to assess the amassed company of heaven, marvel at the multitudes, and move straight on without really looking. I’ve shown it to several groups, but don’t feel that I have ever done it justice. As a result, I think it’s time to slow down our looking, and look at each of the five sections individually. Well, one each for the first three weeks, and then two together for the fourth – using each text to introduce one of the talks. Although we read words from left to right it doesn’t make sense to approach the painting in this way. Instead, we will start in the middle this week, and then gradually work our way out.

The title of the central section could equally well be the title for the predella as a whole, Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven – but that will become clear as we work our way through the panels over the next month or so. Starting from this point we see Jesus himself at the centre of the painting, splendidly isolated against a golden background. He wears something akin to a white toga, its colour barely distinguished from that of his skin, or for that matter, the background colour of the flag he is holding – white. The flag also has a red cross, as does his halo. He is surrounded, at a discreet distance, by a vast number of figures dressed in what at first glance appears to be a multitude of colours, but which could be broken down to red, pink, green and blue, with a hint of yellow here and there. Precisely who they are and what they are doing will become clearer as we get closer. Remembering that the best place to be is at the right hand of God – the position of honour – we will start by looking at the top left corner of the panel.

Every single figure has a halo, and every single figure has a pair of wings: these are just some of the angels. All of them also have a flame above their heads – something I would usually associate with Pentecost – which suggests to me that they are all inspired by the Holy Spirit. While there might not appear to be any way to distinguish these angels, the top row are all wearing red or pink, which implies that they are the Seraphim, the highest of the nine choirs of angels. Their name comes from the Hebrew word for ‘burning’, and they were considered by some authorities to be the only beings who could withstand the full glory of the deity. Isaiah describes them as being ‘above’ the throne of God, occupied in constant prayer and praising: ‘And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory’ (Isaiah 6:3). Thomas Aquinas – a leading Dominican theologian – considered them to burn with the love of God, and as Fra Angelico himself was a Dominican this is surely relevant. Looking from right to left you can see how one has both hands raised, one has the palms of his hands pressed together, and a third crosses his hands over his chest. As you keep going along the line you will see that these gestures are repeated: they are all associated with prayer. Fra Angelico went as far as demonstrating these acts of devotion in frescoes for the novices’ cells at San Marco, as we shall see when we get to Fra Angelico 3. Having said that, the two Seraphim at the far left appear to be practicing the hand jive – but then, dance has often been considered an essential part of worship (the National Gallery’s catalogue entry, to which I am indebted, suggests that most of the angels are dancing – but I’m not sure that I would go that far). The second row down in this detail has a wider range of colours, with the addition of green and two shades of blue. Several of the angels play musical instruments. From left to right I can see a tambourine and a tabor, beaten with a drumstick. There is also a portative organ (i.e. a portable organ – the right hand plays the keys while the left hand pumps the bellows) and a harp. The angels at far left and right repeat some of the gestures of prayer we have already seen.

If it is ‘higher’ status to be at the right hand of God, it is not at all bad to be at his left hand: at least you are close – unless you are a soul at the Last Judgement, of course, in which case you be be heading down to hell. The second most important group, then, is made up of the angels at the top on our right. They are all clothed in a rich deep blue – the blue of heaven – and represent the Cherubim. Thomas Aquinas associated them with knowledge – and so in some way, they are the ‘head’ as opposed to the Seraphim who could be seen as the ‘heart’. Having said this, different theologians – and artists – had different ideas, and as a result the colours with which they are represented can also vary. In this case the Cherubim echo the Seraphim’s constant prayer and praising – including the dance-like gestures with one hand held to the chest, and another indicating Christ: this gesture is repeated in some of the larger-scale figures in other altarpieces. Many angels have their mouths open – they are singing – and one, on the far right, looks up towards God the Father in the highest firmament. I’d recommend taking this opportunity to look at each angel individually, as it’s hard to spend the time doing this when you’re surrounded by the general public – and when there are another 2000 or so other paintings to look at in the Gallery. In the second row the angels sport a similar colour palette to the figures on the opposite side, although there is a figure strumming a lute whose robe shifts from yellow to green. Just to our left of him one of the number plays a viol.

If we move back to the left of the painting, and down a tier, there is another colour shift in the figure on the far right. He is clasping a zither, and his robes are a combination of pink and yellow. This is a fabric in which the warp and weft are made from two different coloured threads – a shot silk, effectively – and the colour you see depends on the way the light is catching the fabric as you look at it. In paintings, this changing colour is described with the Italian word cangiante (‘changing’), and although it does exist down here on earth, in paintings it is especially associated with angels, as it tends to dematerialise the form and gives them an other-worldly air. Just to our left of this cangiante robe, one of the angels, wearing the deepest blue, holds an orb in his left hand. He could be a Dominion. According to the most common hierarchy, they were the fourth rank of angels – after Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones – and they helped to maintain order in the universe. However, although the orb is a common symbol for the Dominions, and we have already seen the Seraphim and Cherubim, Fra Angelico doesn’t appear to be concerned with the enumeration of all of the nine choirs of angels, as described by a number of different theologians, not to mention Dante (who some considered was a theologian anyway). In this painting it would be difficult to point out the Virtues, Powers, and Principalities, for example, or to distinguish between an Archangel and an Angel. I’ll have to try and do that with another painting in another post on another day… There are more musicians here, though, with the angel on the far left blowing a long trumpet picked out in what is now tarnished silver leaf (the organ pipes in the row above were also made of silver). In the centre of this row the angels playing the harp and lute look at each other, as if to keep in time, but none of this row appears to be singing, as none has their mouth open – with the exception of the zither player on the far right, perhaps.

The equivalent, central row of angels on the right of the painting is similarly disposed. Two may be singing, most are praying, and three are instrumentalists. There is another long, silver trumpet – although most of this is hidden behind other angels. Nevertheless, a figure playing double pipes (also silver leaf) looks towards the trumpeter – who is wearing a helmet. It is possible that he represents one of the Powers, the fifth choir of angels, who are sometimes shown wearing armour. Just below the double-pipe player, a figure in blue holds what I take to be an angelic shawm. I say ‘angelic’, as shawms, which can be this shape (particularly if they are higher-pitched examples), tend to be made of wood, whereas this is clearly silver leaf, which I’m taking as being simply more heavenly. On the left of this choir is the only angel in the company that we can name.

In many ways he looks exactly like all the others – short, blonde, curly hair and an innocent face with a perfect complexion. These features remind us that the angels are in a state of grace – they have no taint of sin, and so are without mark or stain: they are immaculate. Like all the other angels (you can go back and check!) his halo is picked out with a black circular outline, and tooled with one circle just inside the black, and two more further in. In between these is a ring of small, circular marks each of which would have been made by tapping a small ring-shaped tool (basically a tiny tube) onto the burnished gold leaf, using a small hammer or mallet. His clothes and wings are all blue, but touched with gold, and while the feathers appear to continue across his clothing, if you look carefully at the gold trims at the shoulders, elbows, cuffs and skirt, you should be able to see that he is wearing blue armour – a different version of ‘heavenly’, perhaps. He also holds a silver shield and sword. This is St Michael, one of the archangels (the 8th choir, just higher in status than the ‘angels’ themselves), responsible for weighing the souls at the Last Judgement. He also defeated the dragon – “that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan” (Revelation 12:9) when some of the angels rebelled – and fell.

At the bottom left of the painting it is worthwhile noticing that relatively few of the figures are dressed in the deeper, richer tones – there are more light blues and pinks, a few yellows, and maybe as deep as a salmon pink and jade green – but this is partly to make a lighter, more ethereal contrast to the dark blue ‘ground’ which slopes up from the bottom left corner of the painting towards the right of this detail. On the right there are more trumpeters, and on the left, two viol players. Others sing, and even dance – there is a sense of movement from left to right, towards the centre of the image, and so towards Christ. All of the haloes are depicted in the same way as St Michael’s, although they overlap here more than anywhere else, telling us not only that the angels are several layers deep, but also that Fra Angelico already knew how to create imaginary space and depth on a two dimensional surface.

For whatever reason there is a greater preponderance of musical instruments at the bottom right: two more trumpets, a tabor, silver cymbals, two more shawms and two more viols (one of which is not being played). The angels on this side lean also lean towards the centre, and again they are layered several rows deep. They are also standing on the same sort of blue slope. On the far right, one of the angels appears to have turned away from us – but look how beautifully his wings are foreshortened, another indicator of Fra Angelico’s spatial awareness.

The blue base of the painting reaches a curved summit in the centre. It is the very top of a blue sphere, the vault of heaven, or, to put it another way, the sky. We are down on earth, in the middle of this, with the blue sky above and around us. Were we to penetrate this blue sphere – which surrounds us on every side – we would be in heaven. The medieval mindset saw the cosmos as being structured by a series of nine crystalline spheres, each of which was moved by one of the nine choirs of angels. Set in these were the sun, moon and five known planets (though not in that order), and the ‘fixed stars’. The blue of the sky – which we now know to be a result of the dispersal of sunlight – was seen as the last boundary between our ‘world’ and the golden light of heaven. The angels in this painting are therefore seen as dancing on the sky, or poised in the heavens above. In the centre of the painting here we see the full length of five silver trumpets, the cheeks of the angelic musicians puffed out as they look up towards Jesus – whose feet are just visible. Below him, two angels kneel playing portative organs, the one in pink again shown with the most brilliantly foreshortened wings, both of which come down on a slight diagonal. It is a beautifully conceived figure, I think, with the back of the head seen tilted subtly to the left, and a twist through the torso. The feet come back to our left, while the shoulders are facing more fully away from us. Even in this tiny detail the colour chords are superb – on the left, blue and gold wings with pale green robes lined with red, and a yellow underskirt. On the right the subtly modulated pink robe is lined with a violet blue, almost as if breathing in the sky beneath, and it is trimmed with the finest hem of gold.

Christ stands in the centre, made prominent not only by the golden radiance surrounding him, but also the white of his robes and flesh, as well as the brilliant red of the crosses on his flag and halo. The gold is incised regularly with lines which – as the word ‘radiance’ suggests – radiate from behind him, reaching slightly different distances into the burnished gold background. They would have been made using a ruler as a guide, and a stylus gently applied to indent the thin gold leaf without cutting through it. As candles flickered in front of this, the central panel of the predella, the glow around Jesus would have been modulated, reflecting the flickering of the candles, while the white of his robes would have maintained a more steady brightness. His right hand is raised in blessing, and shows the wound from one of the nails which held him to the cross. The wound in his chest, caused by a spear, is also visible. This is after the resurrection – indeed, it could be the resurrection itself. His white robe is effectively the shroud in which he was buried, now used as a form of toga, and the pallor of his skin reminds us that he was dead. He stands, as he does sometimes in the resurrection, on wispy white clouds. They are almost invisible now, as they were painted on top of the gold, in between the silver leaf of the trumpets, and much of the paint has worn away: it doesn’t adhere well to gold leaf. His halo is picked out, like those of the angels, with concentric circles, but there is more texturing: groups of four rings arranged in diamonds, and additional indents in the form of dots. His subtly rosy cheeks hint at his new life, and pick up on the red of the cross in his halo. And then there is the flag.

This is the flag of Christ Triumphant. It shows the red of his blood, and of his suffering, in the shape of the cross, the instrument of torture on which he was executed. The red stands out against the white of his purity and innocence. This is the flag he carries to mark his victory over death, and over sin, and he carries it, as often as not, at the resurrection. As a soldier fighting for good, and for God, it was adopted as a sign for St George, a figure shrouded in myth – but, as the first churches dedicated to him appear to date from the 4th century, it seems he was a very early Christian martyr. The dragon, of course, is just a symbol… His precise ‘nationality’ is by no means clear, but the most common belief is that he was from Cappadocia, in Turkey. As soldiers fighting for Christ – theoretically, at least – St George and his flag were adopted by the Crusaders, and finally, at some point in the late 1340s, he became one of the patron saints of England – gradually eclipsing St Edmund and St Edward the Confessor. He may have been born in Turkey, although some people think he may have come from Palestine, Syria, or even Israel. Let’s face it, he was not ‘English’ – even if he is now. Indeed, he is arguably England’s most successful immigrant. So the ignorance of people who have perverted this flag with their racist and xenophobic views appals me. As Jesus himself said (Matthew 25:35-36),

 35For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: 36Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me. 

If you’re doubting the ignorance of these people we may have a problem on our hands. I would go further: it is stupidity. If they are using the flag to support the notion of ‘uniting the Kingdom’ then they have the wrong flag. It is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (for the moment, at least), and, although England is a Kingdom, there is no United Kingdom of England. They should have the Union Flag – or at least a whole collection, including the saltire and dragon alongside the flag of Christ Triumphant.

Pardon the rant, but… But no, I stand by every word of it. However, on Monday I guarantee we will just look at the paintings, with not a word of politics. Well, that’s not true, of course. Art has always been about politics, and in this case there will be the politics of the Dominicans, and of Florence: the politics of the unelected Medici, for example. But that’s history, so it tends to be less divisive (with an emphasis on ‘tends to be’). The pictures are glorious, though – and we are free to make of them what we will. My aim is just to pick out the more relevant interpretations.

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256 – Larger than last time

Jacquemart de Hesdin, Pseudo-Jacquemart, Master of Boucicault and Haincelin de Hagenau (Master of Bedford), Grandes Heures du Duc de Berry, fol. 96r., 1409. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

After last week’s saunter through the twelve calendar months of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, as currently exhibited at the Château de Chantilly, and the subsequent hurried leafing through the remainder of the manuscript, I am sure I will return to the book just before Christmas to look at the some of the remaining illuminations more thoroughly: they are really worthy of attention. Not only that, but it will be a treat – for myself, if no one else! This week, though (22 September), I am going to head back to Chantilly, stopping off at Saint-Denis on the way out of Paris, in order to think about The Duc de Berry: the man himself. Thereafter, as you’ll know, I’m heading to Italy and the Palazzo Strozzi’s much-heralded exhibition on Fra Angelico:

6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors
(3 & 4 will go on sale on 6 October)

Subsequent talks will cover the National Gallery’s exhibitions Radical Harmony: Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists and Wright of Derby: From the Shadows. They will probably be on 17 and 24 November – so there’s plenty of time before I need to post more details. Meanwhile, my next trips with Artemisia are already online – visiting Strasbourg and Colmar (to see the astonishing Isenheim Altarpiece) in June, returning to Liverpool in September and celebrating Siena in November. There is more information in the diary

Last week we enjoyed the Très Riches Heures. However beautiful – and rich – the manuscript is, had it been finished it would have been just one of the books of hours commissioned by the duke. His library consisted of around 300 books – a large number in the days when all books were written by hand. A hundred years later, Pope Julius II had 220 volumes, housed in the Stanza della Segnatura, famously decorated by Raphael – although the Vatican Library was larger, already numbering 3,500 manuscripts by the time of Julius II’s uncle, Sixtus IV. At around the same time, Federigo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, had about 900 volumes… But still, 300 was a lot, and around 127 survive, with many of them in the exhibition we will explore on Monday. They give a remarkable sense of the man, his interests, and his personality. As well as books covering science, history, philosophy and theology, among the books dedicated to his personal faith he owned 6 psalters (books of psalms), 13 breviaries (containing the religious services for each day), and 18 books of hours (for prayer and devotion during the ‘canonical hours’, the regular cyclical of worship established for each day). Of the 18, he commissioned six of them himself. Several of them, like the Très Riches Heures, get their name from references in the inventory created after his death. To give a sense of scale, each folio of the Très Riches Heures measures 290 x 210 mm, whereas the page we are looking at today is a lot larger: 400 x 300 mm. It comes from a manuscript which would have been rather unwieldy for private devotion, which also takes its name from the inventory, which lists “les belles grandes Heures de monseigneur que on appelle les trés riches heures, garnies de fermoers et de pippe d’or et de pierrerie, qui sont en un estuy de cuir” – ‘the beautiful large Hours of monseigneur which are called the very rich hours, adorned with clasps and piping of gold and precious stones, which are in a leather case’. It might seem to be confusing, perhaps, that they were also referred to as ‘very rich’, but the size would have been most striking. Les Grandes Heures, is probably best translated as ‘The Great Hours’, as ‘great’ has far more grandeur than ‘large’…

The Grandes Heures was probably the most richly decorated of the books of hours to be completed during the Duc de Berry’s lifetime, although sadly it has not survived intact. It came into the possession of King Charles VIII by 1488 (we don’t know how), but by then it was already in need of repairs. Originally there were full-page illuminations by Jacquemart de Hesdin. These were cut out – to be exhibited, presumably – and only one has survived. Even that isn’t in a great condition. It is in the exhibition, though, and together with the one surviving full-page image, the Grandes Heures are displayed open at a single spread. This is, as ever, frustrating, but what else could they do? And there are, in any case, many more single spreads to enjoy, with some decorated on both folios. There may have been some double-page illuminations in the Grandes Heures – there are several in the Très Riches Heures – but if there were, they haven’t survived. So today, we are just looking at one page, folio 96 recto – the front of the 96th leaf.

Two columns of text are framed by filigree decorations which extend the full height and breadth of the folio at top, bottom and right, with a narrower version of the same motifs on the left and between the two columns of text. There are also four vignettes at the top and bottom, and three more of the same size on the right. Smaller vignettes are included in the decoration of the left margin and in the centre. A relatively large image is included at the top left, with an illuminated initial – the letter ‘D’ – just below it. What they all represent can be seen more easily if we get a little closer.

I admit that I find the text difficult to read. The vertical strokes use to create the letters ‘i’, ‘m’, ‘n’ and ‘u’ are all the same, so that when you get a word ending ‘-ium’, for example, you have a combination of six identical strokes. On top of this, some words spread from one line to the next with no hyphens. Fortunately, though, I could read ‘Deus in ad…’ in the very first line on this page, and typing this into google instantly suggested ‘Deus in adiutorum intende’. This is followed by ‘Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina’. Together, these form the first verse of Psalm 70 (69 in the Vulgate). In the King James Version of the bible this is translated as ‘Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord’. This verse is used as the introductory prayer to almost every ‘hour’ that is celebrated… which doesn’t help us much. However, I can see that this invocation is followed by the ‘Gloria’: ‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, Amen’. At the bottom of the left-hand column (not visible in this detail), the text then returns to the first verse of Psalm 70 – you can see the repeat of the word ‘festina’ at the very top of the right-hand column. This is then followed by verses 2-4 of Psalm 70, all of which are included in the detail above. It is a plea for God’s help, asking him to confound and confuse the enemies of the devout. As it says in verse 2:
Let them be ashamed and confounded that seek after my soul: let them be turned backward, and put to confusion, that desire my hurt.
However, the joyful nature of the decorations do not reflect this almost desperate sense of need. Perhaps this represents the security of the faithful (in this case, the Duc de Berry) that God will come to their aid.

All four of the vignettes in the top margin are quatrefoils – ‘four-leafed’ shapes, with points along the sides. Top left and right we see the gold fleur-de-lis on a blue ground that remind us that the Duc de Berry was a member of the royal family of France. The red border (called a bordure in heraldry), cusped and with points along the inside, tells us that he was not the eldest son of a king. Indeed, he was the third of John II’s four sons – the eldest son succeeding his father as King Charles V in 1364.

The second vignette from the left shows a swan, which first appeared as one of the dukes ‘devices’ or ‘emblems’ around 1377. Notice the red mark on its chest: it is wounded. In addition, the beak is open. Wounded, it is about to die, at which point (according to myth) swans are supposed to sing – quite literally, their ‘swansong’. In medieval chivalry this can be seen as bravery in the face of death. The wound in the heart could also be love, and the pure whiteness of the feathers, purity – in a Christian sense, the purity of love for Christ. However, the swan can also be interpreted as a symbol of romantic love: it was regularly associated with courtly love and fidelity. The myth of the Knight of the Swan was widespread across medieval Europe, and even as late as the 19th century it inspired Wagner’s opera Lohengrin (1850), not to mention the castles of Hohenschwangau (1836) and Neuschwanstein (1869). The great power of medieval and renaissance devices was that they could be susceptible to more than one interpretation, and the more meanings each had the better they were.

That is certainly true for the duke’s other main device, the bear, which he adopted before the swan. The first example dates back to 1364, and he continued to use it for the rest of his life – and even beyond. After his death in 1416 he was buried in the chapel of his château in Bourges (the capital of the Dukedom of Berry), and the heraldic beast at the feet of his effigy was a bear (we’ll see it on Monday). But what was the connection with the duke? He certainly kept bears, and, as we saw last week, he is wearing a bearskin hat in the depiction of January. But why? It helps to know the word in both English and French – and, for that matter, Latin. The French for ‘bear’ is ‘ours’, and that comes from the Latin ‘ursus’. It is not a coincidence that the first Bishop of Bourges – and indeed, the man who is supposed to have converted the town to Christianity – was St Ursinus. By choosing the bear, the duke acknowledged his devotion to this saint, and therefore also to the region of which he was made duke in 1360. In that same year, the Treaty of Brétigny was signed between the English and French, just one of the events of the Hundred Years’ War. The duke’s father, King Jean II, had been captured in 1356 at the Battle of Poitiers, and was still being held by the English four years later. By the terms of the Treaty, Edward III would renounce the title ‘King of France’, but still gained extensive territories in France. Meanwhile Jean II was held to ransom for 3 million écus, but was allowed to return home, with hostages used as a guarantee for the payment. In all around 63 men were sent to England, including two of the King’s four sons: Louis I of Anjou and Jean, now Duc de Berry. By the time Jean II died in 1464, the Duc de Berry had been in England for four years – and would remain for another five. It was at this time that his older brother became King Charles V, but 1464 was also when his use of the bear is first recorded. In the four years since he had arrived in England he must have learnt a lot of English. But then, as an educated man, he probably knew quite a bit before he went. He would certainly have known that the English for ‘ours’ is ‘bear’. And the English, who have always loved a pun (just think about Shakespeare), would surely have pointed out that, with his accent, it sounded like he was the Duke of Bear-y. And, believe it or not, most people think it’s that simple. It is worth pointing out that the bear often wears a collar, and sometimes it is also chained (it certainly is on his tomb): a captive bear, which perhaps also represents the duke’s captivity, the captivity of a strong and valiant warrior.

Some years after his death his great nephew, René d’Anjou, suggested that, in England, the duke had fallen for a woman called ‘Ursine’ – but my guess is that that is pure imagination… Given the homonym of ‘bear’ and ‘Berry’, and the existence of St Ursinus, we already have enough potential sources for his choice. In the vignette above, the bear carries a banner – red, with a white swan. Either the bear is one of the duke’s followers, or even, the duke himself: there is a strong sense of identification. Scattered about the margin in the detail above there are also a wren, a butterfly, what might be a thrush, and a pheasant – wonderful, naturalistic details, just for the joy of it, it would seem.

In the lower half of the page there are two more swans, and three more bears – one walking on the grass, another climbing a tree and a third wielding the duke’s royal standard, with its red bordure. There is also, at the bottom, a slim greenfinch and a large tortoiseshell butterfly. Another butterfly, a red admiral, can be seen above the swan in the left margin. At the top right there is a blue tit (I think – the colours are right, but it’s very long and slim) and further down, a beautifully delicate goldfinch. As elsewhere on the folio, the vignettes are joined by what appear to be the stems of the highly stylised vine, around each of which is wrapped a narrow scroll. To see what that is we will have to look closer.

It may still be too small to read, but each version of this scroll is inscribed with the same phrase twice: ‘le temps venra’. This is medieval French, meaning ‘the time will come’. Elsewhere the same idea is stated in a slightly different way: ‘le temps revient’ – ‘the time is coming back’. I’m intrigued by this, as the second version was one of the mottoes of Lorenzo the Magnificent of Florence – and he also used it in French, with a sense of medieval chivalry. The meaning is not entirely different from the soundtrack to Tony Blair’s New Labour: ‘Things can only get better’. The idea, in all cases, is that we are in good hands, that things will be managed well, and the time is coming that we can Make Berry, (or Florence, or the UK) Great Again. Enough said.

There is another ‘device’ or ‘emblem’ in this detail: the letters ‘EV’ written as a monogram – there are several examples on the page as a whole. The ‘V’ could be meant as a ‘U’ – they are often interchangeable. However, its meaning remains a mystery, even if there are several ideas. One suggestion is that, as a ‘U’, this could be an abbreviation of ‘UrsinE’ – the woman for whom the duke is supposed to have suffered love. I find this interpretation a little dubious. It could stand for Eveniet Tempus, Latin for ‘le temps venra’, while a third idea is that it stands for the words ‘En Vous’ – ‘in you’, as in ‘I believe in you’. This would be a sign of the Duc de Berry’s devotion to the Virgin Mary (with the ‘V’ also standing for ‘Virgin’). But, as I say, no one has been able to pin it down. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that the Duc de Berry was a religious man.

At the top of the folio we see him twice. He is in the centre of the illuminated capital ‘D’ of the word ‘Deus’ – God. In a pink, ermine-lined cloak he kneels at a prie-dieu covered in the fleur-de-lis and royal blue of the house of France. An angel puts one hand on his back and points up – towards heaven, or towards the image directly above, which might be the same thing. The duke looks in the same way while holding his hands aloft in prayer. To the left of this, in the margin, is a rather slim coal tit, and above it yet another bear which, like the duke, also appears to be praying.

In the larger image we see the duke again, this time wearing a red, fur-lined cloak, and holding a jewel which hangs from a thick gold chain round his neck. He is followed by a number of courtiers. More relevant, though, is the fact that his left wrist is being held by a man with short grey hair and a short grey beard who wears a blue cloak. He also has a halo and holds an enormous silver key in front of his shoulder: this is St Peter. A white dove descends from heaven, followed by diagonal beams of light: Peter is clearly inspired by the Holy Spirit, and stands in the round-topped entrance to what is otherwise an elaborate gothic porch with glazed windows. As St Peter is holding the key to the Kingdom of Heaven – as promised him by Jesus – I can only imagine that these are the very gates. In the smaller image Jean, Duc de Berry, humbly kneels in the first letter of the word ‘Deus’, and prays ‘Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord,’ while the angel is pointing him towards his reward: being led into Heaven by none other than St Peter himself. Judging by this manuscript – and everything else we will see on Monday – this would be a wonderful way to go.

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255 – Come on in! Let the Good Times begin…

The Limbourg Brothers, January, from Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, 1411-16. Musée Condé, Chantilly.

After a wonderful week in Liverpool with Artemisia, I’ve just been to Chantilly, about half an hour by train from Paris, to see a remarkable exhibition developed around an even more remarkable manuscript: Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. This is all the more imporantant given that, when a facsimile was made in 1984 (current price €3000-€7000, apparently), it was stated that the manuscript would no longer be shown to anyone – not even specialists in the field. “Maybe a visiting head of state might be able to see it”, they said, with the implication that if they wanted to they’d have to ask nicely! Even before then it was probably only seen by 5 or 6 specialists each year… Although it has been seen once in public since then (about 20 years ago), the current exhibition gives unprecedented access, thanks to necessary work to conserve the fragile masterpiece: the 12 calendar pages are all on view, having been taken out of the binding. The Très Riches Heures are joined by as many books belonging to the Duc de Berry as could be located, illuminating (literally… and metaphorically, practically and pictorially) his life and times, his interests, and the role the Limbourg brothers played in the manuscript’s production and in the development of manuscript illumination generally. To give this exhibition the time it deserves I will be delivering two talks. As the title suggests, it is a very richly decorated book of hours: a prayer book related to the different religious church services which take place at different times of the day (the canonical hours) and of the year. The first talk will therefore be dedicated to Good Times: the book itself, and will be this Monday, 15 September, at 6pm. The following Monday, 22 September, I will talk about The Duc de Berry: the man himself – putting the Hours into the context explored by the rest of the exhibition.

After these talks, I will turn to another much-heralded exhibition which opens in Florence later this month: Fra Angelico at the Palazzo Strozzi and San Marco. I will give four talks relating to what promises to be the autumn’s ‘must-see’ blockbuster. The first two are on sale now, and the second two will go on sale after the first, with a reduction in price for those who have just seen it: 
6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors

But for now, I’d like to start with the image that gets the good times rolling – the illustration for the month of January in the calendar at the beginning of the Très Riches Heures.

As I will be talking about the manuscript as a whole on Monday, I’m just going to focus on this particular image today. Painted on parchment with the richest of pigments in a medium of gum Arabic (or maybe tragacanth) mixed with water, the illuminations are also decorated with the finest gold leaf. The initial impact is of wealth and of profusion – these ‘heures’ really are ‘très riches’ – especially in this, the first image from the manuscript. It is an illustration of a regular event in the Duke of Berry’s life in the month of January. At the top is a semi-circle, with rich blues and golds, some figures and a latticework of gold lines. Below this is a depiction of a feast, in which some characters wear the same blues that are seen at the top. The Duke himself, seated behind the table on the right, is in this rich blue (and yes, it’s ultramarine), with the added expense of gold. Others are in reds, greens, and whites, and are gathered around the table, which is covered in a white cloth and laden with food. Yet more appear to enjoy the throng as they push their way in, and some even appear to be arriving on horseback (but don’t trust everything you see).

The top section of the imagery – the semicircle, or lunette – might not, at first glance, be easy to interpret, but it is what marks this out as a calendar. On one side a goat emerges from a shell and on the other a figure pours water. The location of these figures against a blue background covered in gold dots gives us an important clue: they are stars in the night sky. These are the constellations that cover the month of January. The first is Capricorn, which means ‘horned goat’, but is usually shown as a ‘sea goat’ with a curving fish’s tail. Here, rather than a tail, it has a seashell – or conceivably, and octopus’s tentacle. The second is the ‘water bearer’, Aquarius. In the Western astrological systems nowadays Capricorn has the dates 22 December – 19 January, while Aquarius covers 20 January – 18 February. However, this calendar tells us that these dates have not always been fixed. The ‘latticework’ is divided into 31 sections – because there are 31 days in January – and the division between Capricorn and Aquarius comes between what would be the 11th and 12th of January. In other months the dates, and the names of the constellations, are included in these white boxes, but not here: the calendar remained unfinished as a result of the death of the patron – and all three of the artists, Paul, Jean and Herman de Limbourg – in 1416, presumably as the result of plague. As we will see on Monday, the manuscript was completed – as far as it would ever be – by other artists. In the central section of this lunette a bright gold disk sheds light all around, but more so to the lower right. It appears above a form of chariot, pulled by horses with golden wings. This is the chariot of the sun, driven by Phoebus, whose name means ‘bright’: the name was an epithet used by Homer for Apollo, the god of the sun. As the sun crosses the sky, the days pass, and we go from the beginning to the end of the month.

Below the unfinished calendar, we see an image which is chosen to represent the month down on earth. We are in a large room in which the floor is covered with elaborately depicted rush matting. The room is heated by a monumental fireplace which dominates the top right of this detail. A trestle table covered with a white, patterned table cloth stretches two thirds of the width of the image, projecting beyond the picture field so that we cannot see how wide it is – but my guess would be that the Duc de Berry – whose blue and gold robe can be seen both above and below the table – is probably meant to be sitting in the middle. Notice how, at the very top of this detail, there is a sliver of red directly above his head: we will see what that is later. The table is laden with plates, and food, and on the left of the picture a credenza is piled high with golden vessels. People are holding cups and bowls, and there are flagons which presumably contain beer or wine. The man at the bottom left in the bright blue robe is holding both a bowl and a lidded cup: he may well be the Duke’s official cupbearer. This is clearly some form of celebration. January, the first month of the New Year, was associated with parties and gift giving. This could either be New Year’s Day itself, 1 January, or the Feast of the Epiphany on 6 January. Either would fit, but given that this is the Duc de Berry, we are witnessing the étrenne – an exchange of gifts celebrated on New Year’s day, a custom among the royal family of Valois (and elsewhere). Although you can’t see any gifts changing hands in the illumination, it would certainly be one of the ways in which the Duke had acquired so many gold vessels. One New Year the Limbourg Brothers gave the Duc de Berry a book. Only it wasn’t a book, it just looked like a book – a facsimile if you like – a block of wood carved and covered and painted to look exactly like a book. It was a form of trompe l’oeil – a clever work of art (a sculpture in this case) designed to trick the eye into thinking it really was a book. However, you couldn’t leaf through any pages, as there weren’t any. You couldn’t even get into it. As Michael Camille pointed out in a brilliant article published in 1990, this was exactly the experience everyone had of the Très Riches Heures after 1984 – until now, that is! At the top left of the detail above are the people I mentioned earlier who appear to be arriving on horseback – which seems highly inappropriate given the crowded nature of the interior.

The blue at the very top here is the bottom of the semicircular calendar. The gold horizontal feature, which is decorated, and curves away from us, is the ceiling of the room in which the feast is taking place. However, the golden brown colour appears to give way to a blue sky. Two details help us to interpret this. First, the top of the blue is scalloped, curving down and back up to and from specific points: this is a piece of fabric hanging from fixtures at the top of the wall. There are also three sets of four lines of white writing. On the far left, apparently above a gateway with a portcullis, the writing slopes down from left to right: the perspective suggests that this writing must be ‘written’ on the left wall of the room. What we are looking at is, in fact, a tapestry hanging from the top of the wall, and wrapped around the corner to hang in front of the left wall as well. It is long enough to hang down behind the people in the room, and, as the colours used for the real people and the people in the tapestry are the same, it is easy to confuse them. I’m sure this is a game the artists are playing – what is real and what is imaginary? In fact, the tapestry also hangs over the fireplace which projects into the room at the bottom right of this detail. There is a golden brown cornice above the blue headdresses of the two men at the bottom right, and the tapestry seems to be scrunched up over it, tumbling down to the left of the fireplace. Two ranks of foot soldiers, flags raised behind them, charge at each other with spears, while men on horseback, carrying the same flags as the men on the left, arrive from the gateway to support them. The words on the tapestry can be read, and at the top right of the illustration (to the right of this detail) are the words ‘de troyes le grant’, medieval French for ‘of Troy the great’: this is a tapestry depicting the Trojan War. The manuscript was being created during a civil war between two branches of the French Royal Family, the Bourguignons and the Armagnacs, which in itself impacted the 100 Years’ War with England – the tapestry of war might therefore be a very deliberate contrast to the amicable celebrations taking place in the foreground.

The gold-brown bar at the bottom of this detail is the top of the fireplace, whereas the line going up the right-hand side (and across to the left) is the ‘picture frame’: this is the top right corner of the image. The green hills, and, on the right, the helmets, pikes and flags are all part of the tapestry, with the second of the four lines on the right including the words ‘de troyes le grant’ – although it would take quite a while to get your eye in to be able to read that. The undulating profile at the bottom of the tapestry tells us that it has been bunched up over the mantelpiece. The tapestry clearly wasn’t designed for this room, but, like so many courtly luxuries, it could have been be packed up and transferred to any room in any palace – wherever it might be needed, according to the demands of ceremony or festivity. The bottom of the red fabric, which is hanging vertically in front of the tapestry, also seems to be piled up on the mantelpiece. It is topped with an equivalent canopy fringed in red, white and green. This is a throne canopy, with its cloth of state – the same as a cloth of honour you would see in paintings of the Virgin and Child. It tells us that the man sitting below is royalty, while the gold fleur de lis on the blue background tell us that he is a member of the royal family of France. The swans and bears (top left and right) were personal emblems of the Duc de Berry: this is precisely how the patronage of the Hours was identified when they were acquired by Henri d’Orléans, Duc d’Aumale, in 1856 – the date taken to mark the ‘rediscovery’ of the manuscript. Obviously I’ll talk more about the Duc de Berry – The Man Himself – the week after next, and we’ll see plenty more bears and swans then.

But how about the feast itself? The table may be laden with plates and dishes, but how many people are actually eating? Two men stand in front of the table, one of whom is wielding a knife. On the left a man in red and white also has a knife, and is cutting some of the food. They are the Duke’s carvers, responsible for cutting the meat into slices. Given that there are no knives and forks (they weren’t yet in common use) everything had to be finger food. There are more people standing behind the table, but, having eliminated all of them, you will realise that only two people are seated: the Duke, on the right, in blue, and a man wearing a red cloak over a white, hooded robe, on the left. He is identified by some as Martin Gouge, a canon from Bourges (where the Duc de Berry had one of his castles, and where he would be buried), who in 1402 became the Duke’s treasurer and, in 1406, the Bishop of Chartres. However, others suggest that this is Cardinal Alemanno Adimari, Archbishop of Pisa, who had been negotiating for a peace in the civil war between the Armagnacs and Bourguignons, and who was on his way to the Council of Constance. Given that he is dressed in red, it seems more likely that he is a Cardinal rather than a Bishop… Directly above him, two men are dressed in elaborate clothes, with richly coloured and decorated hats. Their arms are extended and their hands raised. At first it might look as if they are greeting the Duke. However, we should remember that it is January, and it is cold outside: they have only just arrived, and they are warming their hands at the fire. Behind them (to our left) are two other guests who are not dressed nearly so elaborately.

The first two men (with blue hats) sport the ‘must-have’ headgear of the day, known as a chaperon. These included three elements: a round bourrelet, a long ‘tail’, called the liripipe, and sort of cape or patte, which flopped over the head rather than the shoulders. The man with the lighter blue version has his liripipe, copiously fringed with gold, hanging over one shoulder, whereas the man next to him, with the brighter, richer blue, has wrapped it round his neck like a scarf: it clearly was cold outside. The artists emphasize the excessive amount of this bright blue material by making it hide the face of the man behind, who wears a far more modest black – and his headgear would appear to be just the bourrelet, without either patte or liripipe. He may have a small fur collar and cuffs, but there are none of the gold decorations which the two guests in front of him display. At the back of this group of four men, the last has far more ‘workaday’ headgear, a modest grey cap. It is baggy, perhaps, but not really tailored or decorated. This face appears in other works by the Limbourg Brothers – and it is usually assumed to be a self portrait by Paul. Yes, he has a bright blue collar, with gold decorations – but maybe this was a gift from the Duke, in recognition of his service? And am I wrong in seeing the letter ‘P’ embroidered on it? I suspect there’s another visual game going on here. If that is Paul, then who is the man in black? And why is his face hidden? Maybe it is another of the Limbourg brothers (Jean has been suggested), with the artist, Paul, rendering his brother ‘anonymous’ by covering his face (but beware of such identifications: the attribution of individual folios in the manuscript is strongly contested!)

Hats are often relevant – whether worn or not. The two young men in the foreground, and the usher in red behind the table, all have the ‘pudding bowl’ haircuts fashionable for young men at the time, with stubble and paler skin where the hair has been shaved from backs of their necks and above their ears. Their lack of headgear marks a lower status, however richly they are apparelled. The host himself wears a bearskin hat – a reminder of his emblem, and an indication that he is, himself, the ‘bear’ (more about that on 22 September, though). There is a small gold bear standing on the far end of the ship-shaped salt cellar at the far right, with a swan standing on the nearer end. Items such as this, and the damask tablecloth, are mentioned in the inventory made after the Duke’s death in 1416 – and this inventory is one of the exhibits currently on show in Chantilly! Also listed in it are “plusiers cayers d’unes très riches heures qui faisoient Pol et ses frères, très richement historiez et enluminez…” – or, ‘several gatherings of a very rich book of hours, richly historiated and illuminated, that Paul and his brothers made’. This entry, first identified in 1881, gives us the manuscript’s now-familiar name – Les Très Riches Heures – and tells us that it was, indeed, created by Paul, Jean and Herman de Limbourg.

The Duke sits by the fire in front of a circular firescreen, with sparks shooting up behind it. It is towards this that the new arrivals are holding up their hands on the left and right. It has exactly the same effect as the The Virgin and Child before a Firescreen, by a follower of Robert Campin, in the National Gallery, which was painted just a couple of decades later. The firescreen frames the Duke, thus emphasizing his presence and status. However, given its larger size, and the fact that the Duke is off-centre, it doesn’t look as much like a halo. The usher in red behind the table wears a very expensive gold collar and carries a staff of office. Above his head, in gold, are written the words ‘aproche, aproche’ – basically ‘come on in!’ He welcomes the new arrivals to the feast, and invites them to approach and greet the host. However, I’m sure these words are also encouraging us to enter the magical world of the book – this is the first page, after all. If you can make it to Chantilly before 5 October it really is worthwhile – and there may not be another chance in the next 20 years or more to see this masterpiece. However, if it’s just not possible, there are two websites where you can examine the manuscript in detail in the privacy of your own home:
Les très riches heures du Duc de Berry as part of the virtual library of medieval manuscripts.
Les Très Riches Heures on the Château de Chantilly website – with ‘turnable’ pages! I’d go for this one.

And of course, we will explore its riches as fully as possible on Monday, so please, ‘aproche, aproche!’ And in case you were wondering, this is what the illumination looks like when you turn the first page:

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254 – Joseph Wright, changing your point of view

Joseph Wright of Derby, Three persons viewing The Gladiator by candle-light, 1765. Private Collection, on long term loan to The Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool.

As my next talk, on Monday 25 August at 6pm, will look at the 18th century art in the Walker Art Gallery I thought that today I would think about one of the paintings which is on long term loan to the Gallery, even though it isn’t currently on show there. That’s probably because I’m sure it will be included in the National Gallery’s exhibition Wright of Derby: From the Shadows which will open in November (it would certainly fit the title), and it may have gone for some preparatory checks. We’ll find out nearer the time, of course, and as I will be talking about the exhibition when it opens I’ll be able to let you know. The Walker has a great collection of Wright’s paintings of its own which are on view, though, as well as a representative selection of works by Stubbs, Hogarth, Gainsborough et al – not to mention a number of great works which are not British – and my fifth Stroll around the Walker will cover as many of these as I have time to include.

Down here in Sidmouth (and thanks to all those of you who have come to see the shows!) I have had time to timetable the six subsequent talks, four of which are already on sale. Rather than a description, here’s a list: I thought it would be clearer. You can find more information via these links, or from the diary.

15 September, Good Times – The ‘Très Riches Heures’
22 September, The Duc du Berry: the man himself
6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi

And on sale on 6 October will be
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors

But, as I always say, keep an eye on the diary for more… Meanwhile, back to Joseph Wright.

We can see the ‘Three persons’ of the title quite clearly, even though the room in which they are sitting is very dark – pitch black, even, in this reproduction. There is apparently only one light source – a candle – which illuminates the scene. The faces are seen from different points of view, and, given that the candle is in between them (although not central) each face is illuminated to a different degree and from a different angle. The Three persons are arranged around The Gladiator, a white sculpture of a man lunging forward on his right leg, with his left arm extended in front of him and his right held behind. On the right side of the painting is a piece of paper which includes an image – a drawing or print – which shows the sculpture from a slightly different point of view.

This is one of the first of Wright’s candlelight paintings, the genre which will form the subject of the National Gallery’s exhibition. The most famous examples are An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump of 1768, and A Philosopher giving that Lecture on the Orrery in which a lamp is put in place of the Sun, which was painted the following year. Today’s painting precedes them both by at least three years, as it was first exhibited in 1765. Although they all seem to be so obviously inspired by the work of Caravaggio, it is not entirely clear if Wright had seen the Italian artist’s work by the time these paintings were made: he didn’t travel to Italy until the end of 1773, some five years after the last was painted. He was in Rome from February 1774 to June 1775, and would finally have had ample opportunity to view the celebrated paintings by the master of chiaroscuro – ‘light and dark’. Previously, he may well have had access to prints – although they would have been monochrome – but he might also have been inspired by the work of Rembrandt (who never left the Netherlands) and the Utrecht Caravaggisti, the Dutch artists who travelled to Rome and studied the paintings of Caravaggio around the time of his death in 1610 and shortly after.

One of the problems of discussing this painting today is that it is very difficult to photograph – if you can capture the full depth of the darkness, as the above image does, you also lose some of the subtler details. So here’s a different photograph.

This one is far more obviously an image of a physical object – you can see light reflecting off the painting, revealing brushstrokes and the craquelure of the surface. The colours appear lighter, and brighter, which allows you to see details such as the lamp hanging from the ceiling more clearly. The lamp constitutes a second light source – but sheds so little light on the scene as to be all but irrelevant. However, it does help to remind us that these men are inside, in a room with a ceiling. However, the darkness was probably not originally quite so intense: while some pigments fade, others darken… In order to differentiate the details of the background, as well as comparing different photographs of the original, it can be helpful to look at a contemporary print.

This one comes from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It was published in 1769 (just four years after the painting was exhibited) by the engraver, William Pether. Often engravers would consult the artist to make sure they were getting the details right. Engraving can be very precise, and it would help the engravers to clarify areas which are far more atmospheric in the painted original. As a result, they are often nowhere near as evocative as the originals – although techniques were developing which could help to achieve similar effects. To be entirely accurate, this is a mezzotint, a technique developed in the 17th century precisely to try and achieve some of the subtlety of painting. The copper plate was first stippled with tiny dots using a metal tool called a ‘rocker’, and then areas which should be light (and so not pick up ink) would be burnished smooth. This technique enabled printmakers to achieve a far more subtle variation from light to dark, and, with fewer hard edges and firm outlines, approach the atmospheric blurring that can be achieved with oils.

The print is inscribed at the bottom ‘Done from a PAINTING of Mr Joseph Wright’s of DERBY, by his Oblig’d Friend & Humble Servant’ – which suggests that Pether had indeed been in discussion with Wright as to the nature of certain elements, and there are features in the background which are not visible in the painting. The older man on the left sits in front of a niche, while behind the two younger men on the right there is a door. I suspect that these details could be relevant to the meaning of the painting – but we’ll come back to that.

The sculpture which the men are viewing is a version of a marble known as The Borghese Gladiator. The original (on the right) is far larger than this painted version: at 173cm tall, it is effectively life-size (remembering that, were the man to stand up, the sculpture would be taller). Carved onto the tree-trunk is an inscription in Greek which translates as ‘Agasias, son of Dositheus, from the town of Ephesus’ – a sculptor who is otherwise unknown. It was found in 1611 in Nettuno, near Anzio, south of Rome, as the result of excavations commissioned by Cardinal Scipio Borghese. A later Prince Borghese was constrained to sell it to his brother-in-law – none other than Napoleon Bonaparte – which is why it is now housed in the Louvre. Despite being known – universally – as The Borghese Gladiator it is now known – universally – that the man was never intended to be a gladiator at all, but a warrior fighting someone on horseback – hence his upward gaze. The misidentification resulted in a number of ‘restorations’, adding some ‘missing’ details to make the subject clearer – but some of these (not the ones necessary for structural integrity) have since been removed. From the moment it was rediscovered the sculpture was immensely popular, praised for its anatomical accuracy, and for its dynamic pose. As a result, many reproductions were made for collectors around the known world: we appear to be looking at one of them here.

The man on the left has grey hair, and wears glasses, signs of increased age, but also symbols of wisdom and maturity. Notice the position of his hands: the right holds the edge of the table at the front, while the left rests on the plinth of the statue between the legs. The man’s arms are therefore around the sculpture, the implication being that he is presenting it, in some way, to the other two. Given the extent of the shadows the precise direction of his gaze is not entirely clear, but to my eye he seems to be looking slightly to the left of the sculpture. One of the ideas about this painting is that, like the Air Pump and the Orrery, there is some kind of lesson or explanation going on – his action is, in some way, didactic: this older man is passing on his learning to the younger pair. If this is the case, then I would suggest that the niche behind him represents a form of ‘container’ – the knowledge contained in his head for example. The closed door behind the younger men could represent the knowledge about to be opened up for them, in the same way that the light can represent enlightenment.

The detail above also demonstrates how Wright’s compositions could be extremely rigorous. The older man’s head is tilted on a diagonal from top left to bottom right, and the man who we see more or less full-face – the man with the bright red lapels – has his head tilted the other way. As well as opposing one another, these angles parallel the diagonals of the Gladiator’s legs and body. Between the legs, the arms of the men to the left and right form a ‘V’ (only just visible here), creating a diamond of dark, negative space between the sculpture’s legs. The forward thrust of the form, with the stretched arm and bent knee, frames the man in red’s face, as well as creating a counterpoint with his lapels, which are not only angular, but also, thanks to the deep shadows, incredibly sculptural.

It is this man – with the red lapels – who holds the candle stick. The candle itself is visible, but the flame is hidden by his companion’s shoulder: in true Caravaggesque fashion, you do not see the naked flame. The third man – presumably a fellow student – is actually a self portrait, while the model for the man in the centre was Paul Perez Burdett, a friend of Wright’s, and the man who persuaded him to go to Liverpool. Wright – or the character he represents – holds a drawing of The Gladiator. It is sometimes said to be a print, but it is worthwhile remembering that prints reproduce imagery in reverse, whereas here we clearly see that the figure is in the same orientation. Having said that, at least one 18th century engraver made sure that he reversed the image on the plate so that the print accurately reproduced the sculpture as reaching forward with its left arm. However, I don’t get the feeling that a plate has been applied to this piece of paper – there is no sense of an impression, or of a blank border around the image: I’m sure it is a drawing. Of course, I could be wrong! The sculpture has been drawn from a different point of view from the one we see, although if we were to sit at the front left of the table – just to the right of the older man – we would get more-or-less this point of view, with the back of the head partially hidden by the shoulder.

The different viewpoints are important: points of view – and how you see things and show things – constitute one of the major subjects of this painting. As I’ve already suggested, the candle and the light it sheds are commonly seen as symbols of knowledge and learning – and hence of the Enlightenment, that great intellectual development of the 18th century. But how is the older man enlightening his students? What knowledge could he be imparting? Some sense of the importance of Ancient Greek sculpture, which only began to be appreciated (or even distinguished from Roman) in the 18th century, perhaps? Or the ways in which you can appreciate sculpture. Viewing it by artificial light – lamps or candles – was often advocated, as this creates shadows, thus emphasizing the sculptural form. The tutor might be thinking about the qualities for which one could or should evaluate a work of sculpture – for example accuracy, simplicity, boldness, balance, energy, and ‘purity’ (the mistake was made that the whiteness of the marble should be equated with an ideal, as people had not realised that Greek sculpture was originally highly coloured). However, this man may well not be looking as far back as Ancient Greece. He might have been inspired by the Renaissance, and the debate known as the Paragone –the comparison of one art form with another. In this case, there is a comparison between three forms, sculpture, painting and drawing: what are the relevant values of each, and which is superior? We see a direct comparison in the painting between the sculpture and the drawing – which helps us to see different views of the sculpture itself. This could be seen as one of the strengths of painting, as the painting shows us both. A weakness of drawing, perhaps, is that it only gives us one view, whereas, if we were to walk around the sculpture, we would see many different views. Given that the sculpture is this size, we might not need to walk round it though. It is possible that the tutor is not just presenting it, but also turning it round. Of course, he might actually be evaluating the standard of draftsmanship: the way I see it, he appears to be looking at the drawing, rather than the sculpture, and the two ‘students’ are, I think, looking at him (oddly the direction of a gaze is one of the aspects of painting that different people seem to read differently: there is another example I’ve had to confront when talking about the Air Pump – but we’ll come back to that in November).

Whatever the men are looking at now, were they to look at the sculpture they would all see it from a different point of view, and the limbs of The Gladiator would create different patterns in space for each of them. In this way the painting reminds us of the strengths of sculpture as an art form. However, the painting has advantages over that. Quite apart from our view of teh sculpture, we see each of the men from a different point of view – right profile, three-quarter profile and left profile, roughly speaking – and we can see these points of view without even having to move. Not only that, but the painting, unlike either the sculpture or the drawing, shows us the real colours of things. The intellectual skill required to show a three-dimensional object on a flat surface was also highly valued, and thus considered (by some) to be a sign of a painter’s superiority when compared to a sculptor. And of course painting can also allow us to see something that isn’t there – and that might include the very reproduction of The Gladiator that these persons are viewing. Let’s have another look at the original sculpture.

The tree trunk is clearly not just a convenient surface for Agasius to inscribe his name: it is there to support the mass of marble. Not only would the legs be too thin to support the weight of the torso, but the trunk helps to anchor and balance the forward thrust of the sculpture as a whole. It wasn’t necessary to include the tree trunk in the replica depicted by Joseph Wright, as it is not as large, and so – quite simply – not as massive: there would be little or no chance of the legs crumbling. However, the majority of reproductions of the sculpture were made in bronze.

This is an example from Houghton Hall, the Norfolk house built in the 1720s for Britain’s first Prime Minister, Robert Walpole. The bronze is more-or-less the same size as the original, and was made by Hubert le Sueur some time before 1745 for the Earl of Pembroke. Originally intended for his home, Wilton House, it wasn’t long before he gave it to Walpole. Although life size there is no tree trunk, as bronze has a far greater tensile strength than marble, and can easily support its own weight. However, the reproduction does have a sword (gladius in Latin, hence Gladiator) and a shield – reflecting the 17th century ‘restorations’. Smaller reproductions were also usually made in bronze, as they would be far easier to reproduce – you can cast multiple examples from a single mold. I suspect that Wright chose a marble version because it looks better in the candlelight, and stands out more from the dark background than a bronze would. It would also lend itself to a discussion of the virtues of the pure white marble, thus adding to the meaning of the painting. However, that doesn’t mean that Wright had actually seen an example like this, even if there are quite a few marble copies – but if he did, the version he saw is not known.

It seems unlikely that Wright ever visited Houghton Hall, but if he had he would have seen the sculpture in an ideal setting: it is displayed on a pedestal in the centre of the Grand Staircase. To appreciate the sculpture fully you just need to climb the stairs, and then descend. You would start behind the pedestal, looking up and from the far side. You would then turn left and climb the flight of stairs on the left of this photograph, and then turn left again to get the present view, before walking along the landing on the right. Climbing the next flights of stairs you would see the same side of the sculpture as before, but from above. Going from bottom to top and then top to bottom the stairs take you round the sculpture twice, giving you not only a 360° view around a vertical axis, but also views from below and above. Not only can see it all the way round, but also from top to bottom – every available viewpoint. What could be better? Should you ever find yourself at Houghton Hall do try this – but please, also look where you’re going. I wouldn’t want you to end up in a crumpled heap appreciating the decoration of the ceiling.

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The Annunciation, again (again)

Veit Stoss, The Annunciation, 1517-18, St Lorenzkirche, Nuremberg.

Another repost, as I’m on holiday in Shetland (although for obvious reasons I wrote this before I left home). As my talk, this Monday 4 August at 6pm, will be particularly concerned with Duccio’s Annunciation, I thought I’d look back to a far different version of the narrative – as some of the ideas will inevitably be the same. The talk is a repeat of the lunchtime lecture I gave at the National Gallery a while back, and I’m repeating it online because so many of you are nowhere near London. Entitled Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà, we will look at the painting as a whole, consider its context within the Cathedral for which it was painted, together with the paintings which were commissioned later to enhance its meaning. We will also look at some of the details which confirm, for me, that Duccio really was a genius! After that talk I’ll be off acting for a bit, before taking the fifth in my very occasional series of Strolls around the Walker – the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. By now I have got to The 18th Century, and I’ll talk about that on Monday 25 August. The subsequent talk, as far as I can tell, will be on Monday 15 September, as on the previous Monday I will be in Chantilly see the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, one of the world’s most spectacular – and famous – illuminated manuscripts. I never imagined I would get to see it in the flesh, so I thought I’d better tell you all about it when I get home. That is over a month away, though, so there’ll be more news about it as soon as I’ve got some (do check the diary!)

When I first wrote this post, it had been over two months since I had previously discussed The Annunciation. Back then it was the calm, rational, yet mystical version by Piero della Francesca, which is at the heart of his True Cross cycle (Picture Of The Day 7). I’m surprised I haven’t talked about more versions, there are so many. But on the Sunday before, I was talking about Mercury’s caduceus – his staff of office (POTD 67) – and I said that the Archangel Gabriel used to have one too – a staff of office, that is, not a caduceus. As far as I’m aware, Mercury is the only person to have one of those. From classical to medieval times – and beyond – messengers showed their authority to convey messages by carrying a staff or rod, and this is what Gabriel holds in early representations of the Annunciation [including the version by Duccio which we will see on Monday]. He still does in Veit Stoss’s magical polychrome sculpture in the Church of St Laurence – the Lorenzkirche – in Nuremberg, even though that doesn’t really class as ‘early’.

The sculpture hangs from the vaulted ceiling on a chain, and has done almost constantly since it was completed in 1518. At one point there was a petition to replace the chain with a hemp rope, as that would be cheaper, but, although the petition was successful, the rope broke. It was also taken down and stored during the Second World War, which was just as well, given that the church was completely gutted. The ceiling you see here dates from the 1950s, but gives an entirely convincing sense of the lofty heights of the brilliantly illuminated medieval church. The stained glass is also original – like the Annunciation it was removed and preserved – as was the elaborate candelabrum to the right of the image, which is topped by a small sculpture of the Virgin Mary. The candelabrum was commissioned at the same time as the Annunciation, and was intended to illuminate it. The patron was a local businessman – and council member – Anton Tucher, who had a particular devotion to the rosary. The candelabrum was there so that people could see the Annunciation in the hope that it would facilitate their prayers.

The dedication to the rosary explains the structure of the ensemble, which is made up of many different sculptures. Gabriel and Mary are central, perhaps a little too close for comfort given the nature of their exchange, and they stand not on the floor, but on the outstretched cloak of an angel. They are surrounded by a rosary, which is made up of a ring of small, stylised roses, with five circles arranged around it. There are another two of the roundels top left and right, with everything overseen by God the Father, perched on a cloud. Hanging from the bottom is a serpent, an apple in its mouth. Closest to the devout, this would be a constant reminder about the need for prayer. Hanging around the rosary is another string of prayer beads: seven gold beads punctuate sequences of black: there are three of the latter at either end, and then six sets of ten black beads. A rosary would usually have six sets like this, although only one would hang free, with the other five sets looped together. The same structure is replicated by the ring of roses. Although you can only see eight of these in between the roundels, if you look from the back, there are in fact ten – it’s just that each roundel hides two of them. This is a real sign that this is a devotional work, as there is nowhere where you could see the two hidden roses clearly. You say – or ‘tell’ – the rosary by running it through your fingers and saying a prayer on each bead. On each of the large beads (represented by the gold ones on the hanging chain, or by the roundels) you would say the Lord’s Prayer (“Our Father…”), and on each of the smaller ones, a “Hail Mary” – which is a version of the angelic salutation to the Virgin Mary, the very reason why the Annunciation is the central image. While saying the “Our Father” you should meditate on one of the mysteries – but I’ll tell you what those are later. Despite my frequent exhortations to ‘go round the back’ of sculptures (e.g. POTD 68), there is relatively little to be learnt here – although if you move from side to side at the ‘front’ – the full 180˚ – the relationship between Gabriel and Mary will constantly change.

Gabriel looks a little duller here, because this photo was taken before a relatively recent cleaning – and yes, the sculpture has been cleaned and restored numerous times: it would have to be. You will know from your own homes how soon the dust settles. And given that there is a candelabrum that used to be piled high with candles not so far away, it would also have been covered in soot. But all that aside, it is in a remarkably good condition, because from the very beginning the sculpture had its own big, green bag which was only taken off during Mass and on special feast days. The process was expensive, and as a result the frequency with which this happened gradually decreased. And then in 1525 Nuremberg became Protestant, just seven years after the sculpture was completed, so it’s surprising that it survived at all. However, rather than destroy it, they just left it in its bag. It’s only relatively recently that it has been on display all the time. 

The angel Gabriel comes as a messenger from God the Father, who sits atop the sculpture, symbolically outside the world, above the clouds, in heaven. He blesses with his right hand, and holds an orb in his left. The orb represents the world, divided by a loop around the centre (the equator, effectively), and with an additional loop going round the bottom (usually, though, it goes across the top). Thus the globe is divided into three – Europa, Africa and Asia, the three known continents. OK, by the time Stoss carved it, the Americas had been ‘discovered’, but no one ever thought to change the orb. The cross on top represents God’s dominion over the world. When the orb is held by a monarch, it stands for that monarch’s dominion over their particular part of the globe on God’s behalf. Beams of heavenly light radiate out below God, but we can’t see those in this detail. Gabriel is mid-proclamation, his lips open, and a look of awe in his eyes – Mary truly is as beautiful as he had been told. His right hand points up, symbolically, towards God, and he holds his staff of office in his left. This really is a staff of office – there is no hint that it might be even slightly like a lily. Around it is wrapped a scroll, bearing the angelic salutation in full – ‘Ave gratia plena dominus tecum etc.’ – ‘Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee’. The ‘Mary’ was added later for the prayer, and for the sake of clarity.

Gabriel and Mary don’t exactly look at each other – a bit like a skype call or Zoom, they appear to be on the same screen, and yet in different places. They are not quite looking at each other – or the camera. Despite their physical proximity, they should be imagined as being further apart, and facing towards each other – Stoss has abbreviated the space as a result of the requirements of the ensemble. On hearing the greeting – or, given that Gabriel is still speaking, while listening to him – Mary appears duly humble. Her left hand holds the book she was reading – the Jewish scriptures – against her lap, and it presses on the blue lining of her gold cloak, although I can’t help thinking that, with the surprise, she is letting it slip to the ground. Her right hand goes towards her chest as a sign of her humility, although it hasn’t got there yet – it stands free of her torso, a fantastic piece of carving. In all of the ensemble the the wood is carved deeply, notably around the draperies where corners always stand free, looking almost paper thin. To prevent the cloaks falling over the rosary, they are held up by angels, who are multi-tasking: they also ring bells in celebration. This is quite a noisy sculpture. The Holy Spirit has landed on Mary’s head, almost like Philip Larkin’s ‘faint hint of the absurd’. I’m not sure why Stoss chose to do this: he is happy for angels to be mounted on rods, why shouldn’t the dove do the same? It could well be a sign that, as the dove has landed, this is the very moment of conception. The roundels are, I hope, clear enough to read here. They are relief carvings of scenes from the lives of Mary and Jesus, arranged in a sequence starting at the bottom left, just below Gabriel’s feet.

On the left we see the Nativity, with the baby Jesus lying on the floor, in between Mary and Joseph, both kneeling and praying.  On the right, Mary and St Peter kneel on either side, with others in the background. The Holy Spirit flies, wings outstretched, at the top of the image – this is Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended and the Apostles went out to preach to the world (POTD 58 – we’ll hear more about it on Sunday – POTD 74). 

On the left, after the Nativity, comes the Adoration of the Magi. The eldest magus kneels and hands the gift of Gold to Jesus, who sits on Mary’s lap and leans over to touch it. The other two Magi stand behind – the middle-aged one bends over from the left, and the young, black king looks out above Jesus’ head. As well as the three ages of man, the Magi also came to represent the three continents – thus linking to the orb above. To the right we see the Ascension of Christ (POTD 64), which precedes Pentecost by ten days. Mary and Peter kneel on the ground looking up as Christ’s feet, and the hem of his robe disappear behind the top of the roundel.

Finally, at the top, we have the Resurrection (POTD 25) – which completes the cycle. Or rather, it links the images on the left and right, a clockwise narrative, from the Nativity and the Adoration of the Magi, through the Resurrection and on to the Ascension and Pentecost. The two additional scenes continue the story of Mary, with the Death of the Virgin (often referred to as the ‘Dormition’ – as she didn’t so much die as go to sleep – more of that another day), and then, in the top right, an image which combines several different ideas. Mary and Jesus are both crowned as Queen and King of Heaven, with swirling blue around them. Within this is the notion of Mary’s Assumption into heaven, and her subsequent Coronation. There are also angels with a viol and a lute – more music to add to the bells. 

Almost all of these roundels are taken from the ‘mysteries’, those events that should be contemplated while saying an “Our Father” on the larger beads. There were, traditionally, three sets of ‘mysteries’, although Pope John Paul II added a fourth. I’ll just list the traditional three, which were the Joyful, the Sorrowful, and the Glorious Mysteries:

Joyful: the Annunciation; the Visitation; the Nativity; the Presentation at the Temple and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple.

Sorrowful: the Agony in the Garden; the Flagellation; the Crowning with Thorns; the Carrying of the Cross and the Crucifixion and Death of Christ.

Glorious: the Resurrection; the Ascension; the Descent of the Holy Spirit (Pentecost); the Assumption of the Virgin and the Coronation of the Virgin.

Notice, however, that the Adoration of the Magi doesn’t actually feature in these lists – so, although all of the other roundels represent ‘mysteries’ of the Rosary, this should really be elided with the Nativity.

Having said that, listing the mysteries does make this sculpture seem more academic than it really is. What comes across more than any thing else, given the rich colours and the flights of angels, the clanging of bells and sweet angelic music, is that The Annunciation is a truly joyous event. The ‘sorrowful mysteries’ are completely omitted and there is the recognition that, with the Annunciation, Salvation is on its way. So let’s finish with some entirely joyous angels – and then, on Monday, we can see what else Duccio can add to the mix!

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Still Triumphing…

Bartolomé Bermejo, St Michael Triumphs over the Devil, 1468. The National Gallery, London

Today I’m reposting something from the early days of this Blog. It was written on the very first day of Lockdown 1 – the day that everyone in the UK was told to stay at home. I’ve gone back to this one because the painting I was writing about will feature in my talk this Monday, 14 July at 6pm – Sainsbury Story 3: In Church and at Home. It is hung in one of the National Gallery’s new thematic rooms, this one dedicated to Gold and its use in European art from 1260-1550, thus spanning the entire range of dates included in the new hang of the Sainsbury Wing. I’m then off on holiday, but back on Monday 4 August to repeat my National Gallery lunchtime talk Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà. I’ll then be acting for a few weeks – appearing in Dial M for Murder and See How they Run! at the Manor Pavilion Theatre in Sidmouth. But I will return to the wonderful Walker Art Gallery on Monday 25 August for A stroll around the Walker V: The 18th Century. By then – but not much before – I’ll know what I’m doing next. Do keep your eye on the diary though, just in case something spontaneous comes up!

I’ve left this post pretty much as it was, although I have improved the images. We had nothing to do, and the few people who’d found the blog by then (at this point still on my Facebook Page) were being very active asking questions and making suggestions for what they would like me to talk about next (I still welcome suggestions, by the way, if anyone has any). The last comment is very much of its time – and relates to the instructions we had been given about not passing on the virus. If only we’d known then that it was primarily airborne.

Originally posted on 23 March 2020:

Thank you all for all your thoughts, suggestions and queries. I’m building up quite a backlog of material, whether it’s the vengeance of the vegetables, or the continued presence of deceased dogs in art… but today I’m going to reply to a question arising from yesterday’s painting, which was  ‘Why such feminine attributes on archangel Raphael? The ballet feet, long hair tied back, beautiful soft face?’ It reminded me of today’s painting, Bermejo’s St Michael Triumphs over the Devil, which I also thought about yesterday because of its connection with Superman.

The connection might at first sight seem obvious – a Superhero has come to the rescue, after all, but that’s not what I was thinking about. Nevertheless, it bears consideration. The Superhero in this case is the Archangel Michael, whose various responsibilities include weighing the souls at the Last Judgement, and defeating the Devil. He is in command of God’s army in the Book of Revelation, making sure all the rebellious angels are vanquished. Rather than the ‘S’ of Superman, Michael has the Heavenly Jerusalem reflected in his golden breastplate.

Even if gold would not in any way be effective as armour, it doesn’t tarnish, so it is pure and unchanging, just like God: it is a symbol of his divine authority. It also reflects beautifully, allowing Bermejo to show off his brilliance as a painter – just look at the way the red of the lining of the cloak is reflected in his calves (in the next detail down).

Unlike Superman (or St Michael’s close equivalent, St George) there is no damsel in distress (not that St George’s damsel was especially distressed – but that’s another story). In this case it is a man, whose kneeling position in this instance tells us he is a normal, everyday human, adopting a position of humility. This is the position adopted by most donors – i.e. the people who gave money for the painting – in religious works. Also know as the patrons, these are the people who commissioned the works of art. The donor of this work was Antonio Juan, Lord of Tous, not so terribly far from Valencia in Spain. He kneels down leafing through his book of psalms, and has carefully held it open at two pages, Psalms 51 and 130. The first of these starts, ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness’ – so he’s clearly worried that he might have done something wrong – while the second says, ‘Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord’. It must have been this ‘cry’ that Michael has responded to.

What does he need saving from? Well, the Devil, naturally, which is fashioned here out of everything most unpleasant. It always reminds me of one of the monsters made by Sid Philips, the psychopath neighbour in Toy Story.

It has at least four eyes – two in its face and two on its nipples. They are red, and with the black pupils they echo the poppies, which are symbols of sleep, and therefore also death. It also has two mouths. The one in its stomach has a snake for a tongue. Lizard mouths form the elbow joints, and the rest is a combination of bat wings, claws, spikes and scales, everything generally unpleasant. And yet, to my eyes, it remains faintly absurd, even comical. There is no doubt to me that he will be defeated. Michael holds his rock crystal shield in his left hand, and raises his right over his head, ready to strike. I suspect that, once his arm has swung round, the head of the Devil will be sliced straight off.

Michael has certainly not wasted any time: he’s only just landed. Look at his cloak (this is the real connection with Superman) – it’s still floating up in the air, and at any moment, it will come swishing down by his side, in the same way that Superman’s cloak flows out behind him in flight, and then, as he lands, falls down heavily and wraps around him. Or maybe I’m just imagining that.

But what of the femininity? Compare the details of the faces. Antonio Juan has wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, is dark and swarthy (he was a Spaniard, after all), has hollow cheeks, a slightly hooked nose and more than a hint of five-o’clock shadow – he hasn’t shaved for a day or two.

Michael on the other hand is blond and blemish free, with a perfect complexion, a high forehead, arched eyebrows, a long, straight nose, red, almost cupid’s-bow lips and a rounded, dimpled chin. In fact, he has all the marks of perfect female beauty as described by François Villon (1431-63?) in Le Testament:

…that smooth forehead,
that fair hair,
those arched eyebrows, 
those well-spaced eyes,
that fine straight nose, 
neither large nor small,
those dainty little ears,
that dimpled chin,
the curve of those bright cheeks,
and those beautiful red lips.

(This quotation is from the Penguin Book of French Verse, I, and is quoted in Lorne Campbell’s superb entry on The Arnolfini Portrait in his catalogue of Fifteenth Century Netherlandish Paintings in the National Gallery)

But why should these ideal feminine features apply to a man called Michael? Are we talking Renaissance gender fluidity here? Not necessarily. After all, he’s not a man, he’s an angel, and unlike us, he hasn’t fallen – he’s in a state of Grace, without Original Sin. It’s only the sinful who, at a certain point, would continue to grow old, get ill and die… Antonio Juan needs help because he is sinful, the marks of that being the swarthiness, the stubble and the wrinkles. And yet – you might still be asking – does Michael have to look so girly? Just think about Shakespeare. Quite apart from the fact that all the girls were played by boys, more than one character talks about young men as if they were girls, with no beard and high voices, and before they have a beard they are clearly not enough of a man to be a lover. This is also Flute’s complaint in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: ‘Let me not play a woman. I have a beard coming’. Curiously perhaps (and yet, in another way, it is obvious) these features are shared, so often, with those of the Virgin Mary. Like the Archangel Michael she is free from Original Sin, and, as a result, in Roman Catholic belief, she never died. She watches over us, a mother to us all. The fact that Michael has these features (as do other angels – we saw Raphael yesterday) shows us that he is pure, and perfect, and that with him, we are in very safe hands. I’m assuming that those hands are very clean.

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253 – A vision, closer than you think

Carlo Crivelli, The Vision of the Blessed Gabriele, probably about 1489. The National Gallery, London.

One of the most dramatic vistas I’ve ever seen in a museum is new – and it is one of the splendours of the new hang of the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery in London. Indeed, I’ve been using a photograph of it to advertise my talk this Monday, 7 July at 6pm, the Second Sainsbury Story, At home in the Church. We will look at the ways in which the arrangement of the paintings can help us to understand the context in which they would have been seen when first painted. We will also discover the ingenious ways in which one room is linked to the next. The work I want to explore today is part of the progression through this series of rooms, and it responds to the Crucifix hanging from the ceiling with a vision of the Virgin and Child which can appear to be – if you look at it the right way – in our own space. You’ll have to trust me on that – or read on, to find out what I mean. The third ‘story’ will look at paintings from across the Italian peninsular which were made either for domestic spaces – and these could be religious or secular paintings – or for churches. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, but join me on 14 July for Sainsbury Story 3: In Church and at Home for a few pointers. As an example of this idea we’ll start (probably) with Piero della Francesca, who painted a Nativity for his own domestic devotions. After that I’ll be on holiday for two weeks, returning for Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà on 4 August. I’ll then be acting in Sidmouth for a couple of weeks, but plan to give a talk on 25 August, the next in my (very) occasional series A stroll around the Walker, looking at works in my ‘local’ museum, The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. This will be my fifth visit, and will focus on the 18th Century, and I will post more information about this in the diary by Monday evening.

We see a Franciscan friar kneeling on barren, stony ground in the left foreground of the painting. He looks up to the right, towards a vision of the Virgin and Child, who are apparently hovering in the top right corner. A garland of fruit is slung across the top of the painting, although it is not at all clear how the garland is attached. On the left the landscape rises up as a steep cliff of red, curving rocks, balanced on the right by a renaissance-style building with a dome on the higher section and semi-dome on what could be an apse. This is Crivelli’s representation of San Francesco ad Alto, which in ‘real life’ was – and is – a substantially larger structure, originally in the countryside outside the city walls of Ancona in the Marche. Apart from the fact that the city has expanded, so that the building is now in the suburbs, the church was secularised in 1863 and what was the priory is now home to a military base. However, its origins are are supposed to go back to the founder of the Franciscan order, St Francis himself. He is believed to have designated the site of the priory in 1219 when he was passing through Ancona, using the port as a point of departure for his pilgrimage to Egypt (we’ll see Sassetta’s painting of what happened when he got there on Monday). Gabriele Ferretti – the subject of today’s painting – was the Superior of the priory for three years, starting in 1449, and continued to live there until his death in 1456. Like St Francis he came from a wealthy family, but gave up that wealth to join the Church. He became renowned for the sanctity of his life, and for his regular retreats to the woodland surrounding the priory to pray and to meditate (much as St Francis had done). It was there that he experienced visions of the Virgin and Child. After his death his family sought to have him canonised (recognised as a Saint), but the miracles were never forthcoming. However, he did get as far as being beatified – the first step on the road to Sainthood – although that didn’t happen until 1753. Initially buried in a simple grave outside the church, in 1489 his body was transferred to a marble tomb monument (commissioned by his sister Paolina, one of the rare examples of female patronage) with today’s painting hung above the effigy of the deceased.

I wanted to start by getting in close to give you a sense of where we are. The strength of Ferretti’s devotion is made clear by his bright, wide-open eyes, apparently looking directly upwards. They shine with bright catchlights, which make him look both alert and fervent. His mouth is open with a sense of dumb-struck awe, which helps to convince us about his feelings on seeing the divine vision. In the very top left corner of this detail a few golden beams are visible, radiating from his head. These are often given to the beatified in advance of their full canonisation, at which point they would get a full halo. However, Crivelli has included this beatific radiance some 160 years before he achieved the relevant states – but this was something he did at the family’s request, and with the permission of the Franciscan order: they too would have welcomed a newly canonised Saint among their number. Crivelli’s clear understanding of the structure of the Franciscan habit is marked by the precise delineation of a seam between the neckline and Ferretti’s praying hands, as well as another at the top of his right sleeve: delicate details which add to the image’s authenticity. Just to the right of his fingers – and some distance away – we see a walled city. This is a stylised representation of Ancona, suggesting that we are out in the countryside, some way from the city walls. This makes sense, as this is exactly the sort of place where St Francis wanted his followers to live – and where the priory was in any case located. Further away we see the sea and the coastline, with hills forming promontories reaching out into the blue water. This is a fairly accurate evocation of the coastline of the Marche: we are looking northwards, towards Rimini, Ravenna, and eventually Venice. There are people chatting to one another on the road which winds its way through the sparse trees of the wood, while others come and go, to and from the city, their size dependent on their distance.

If we take a step back we can see that the priory is next to this road. The cave on the left of this detail may have been intended to stress Ferretti’s humility – as if it were an even humbler place to retreat – while the perspective of the church leads our eyes towards the holy man. As he looks up a line of birds flies on a similar diagonal to his gaze. Stepping back further, we would see how this could lead our eyes to the vision. Just beyond Ferretti’s left elbow is the hooded head of another Franciscan, included to enhance the connection between the subject of the painting and the order’s founder. No one had painted The Vision of the Blessed Gabriele before, so how was Crivelli supposed to know how to do it? Presumably by looking at a similar subject. He seems to have based his composition on another which was far more common: The Stigmatisation of St Francis. Here’s a comparison with Sassetta’s version of the Stigmatisation (which will also find its way into Monday’s talk).

Francis has gone out into the countryside to pray, and sees a vision of a winged seraph. One of his followers, a Brother Leo, has accompanied him, and although reports suggest that he did not see the vision, he is often included in the paintings anyway. Usually, though, he is some way off, and often on the other side of a stream. However, Sassetta makes him far more prominent. As well as going out into the countryside to pray – and experience a vision – Gabriele Ferretti, like St Francis, has also been accompanied by one of the other brothers, although we can only see his head. This stress on the similarities between the two may well have been suggested by the Ferretti family, the patrons of the painting, or by the Franciscans of the priory, in the hope that this would speed up the process of canonisation. Francis’s followers named him Alter Christus – another Christ – and in this painting Crivelli shows us Gabriele Ferretti as Alter Franciscus.

The artist encourages us to believe what we are seeing by including some highly realistic details, which not only catch our attention but also draw us in. In the left foreground is the edge of a stream, or just conceivably a pond. We could think about the water of life, or baptism, I suppose – the religious setting would favour such an interpretation – but it is more important for the beautifully painted detail of the duck and duckling, with an excellent distinction between the mature feathers of the former and soft, fluffy down of the latter. The delight we might take at the accuracy of their depiction helps to pull us into the space of the painting, keeping us involved and maybe even encouraging us to seek out other such details. They also help us to trust anything else we see as real. For example, there is a rubricated prayer book (some of the pages are written in red) lying open in front of the kneeling friar. Next to it, the artist’s signature is foreshortened, as if lying on the ground: OPUS KAROLI CRIVELLI VENETI – the work of Carlo Crivelli from Venice. Although Venice played a relatively little part in his career, it was a good place to come from as an artist: a mark of his superior status. Behind Ferretti’s feet are his sandals. Like Moses before the burning bush (Exodus 3:5) he has taken off his footwear because he is on holy ground.

When we look up, following his gaze – and the line of birds – we can see why he considered it to be holy. Just above the church there is a mandorla. The word means ‘almond’, but is used to describe the geometric form which so often surrounds figures appearing in visions – in part, because this was the shape of the structure on which actors would appear (or disappear) when representing holy figures in religious dramas. The arrival of the Archangel Gabriel at the Annunciation, for example, or the Ascension of Christ or Assumption of the Virgin would all use such mechanisms.

The mandorla itself is at an angle – which is unusual. Every other one that I can think of is placed frontally – a formal arrangement which makes it clear that the vision is intended for us, the viewers of the work of art. However here the vision is the Blessed Gabriele’s, and the Virgin and Child are angled towards him. Indeed, Mary holds the child high in front of her chest as if she is about to hand the baby to Ferretti, offering him the chance to hold the divine. Mary and Jesus both have haloes, as do the winged heads of the red seraphim whhich surround not only the mother and child, but also the mandorla, supporting it on its miraculous descent from heaven. The religious figures are radiant with applied gold, and beams of light shine out on all sides, equivalent to Gabriele’s own radiance. This rich and detailed use of gold helps to make the vision stand out from the background, with its sky streaked by numerous clouds in shades of white and grey. The mandorla is neatly framed by the bunches of fruit which make up the garland. The stalks of some of the fruits are tied with pink ribbons, which hang from something unseen at the top of the painting. The mandorla is balanced on the left side of the painting by a tree which reaches more or less the same height. Notice how remarkably horizontal two of the branches are – one reaching to the left, and another to the right – while a third branch rises almost vertically. It is no coincidence that this tree has taken on the shape of the cross: the bird, sitting with its back to us, confirms that this was the intention.

Admittedly it’s not that easy to see, even in this detail, but it has flashes of yellow on its wings, and a splash of red on its head: this is a goldfinch. Jesus was grasping one upside down in last week’s painting, the newly acquired Netherlandish or French Virgin and Child with Saints Louis and Margaret. According to legend, the red colour came from the blood of Christ, which dripped onto the head of one of the ancestors of this little bird when it plucked a thorn from Jesus’s forehead on the way to Calvary. The goldfinch is a symbol of Christ’s Passion – and confirms that the cross shape evoked by the branches of the tree do indeed refer to the crucifixion. But there’s something more surprising than that here. At the top of this detail you can see some of leaves of the fruits, and the ends of one of the ribbons with which they are tied – and they do something unexpected: they cast shadows on the sky. Of course, they are not casting shadows on the sky, they are casting shadows on the painting – of which they themselves are a part. Crivelli is suggesting that this image is so important – given that Ferretti himself was – that it has been decorated, with the garland intended to honour the Blessed Gabriele. It is a remarkable trompe l’oeil invention which shows us how sophisticated the artist was, despite his apparently retardataire (i.e. old fashioned) use of gold. But that’s not all.

Some of the golden beams of light which emanate from the mandorla on the right seem to pass in front of the shadows. And if the shadows are cast on the painting, then the vision, with the mandorla at an angle and the Virgin and Child sculpturally in front of it, must be in front of the painting. Jesus and Mary are painted as if physically in our space. This illusion – with part of the imagery apparently in front of the painted space – would probably have been more convincing when the work was in its original location which, even during the day, would have been the fairly dark interior of a church.

On entering San Francesco ad Alto, the painting would have been in a corner, opposite the door through which the worshipper would enter, but to the left. It hung above the effigy of the deceased lying on his sarcophagus (this section the monument survives in the Diocesan Museum in Ancona). As a result we would have seen the painting, initially at least, from the bottom right. This is why the signature is foreshortened as it is, and would have emphasized the way in which the book leads us into the space. The top of the painting would have been fairly high, and what little light there was would have caught two parts of the image in particular, the two areas which were gilded: the Blessed Gabriele’s radiance, and the rich glory covering and surrounding the Virgin and Child. With the vision glowing in the darkness in front of the grey cloudy sky, it would surely have enhanced the sensation that the mandorla was floating above the deceased, in our space, and that the Virgin and Child were watching over the carved effigy as much as the painted image. If they turned their heads to their left, they would have seen us standing there too. Given this, the new placement of the painting in the Sainsbury Wing is especially brilliant.

Hung like this, we approach with the painting on our left, as we should. Gabriele Ferretti kneels in prayer in front of the miraculous vision, which hovers in the space of the Sainsbury Wing about a quarter of the way between the revered Franciscan and Segna di Bonaventura’s Crucifix hanging from the ceiling of the adjacent room. It really helps to enhance the apparent solidity of the mandorla, and of the Virgin and Child. This is the sort of connection within the rooms and from one room to another which I will be discussing on Monday. Having said all of that, I might have been getting carried away the last time I saw the Crivelli. I couldn’t help but marvel at his skill, and his remarkable ability to create the most unbelievable sense of three-dimensional illusion. It even looked as if he had gone so far as to evoke a genuine Franciscan stepping forward to greet the Blessed Gabriele in front of the painting.

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252 – Beauty and the Beast

Netherlandish or French, The Madonna and Child with Saints Louis and Margaret, about 1510. The National Gallery, London.

My first talk about the newly refurbished Sainsbury wing, this Monday, 30 June at 6pm, is entitled Opening up the North. There are various reasons for choosing this title, which I will discuss during the talk itself. If you click on either of those two links you can book for that talk on its own. However, up until 6pm on Monday you will still be able to book, on the next two links, for all three of the Three Sainsbury Stories at a reduced rate – which admittedly equates to what has been the price up until now. The other two talks will be At home in the Church on Monday 7 July, and In Church and at Home the following week. I shall then head off to the northern extremities of the British Isles for a holiday, before returning to revisit Duccio’s Maestà with a repeat of my National Gallery ‘in-person’ lecture, Seeing the Light – which I will expand a little – on 4 August. For any other dates which might arise, do keep an eye on the diary – although I might add that, by 4 August, I will already be in rehearsal for two plays at the Sidmouth Summer Play Festival, which seem to confirm my type-casting as either a police detective or a vicar… But before we get there, let’s think about Opening up the North – one of the things that the National Gallery’s latest acquisition certainly does. Have a good look at it before reading further! I make no apologies for this being one of the longest posts I have ever written, it’s that intriguing, and I’m indebted to the entry on the National Gallery’s website, which says some of the following far more concisely!

I was first alerted to the NG’s acquisition of the painting by one of you, wanting to know more about it: thank you! That’s one of the reasons why I’m writing about it today. Well, that, and the fact that, initially, I was equally baffled! However, the more I have looked, the more I have become intrigued, the more I appreciate the acquisition – and the more I like the painting. I don’t know what first grabs your attention, but I was initially shocked by some of the awkwardness, ugliness and crudity – and that is precisely what I have come to love about it. It’s not what I expect of the Northern European Renaissance, and that is exactly why I think it is such a good acquisition: it opens up our idea of what the artists could do. Maybe, at first glance, you realised what an entirely traditional painting it is: a Madonna and Child Enthroned with two angels (one on either side) and two saints (one on either side). Within an open loggia, with a row of square columns on either side, a richly embroidered cloth of gold is hung to create a canopy which defines Mary’s seat as a throne, and therefore confirms her status as Queen of Heaven. Although seated, she is higher than the other characters, and steps lead up to the throne. However, the steps are mere wood, and there is what is probably the most grotesque monster I have ever seen lurking front and centre.

However, at the top of the painting everything appears calm, even placid. Mary sits formally, facing front, a flower between left thumb and forefinger, and the Christ Child sat naked on her right knee, supported by her right hand. He looks towards our left, either at the angel doing something strange with its mouth, or the royal figure who looks across the pictorial field, almost as if he is unaware of being in the presence of God. On the right a woman has her hands joined in prayer, holding a cross, with a dove sat calmly on her shoulder, for all the world like the holy antithesis of Long John Silver and his parrot. Behind her an angel holds a book. The colonnades stretch back into the space, with the capitals – or are they mini-entablatures? – carved in high relief, and forming diagonals which lead our eyes towards the Virgin’s face.

That face has the most perfect complexion, pale, as it was believed befitted someone pure, and without blemish: immaculate, like the Virgin herself. I know, the proportions are slight odd, but a high forehead was considered beautiful – so this must be the most beautiful – as was a long, slim nose with a petite rounded end, and a narrow, cupid’s bow mouth. The light falls from above and from the right, although Mary’s right jaw (on our left) is also illuminated by reflected light. It can only have come from her son. Her eyes are lowered, solemn, as she is aware of what will pass after another three decades or so: his crucifixion, references to which abound in the painting. The cloth of honour is one of the most delicately embroidered I have seen, with stylised flowers, leaves and stems, and a pair of double-headed eagles in roundels, one on either side. They bring to mind the Hapsburgs and the Holy Roman Empire. A pole spans the gap between two of the columns, and the cloth of honour has been hung over it. There must be another pole further forward from which the fringed end of the fabric hangs, thus making a canopy appropriate for the royal presence. We can’t quite see where it is hanging though, which might suggest that the painting has been cut down – but apparently not: underneath the frame there is unpainted wood on all four sides of the image: this is the full extent of the painting. The result is that the canopy is pushed forward towards us, thus bringing us closer to the holy figures. The detailing is so precise that we can see folds in the fabric – a horizontal at the level of Mary’s eyes, and a vertical on either side of her head, going down to her shoulders. They make a cross on both sides – which reminds me of the two thieves crucified on either side of Jesus. The horizontal fold also connects two of the relief carvings: people in prayer, looking up to God, on our left, and the back of a naked boy looking down on our right.

I have suggested that these might be capitals, but the more I look the more I realise that they are not high enough up the columns to be capitals. Each column is treated as a pier (a supportive mass of masonry) with its own entablature, which suggests that the reliefs are remarkably short friezes below the cornice. Each is intriguing, and some can be easily interpreted. Naked boys are playing on the far left – one is blindfold, two others hug or fight. On the next column the friezes focus on grapes. On the side facing us is the Drunkeness of Noah. The one good man survived the deluge (with his family), grew vines, made wine, got drunk and revealed his nakedness: one of his sons lifts his elbow above his father’s head and covers his eyes to avoid seeing the paternal shame. The implication of this story is that even the one good man was still in need of redemption. The side which faces into the space shows two men carrying a pole from which is hung the most enormous bunch of grapes. These are the Grapes of Canaan – a story from Numbers 13:21-24 in which Moses sent spies into Canaan. It truly was a fertile place, and the grapes were just some of the evidence that this, a land that ‘floweth with milk and honey’, really was the promised land.

On the other side, Adam and Eve stand under the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, with the serpent snaking up between them: The Fall. Further forward, a man lifts something while another cowers beneath: Adam and Eve’s sons, Cain and Abel, and the former killing the latter. And if these two scenes didn’t persuade you that mankind was in need of redemption, the last will: a group of naked boys are playing around in a barren tree, with one of them bending over and peering between his knees to show you his bottom. Two of his friends are pointing at it. This is not what I meant by ‘crudity’, when I used the word before, but it is remarkably rude. It reminds me of some of the grotesque and low-comedy carvings you get on misericords, the underside of fold-up chairs that monks and priests could perch on in many European churches and cathedrals during the long religious services. I think that it is there as light relief after the murder of Abel – something we can snigger at, perhaps, but learning through laughter. It belittles those who misbehave, whilst our enjoyment of it might also bring us up short in the presence of God, guilty about our own enjoyment of the bawdiness. Before we move on, just look at the stonework above these friezes, with the careful, insistent diagonals showing us how the masons finished the blocks at the top of the columns, rougher than the more smoothly dressed surfaces below – but don’t forget that we are in need of redemption.

After all, redemption is what the painting is about. The Christ Child may be distracted by the curious behaviour of the angel on the left, but that wouldn’t seem to excuse his cruel treatment of the bird he is holding. However, you have probably seen this bird in other paintings: it is a goldfinch. The red patch on its head is supposed to have come from Jesus’s blood, when one of the birds either ate a thorn from the Crown of Thorns – or, in another version of the story, pulled one of the thorns from Jesus’s forehead. It is a symbol of Christ’s passion, and in this painting Jesus manages to show that, far from fearing his own death, he has it in hand – quite literally. He can take our sin upon himself and can even turn his own death on its head. Notice how the bird casts a dark shadow on his thigh, with another shadow – that of Jesus’s own right arm – forming a diagonal which leads to the goldfinch’s head. Another reminder that this painting is about redemption is the flower which the Virgin holds. The Ecologist has let me know that it could be Honesty or a single Stock (i.e. not the horticultural ‘double’ variety), but whatever it is, the flower is white – a symbol of purity – and cruciform. This means, basically, that it has four petals in a cross formation. There are no prizes for guessing the symbolism.

The angel on the right holds an open book – a music book – and although the music looks accurate – with the correct symbols and staves for music of the time – it is not a transcription of anything known. However, the words are. This is a medieval hymn, Ave Regina Caelorum, Mater regis angelorum (‘Hail, Queen of Heaven, Mother of the King of Angels’). The music is, of course, a clue as to what the other angel is doing.

He’s playing a musical instrument, a mouth harp, or jaw harp (you might know it as a Jew’s harp, although the term has fallen out of favour because there doesn’t seem to be any connection with either the religion or the people – the instrument originated in China). To quote one website I have found, “To play, position it between your slightly parted teeth and lips, ensuring the tongue [of the instrument!] is free to vibrate. Pluck it gently with your finger while shaping your mouth cavity to control pitch and tone. Your mouth acts as a resonator, so subtle breath control and movements of the tongue, cheeks, and throat help create varied sounds.” It is remarkably rare to see one in the world of art, although it is played by an angelic musician on the mid-14th century minstrels’ gallery in Exeter Cathedral, and by one of Dirck van Baburen’s ‘young men‘, in a painting from 1621 in Utrecht.

Jesus appears to have been distracted by the curious twanging sounds it makes, and this has stopped him torturing the goldfinch, or paying attention to the two visitors to his court – or us, for that matter. He sits on a white cloth, which is undoubtedly a reference to the shroud: notice how the shadows of Christ’s legs fall over the extended folds of the cloth. It is also reminiscent of the white cloth spread over the altar during mass, or for that matter, the corporal, another white cloth, which is also placed on the altar, as a fitting place for the chalice (containing the wine, the blood of Christ) and the paten (with the host, the body of Christ). In this painting Christ’s body and blood are also set on a white cloth – in the person of Christ himself…

On the left, the specific details of the man’s face suggest that this could be a portrait – but if it is, the subject appears in disguise as a saint. Although there are no haloes – and the angels have no wings – we need not doubt that they are all holy. Why else would they be there? He is a king – a fact emphasised not only by his crown and sceptre, but also by the ermine cape around his shoulders. His deep blue robes are embroidered with gold thread to form a pattern of large fleur-de-lis. The robes have the colours and emblem of France. This is St Louis – but not the Franciscan St Louis of Toulouse, who would only have dressed like this had he not abdicated the throne of Naples to become a Franciscan (in which case he may well not have become a saint): there is no evidence of the Franciscan order here. This is St Louis of France, King Louis IX (1214-1270), collector of relics such as the Crown of Thorns, which he housed in the Sainte Chappelle in Paris, built specifically for this purpose. More relevant is the fact that he granted the Premonstratensian order the right to use his fleur-de-lis in their coat of arms: it is no coincidence that this altarpiece was first recorded in the Premonstratensian Abbey in Ghent in 1602. We don’t know that it was painted for this Abbey, but it seems highly likely. Apart from anything else, Holy Roman Emperor Charles V was born in Ghent in 1500. At the time his grandfather, Maximilian I, was Emperor, and Maximilian was the one who really cemented the use of the double-headed eagle as a symbol of the empire – which could explain its presence on the cloth of honour. The painting was probably painted around 1510: there are very specific features which help to restrict the image to what is admittedly quite a broad range of dates.

St Louis is wearing the French Order of St Michael. The badge hanging from it shows St Michael himself defeating the devil. The Book of Revelation 12:7 says that ‘Michael and his angels fought against the dragon’ – who is then identified in 12:9, as ‘that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world’. The chain, which has double knots on it, was altered by Francis I in 1516 – suggesting a date before this for the painting. In addition, dendrochronology tells us that the panels on which it was painted date, at the earliest, from 1483. It’s a 33-year timespan, which isn’t very specific, but stylistically 1510 makes sense. However, we have no clue as to who might have painted it. Some of the stylistic features are French, whereas the panels are made of Baltic oak, used by Netherlandish artists (the French used locally sourced oak) – and this does seem to have come from Ghent – so ‘Netherlandish’ seems more likely.

While the depiction of the chain and medal – the ‘collar’ of the order – is highly accurate, the sceptre which St Louis is holding appears to be entirely original. There are lots of figures squirming around, and the best suggestion so far is that it represents a detail from the Last Judgement. This would make sense next to St Michael defeating ‘the dragon’, as St Michael is supposed to weigh the souls of the dead at this time. Again, it brings us back to the need for redemption. Without it, we would be one of these squirming figures being dragged down to hell. The collar and sceptre are entirely fitting for St Louis, King of France, but as yet there are few clues as to the identity of the woman on the other side of the painting. She holds a cross, yes, but then all female saints could. And she has a dove on her shoulder – which I’ve never seen before – but then so many of the saints were inspired by the Holy Spirit. The real clue is at the bottom of the painting.

This is undoubtedly the most hideous monster I have ever seen in any painting. Most devils end up looking cute and endearing (check out Bermejo’s, in Picture of the Day 5, or Andrea Bonaiuti’s in POTD 24), whereas this one is truly scary. It’s the teeth, I think, with three fangs coming down from the top and four from below, interlocking like some destructive machine. The teeth themselves are black and brown with dirt and decay, and emerge from raw, red gums. Even if it’s not clear on this detail, they are also strung across with streaks of saliva, which in the flesh (if not on a screen) are truly repulsive. And then there are the bloodshot eyes, the weirdly shaped ears and the pointy head. Even the neckless way the head joins the torso is unpleasant, with a scaly carapace and spotted wings adding to the effect. It creates such a contrast with the beautiful, and beautifully depicted, brocade of the woman’s cloak which falls across its wing, and even seems to emerge, just below her bent knee, from the monster’s back. But this is the clue! This is St Margaret of Antioch, a Christian martyr who was thrown into prison, and subjected to many hideous tortures. According to the Golden Legend, which I’m quoting here in William Caxton’s version from 1483,

And whilst she was in prison, she prayed our Lord that the fiend that had fought with her, he would visibly show him unto her. And then appeared a horrible dragon and assailed her, and would have devoured her, but she made the sign of the cross, and anon he vanished away. And in another place it is said that he swallowed her into his belly, she making the sign of the cross. And the belly brake asunder, and so she issued out all whole and sound. This swallowing and breaking of the belly of the dragon is said that it is apocryphal.

It may well be ‘said that it is apocryphal’, and yet artists loved to paint it! She very often holds a cross, as if she has cut her way out with it, and she certainly holds one here. But what about the dove? Well, that’s there in the Golden Legend too, though this is the only time I’ve seen it. After the dragon, Margaret was subjected to even forms of torture,

And after that, they put her in a great vessel full of water, fast bounden, that by changing of the torments, the sorrow and feeling of the pain should be the more. But suddenly the earth trembled, and the air was hideous, and the blessed virgin without any hurt issued out of the water, saying to our Lord: “I beseech thee, my Lord, that this water may be to me the font of baptism to everlasting life.” And anon there was heard great thunder, and a dove descended from heaven, and set a golden crown on her head.

The dove has remained, but the ‘golden crown’ is not what you might have thought – at least, not in the painting.

Margaret’s hair has been plaited together with threads strung with gold sequins, and the plaits piled on and around her head. There is also a garland of flowers, including daisies, placed delicately round her coiffeur. In French, daisies are marguerites – no doubt a pun on her name. Above the dove’s head, to the right of Margaret’s piled up hair, the column is decorated with a red panel with white relief sculptures – what is known as a candelabrum. At the very top are two swans with their necks intertwined. Given that the main feature of the Ghent abbey’s coat of arms was a swan, this would seem to confirm that the painting originated there. At the left of this detail you can also see the beautifully embroidered (for which read ‘painted’) double-headed eagle.

So the dove confirms that this is St Margaret, although the dragon would have been enough. I wanted to return to this detail, though, to think about the steps of the throne: another ‘I have never’. In this case, I have never seen steps to Mary’s throne made from ‘raw’ planks of wood. Sometimes the steps might have been wooden, I suppose, but painted to look like marble, but in this case, as a royal throne, the steps are remarkable crude in their construction. Unpainted, undressed (there is no rich fabric laid over them), and with simple nails driven into them, there is no attempt to disguise the simplicity of the making. Three nails are visible on the lower step, and two (one partially hidden) on the upper. This basic construction might be a symbol of humility, but there is an unmistakable reference to the crucifixion too. In the open, well-lit space beneath Jesus, the reference is not only to the making of the cross, but also to the three nails driven through his hands (one nail for each) and feet (one nail for both). The contrast with the ermine and royal blue of Louis’ cloak couldn’t be more striking. Again, we are right there, so close to the image, given that the bottom of the cloak, of the central step, and of the dragon are cut off by the frame. Again, like the canopy at the top, this is the original extent of the painting. We are pushed close to these holy figures – and to the most unholy – so that there is no possibility of escape. The threat of damnation, and the possibility of redemption, are opened up to us as the unknown artist of this remarkable painting expands our expectations of what the art of Northern Europe can be.

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251 – Heaven brought down to earth

Cimabue, The Virgin and Child with Two Angels, about 1280-85. The National Gallery, London.

I confess that I have always been slightly dubious about the status of ‘Cimabue’ in the History of Art. After all, only one of his works is documented, and that is a mosaic: how can you establish an artist’s oeuvre on that basis? As a result I am especially glad to be Revisiting Cimabue this Monday, 23 June at 6pm, having seen the superb exhibition at the Louvre with a very similar title. The exhibition started – as my talk will – with an exploration of the very mythology which surrounds this supposedly foundational artist, the mythology of which I have always been wary. It then looked at his work in the context of his predecessors and contemporaries, before examining his impact on and significance for both contemporaries and successors – an exemplary display which I’m sorry I couldn’t get to earlier.

The week after I will start my exploration of the new hang of the National Gallery’s collection – or at least, of the Sainsbury Wing – with Three Sainsbury Stories, on Mondays 30 June, 7 and 14 July. Click on either of those links if you want to book for all three talks at a slightly reduced rate. Alternatively, you can book the talks individually on the following links – the titles being Opening up the North (30 June), At home in the Church (7 July) and In Church and at Home (14 July). A description of each can be found on the relevant link. At that point I was going to stop for the summer, but have realised I am free on the evening of 4 August – which gives me a chance to repeat this week’s National Gallery lunchtime lecture, Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s ‘Maestà’, as I realise not all of you would have been able to get to London. It also gives me the chance to talk about some of the ideas in greater depth. It was great to see so many of you there – and especially the visitors from Edinburgh, Italy and even America! Thank you so much for coming. Meanwhile, I’m going to look back before Duccio’s career had started to explore the National Gallery’s small painting by Cimabue.

At first glance this might appear to be an entirely traditional image, if not rather ‘old fashioned’. As a genre, The Virgin and Child is rich and varied, and, even if it doesn’t represent a specific biblical narrative, it expresses so much about these two characters, their relationship, and their importance for the Church – the ‘Church’ in question being Catholic (the term ‘Roman Catholic’ didn’t come into being until about 300 years after Cimabue was painting). It could almost equally have come from the Eastern Orthodox Church – but not quite, and that is what makes this particular image so important. Mary sits on a blue cushion against a red cloth of honour, both of which are set on an elaborate throne. Her right leg is lowered, with her foot on the second of three steps, and Jesus sits on her raised left knee. They are flanked by two angels. Nothing unusual about this, you might think, but it is worthwhile comparing it with an earlier version of the same subject which is also in the National Gallery’s collection, from Margarito d’Arezzo’s The Virgin and Child Enthroned with narrative scenes from about 1263-64.

Margarito’s version is far closer to Byzantine art, or the art of the Orthodox Church. Neither Mary nor Jesus seem as ‘human’ as Cimabue paints them. Rather than a baby, Jesus is like a little emperor. Both figures sit upright, with their shoulders flat against the flat gold background. There is no sense that they are moving in the space which we inhabit, and as a result they are slightly abstracted from reality. But then, Orthodox icons are meant to show us a sanctity which is not seen in the down-to-earth world in which we live and breathe. Icons represent something which is more perfect – and as a result, something we can only imagine, unlike what we are actually familiar with. Nevertheless, there are similarities. For example, in both examples the Virgin wears a red robe with a blue cloak, and sits on a cushion. Notice also that in both images Mary’s right foot is on the central axis, directly under her head: it is with the feet that we will start.

Most obvious are the feet of the angels. On the left we see both feet, balletic, but not turned out enough for second position, almost as if the angel is on tip toe – the usual description for Byzantine imagery after it had evolved away from the naturalism of late Roman art. On the right we can only see one foot: the other must be behind the throne, or behind the steps leading up to it. This in itself helps to create a sense of space, and of three dimensions: the holy beings are in the same space as us, thus making the image appear more ‘real’. Both angels wear red stockings and delicate black shoes, or slippers. It could be that Mary is wearing the same, although we can only see the toes peeping out beneath the hem of her red skirt. Her right foot (on our left) is on the second step up, and her left is one step higher. The centrality of the lower foot, and its ‘proximity’ on the lower step, might encourage us to lean forward and kiss it, a sign of our humility.

A semi-transparent veil hangs over the seat of the throne and behind Mary’s legs. It falls over the upper step, and her left foot is resting on it. The steps themselves appear to be at an angle, as does the throne: this suggests that it is a three-dimensional structure, again implying the real presence of Mary and Jesus in our space. To me, the steps look as if they could be removed, with the throne only accessible when they are there: they would only be put in place for the right person, of course. To the far left and right of the detail above are the ends of the angels’ wings. Their purple cloaks hang down, and the points almost coincide with a row of fine dots tooled into the gold leaf background which, as we shall see, frame the entire image.

Moving up, we can see these tooled dots disappear behind the left angel’s robes only to reappear at waist level. This angel holds the back corner of the throne, while his companion on our right holds the cushion, which curves up on either side, giving us a sense of Mary’s weight – another subtle naturalistic observation, reminding us that Mary has a real physical presence. The semi-transparent veil falls over the cushion: it has been suggested that it is not unlike an altar cloth, spread over the altar to receive the consecrated host – which, in Catholic belief is the actual body of Christ – during the Mass. Indeed, the body of Christ is there, seated on Mary’s raised left knee. He is barefoot, with the left foot hanging down and the right raised. Given his angled position, the right foot falls roughly above Mary’s. This reminds me – at an admittedly distant remove – of Caravaggio’s Palafrenieri Madonna, in which Jesus’s foot rests on Mary’s, helping her to trample the serpent underfoot – as ‘prophesied’ in Genesis 3:15.

Mary and the angel to our left both seem to look straight into our eyes – and thus into our soul. The delicate tilt of their heads implies sympathy and a willingness to listen. Even as divine, or semi-divine beings, they are both sympathetic and approachable. The angel on our right looks over to the left, while Jesus’s gaze is turned further away – but in a naturalistic way. I don’t think there is a theological meaning to his apparent distraction. He is definitely a child, unlike Margarito’s little emperor, and his tiny hands hold onto his Mother’s. Her right hand gestures towards him, much as it would in an Orthodox Hodegetria – in which Mary shows us ‘the way’ – and, almost as if a demonstration of his humanity, Jesus has taken this opportunity to grab a finger and wrist, the comparison between the sizes of the hands giving us a sense of his fragility. Once again, heaven has been brought down to earth. Both angels lean in towards the throne, their innermost hands resting on its back (the fingertips of the left-hand angel are only just visible) – which in itself beautifully frames Mary’s shoulders. All four figures have haloes demarcated with more tiny tooled dots. Mary’s has a double ring, and Jesus’s shows a hint of the cross with which it is usually marked.

Stepping back we can see the continuation of the tooled dots which frame the image leading up from the angels’ wings and across the top of the flat gold field. And we can also see the golden space – the divine light of heaven – against which the heads of the three upper figures stand out. This space at the top of the painting contrasts with the bottom of the image, where the steps of the throne are almost touching the frame – or rather, what we might assume would have been the frame. It’s at this point that I should let you know that I was extremely frustrated by the digital file the National Gallery has posted on their website – the one I used at the top of this post. It doesn’t show you the whole picture – which would tell you more about the painting. I popped into the Sainsbury Wing after lunch today to take the following photo, and have used details from it for the details above.

It’s pretty much the same, you might think, if a bit brighter (the NG’s file is oddly dark, but that’s not the problem). If compare the left and right edges you will see that they are different, as are the top and bottom – but you might have noticed that from the details already. Both the left and top edges are framed by a thin strip of wood, and the gilded, or painted surface of the pictorial field curves up slightly towards the edge – a lip, or bur, which denotes that the image was painted on a wooden panel with an engaged frame. This means that the frame had already been attached before either the painting or gilding took place. As part of the process of painting, the right-angled join between the frame and the flat panel would then have been filled in slightly with gesso and then paint, or gold leaf. This ‘infill’ has survived even after the removal of the original frame. The right and bottom edges, on the other hand, have a painted red border. There is no sense that there was an engaged frame on these two sides – which implies that this little image was originally part of a larger panel. It was probably not unlike this painting by Barnaba da Modena, painted in 1374, which also belongs to the National Gallery.

This still has its engaged frame. A similar, three-dimensional element also divides the separate images on the panel – whereas the Cimabue panel used the red borders to divide the different images. The photographic file for the Barnaba da Modena gives the painting a better idea of its structure as a solid object, and even has a thin white border, although you can’t see that against the white background. However, the file for the Cimabue (at the very top of the post) has been trimmed to make a nice tidy picture without any asymmetry or rough edges, implying that the Virgin and Child was painted as an image in and of itself, which it was not: it was part of something else. With the top and left edges being framed, it must have been at the top left corner of a panel – in the equivalent position to Barnaba’s Coronation of the Virgin at the top left of his panel. As it happens, two other sections of Cimabue’s panel have survived and one of them was recently acquisition by the Louvre. This was one of the reasons why they staged their exhibition this year: it was the first time it had been exhibited publicly. However, if you’d like to know more about the other two paintings, and how they fit together, you will have to join me on Monday!

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Take two: remarkable women

Artemisia Gentileschi, Madonna and Child, c. 1613-14. Galleria Spada, Rome.

Artemisia Gentileschi truly was a remarkable woman, and a great artist. When I first posted this blog (in the Autumn of 2020) I had already written about her twice (Picture Of The Day 17 and POTD 69), but she is always worth coming back to. And, given her current fame, curators like to do just that. There is still time to catch the exhibition Artemisia, Heroine of Art at the Musée Jacquemart-André, which I will be talking about this Monday 16 June, for example. Her strength of character is well known, and frequently discussed. The fortitude and determination of the women she paints is also rightly celebrated, notably in a number of images of Judith and Holofernes. But amidst the focus on her personal life and misfortunes, on her strength and on the strength of her subjects, and on her genuine understanding of the plight of women which was born of personal experience (something which no male artist could possibly have had), I can’t help thinking that today’s painting has not received the attention it deserves. Apart from anything else, I think it is a wonderfully beautiful image, its delicacy, and the affection it depicts, matched by a beautifully conceived composition.

On Tuesday 17 June at 1pm (the day after my talk about Artemisia) I will be giving a FREE lunchtime talk at the newly refurbished lecture theatre in the newly refurbished Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery: Seeing the Light: the Art of Looking in and around Duccio’s ‘Maestà’ – please do come if you can! Apologies for those of you who can’t get to London – but as it won’t be streamed or recorded, I have realised that I will be able to repeat it online on a Monday I wasn’t expecting to be free – Monday 4 August at 6pm. Before then, though, I will be talking about the major influence on Duccio: on 23 June, I will be Revisiting Cimabue, looking back to an exhibition which was at the Louvre, but sadly has already closed.

After over four years of giving these Zoom talks the time has finally come for me to put up my prices: from now on each talk will be £12 (bearing in mind that some organisations were charging more even back in 2020). However, I’m holding them at £10 each if you book for all three of my Three Sainsbury Stories together – which you can do on that link. Alternatively, you can book them individually. More information is on the following links: Opening up the North (30 June), At home in the Church (7 July) and Across Italy… (14 July). Enough plans for now – but keep an eye on the diary in case there are any more!

There really aren’t any good photos of this painting… but I have replaced the one I used years back here and at the end as it gives a better sense of the colours as I remember seeing them – most recently in the exhibition in Paris. The Madonna fills the full space of the painting, bringing her closer to us, and making the subjects more immediate, more ‘present’. The Christ Child sits on her lap in a position more sophisticated than we would expect for a toddler – but then, this is the Son of God.

She sits on a low chair, and in order to prevent her son from slipping off her lap, her feet are tucked to one side, so her right thigh remains horizontal. Her left knee is not so strongly bent, allowing the child to lean on her left thigh, which is slightly higher. The overlapping zig-zags of her legs – one in dark shadow, and another in brilliant light (the chiaroscuro developed by the recently-deceased Caravaggio being used to full advantage) is then echoed by the ‘v’ of her blue cloak, lying over the seat of the chair, swept back by her leg, and curving out and around, a fuller expression of the folds seen in the pink robe. She is seated on this cloak, and we see it again tucked around her left arm, framing the leg in the dark shadows, and enclosing the form of the child. Her left arm supports him, but doesn’t hold him – almost as if she is wary of the touch – and the gap between her thumb and forefinger opens up to reveal a deeply shadowed hollow, allowing the brilliant white fabric loosely held around Jesus – a hint of the shroud to come, perhaps? – to shine out.

There is another deep void between them, a dark shadow that makes them look entirely sculptural, and seems to represent the gap in their respective experience – she would have been little more than a girl, whereas he is the Son of God. And it is he who bridges the divide, his left arm reaching up to touch her neck with delicacy and with concern, as he looks into her eyes with ineffable love. There is a sense of divine understanding in this look, and in this gesture, which, like the elegant way in which he reclines, is far beyond his human years. Mary looks down with humility, as she offers her breast between her middle- and forefingers. The thin, white hem of her chemise, seen again at her wrist, create another link to her son, as this hint of whiteness echoes the white fabric which enfolds him.

The dark space between them forms a diagonal which reaches to the top right corner of the painting. Their torsos and her legs are roughly parallel to this line, while his arm, and the gaze between the two, follow an opposing diagonal. That this was a hard-won composition can be seen from the numerous pentimenti – or changes – which are now visible: a phantom elbow and some transparent drapery curving out from her waist can be seen against the back of the simple chair, and the dark background around their heads appears to be filled with other ghostly presences, almost as if adding to their sanctity, which is defined by their haloes, hers almost solid, his, an undefinable glow.

Artemisia Gentileschi, Madonna and Child, c.1613-14. Galleria Spada, Rome.
School of Marcantonio Raimondi, Holy Family, c.1515-34. Royal Collection Trust.

Hard-won, yes, but not entirely original, as it happens. Ultimately it is derived from a print attributed to the School of Marcantonio Raimondi, the first engraver to base his works on other people’s paintings (and usually, on Raphael’s). It shouldn’t surprise us that Artemisia was inspired by a print. The painting is dated ‘About 1613-14’ in the catalogue of the National Gallery’s 2020 exhibition, and 1612 in the catalogue from the Jacquemart-André. However, some authorities date it earlier – around 1609 – when Artemisia would have been 16. I don’t doubt the NG’s later date. Apparently, X-rays of this painting suggest that, as well as the Raimondi engraving, a later painting which she would have seen in Florence was probably another source for this image, and she didn’t get to Florence until late 1612 or early 1613. But something that is worth bearing in mind is that, as a woman, she would not have been able to move freely through the city, and certainly, as a girl, she would not have been allowed out on her own. So her first knowledge of art would have come directly from her father, Orazio, who trained her, and from small, portable works of art – such as prints – which could have been owned, or borrowed, by the family. But she has not simply copied the print. Apart from the obvious omission of Joseph, she extends the reach of the child to touch his mother’s neck, tucks his right elbow within her enfolding arm, and ensures that they look at each other. Artemisia alone is responsible for the intimacy, and for the love between mother and son, that are such important features of the composition.

Why these changes? Should we read something about Artemisia’s own life from them, as people tend to with so many of her paintings? Probably not. Dating from her early years in Florence, shortly after she married and moved away from Rome, her experience as a mother at this stage was short-lived and harsh. She had five children, but only two of them survived infancy, and only one reached adulthood. The first, Giovanni Battista, was born in September 1613, but lived little more than a week. The second, Agnola, arrived in December of the following year, but died before she could be baptised. This means that by the time the Madonna was painted, Artemisia would have had next to no personal knowledge of breastfeeding. Of love, and of loss, on the other hand, she was only too aware.

The subject itself is more common than you might realise: the Madonna Lactans – the Madonna breastfeeding, or about to feed. It was popular in medieval times, and survived into the 16th Century for a number of reasons. One, which seems oddly contemporary, is that some were aware of the benefits of maternal breastfeeding, and were concerned that aristocratic women were all too willing to hand their babies over to wet nurses. But that is probably irrelevant here. The genre is one of the ways in which Mary could be shown as a good role model for all women: a good mother, not only pure, but also willing to stay at home and look after her baby. However, feeding the infant Christ can also be seen as the source of some of her influence. I’ve always been fascinated by a rather unusual painting attributed to Lorenzo Monaco (I have no doubts about the attribution – I can’t imagine who else could have painted it) which is currently in the Cloisters in New York, but which was originally painted for Florence Cathedral.

Attributed to Lorenzo Monaco, The Intercession of Christ and the Virgin, before 1402. The Cloisters, New York.

The painting shows the Holy Trinity, with God the Father at top centre, gesturing towards God the Son at bottom left, the Holy Spirit flying between, as if released from the Father’s right hand. Christ gestures to the wound in his chest, while indicating his mother, who holds something in her left hand, and gestures to a group of diminutive individuals kneeling in prayer before Jesus. The gestures tell us they are interceding with the Father, asking him to be merciful to us mere mortals. Jesus asks him something, referring to the wound, and to his mother, in support of his request, while Mary’s concern is for the people. The text, written onto the background, makes everything clear.

“My Father, let those be saved for whom you wished me to suffer the Passion,” says Jesus, as Mary addresses him: “Dearest son, because of the milk that I gave you, have mercy on them.” Even from the detail above it might not be entirely obvious that Mary is displaying her right breast. For one thing, accuracy when depicting human anatomy was never Lorenzo’s concern, and for another, it is not something you would expect to see in a church. But what the painting really makes clear is that Mary’s physical nourishment of Jesus with the milk from her breast was seen as equivalent to the way in which Jesus nourishes us spiritually with the blood and water that flowed mingled down from the wound in his chest. She shares his role in our redemption, and as such, was given a wonderful title, Co-Redemptrix, which went out of fashion in the 16th Century. I’m not at all sure that Artemisia would have been aware of any of this as she painted her Madonna, though. For her, and for her audience, the intimacy between mother and son, and the devotional nature of the image, would have been its chief charms. More abstruse elements of theology are all very well and good in a church, but wouldn’t make art sellable to the great and the good of 17th Century Florence, Artemisia’s target audience. Nevertheless, the theology of the Madonna Lactans hovers somewhere in the background of this beautiful image, which, I can safely say, is one of my favourites. To find out the others – which are not necessarily so endearing – why not join me on Monday?

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250 – What’s in a name?

Victor Hugo, The Cheerful Castle, c. 1847. Maisons de Victor Hugo Paris/Guernsey.

This week – Monday 2 June at 6pm, to be precise – I am looking forward to talking about the truly astonishing drawings by Victor Hugo in the Royal Academy’s aptly named exhibition Astonishing Things. If I’m honest, I went to see it because I had to (well, I had been asked to take a private group round), but came out wishing I’d got there earlier. I also realised that I should encourage you all to go as well: it’s fantastic! Some of the exhibits are simply good observational drawings – and well worth seeing as a result. Others are so totally original that they look 60 or even 100 years ahead of their time. The techniques employed are both fascinating and original, and while the complex mind of the master novelist can be traced in the story-like elements of some, others are so remarkable and so baffling that even the curators of the exhibition can’t fully explain them – so do please join me if you can, and we can marvel together! Today, as an introduction, I’m going to concentrate on three of the simpler examples.

A prior booking has stopped me talking the following Monday, but then, on 16 June, I will introduce the Artemisia Gentileschi  exhibition which is at the Jacquemart-André in Paris until 3 August. The day after that, 17 June at 1pm, I am giving a FREE lunchtime talk at the newly refurbished lecture theatre in the newly refurbished Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery: Seeing the Light: the Art of Looking in and around Duccio’s ‘Maestà’ – please do come if you can! Then, on 23 June, we will be Revisiting Cimabue, looking back to an exhibition which was at the Louvre, but sadly has already closed.

After over four years of giving these Zoom talks the time has finally come for me to put up my prices: from now on each talk will be £12 (bearing in mind that some organisations were charging more even back in 2020!). However, I’m holding them at £10 each if you book for all three of my Three Sainsbury Stories together – which you can do on that link. Alternately, you can book them individually. More information is on the following links: Opening up the North (30 June), At home in the Church (7 July) and Across Italy… (14 July). Enough plans for now – but keep an eye on the diary in case there are any more!

I would always encourage you, when in a museum, art gallery or exhibition, to look at the art rather than read the label. We seem to be a profoundly verbal culture, and people always spend more time reading the labels than looking at the art: they could have stayed home and read a book! But in this case, although I was instantly attracted to this drawing by its delicacy and refinement, the atmosphere it captures, and the bravura technique, it was the title that really grabbed my attention: The Cheerful Castle. What a delightful idea! Who imagined that a Castle could be Cheerful? Well, a fantastic storyteller, for one. But how would you go about showing that ‘cheer’ in a drawing?

The eponymous edifice is situated upon an uneven, rocky ridge, which slopes slowly down from right to left, before plummeting into a ravine. The background is light and airy, but undefined. White clouds, totally unthreatening, are hovering in the sky. Behind them blocky forms and vague diagonals suggest that maybe we are only someway up a mountain range: there may still be peaks high above our point of view. The castle itself has many turrets and towers, with a wide assortment of differently shaped rooves, finials and oriels, battlements and crenelations. There is no sense that we are looking at a real building, something that Victor Hugo saw in real life: this is an invention, an elaborate dream summoned from his imagination.

If we were to approach the castle from the bottom of the hill on the left, we would first have to cross a bridge which passes over a valley – or maybe moat. A guard house rises to the right of it, with a pitched roof and two chimneys. It could be a barbican: to the right there is a sloping line of crenelations leading to the main body of the building. The drawing here is at its darkest, a sense of threat and foreboding, perhaps, which might help to keep intruders at bay. The forms are smudged in part – Hugo liked to experiment with technique, and here he has wet the drawing to create an atmospheric mist around the edges of the darkest walls. Just visible is a flight of steps coming down towards us on this side of the building, to the left of a large, light, open niche, which is defined by dark shadows, suggesting that it is very deep. Above it the ink is at its blackest, marking ivy, or other vegetation, which is growing over these rocks, or lower walls. In contrast to all this darkness, the castle rises, as in a fantasy, all lightness and specific detail above the dark imprecision of its foundations. This lightness – and the detail – are the first things which convey cheerfulness.

Most of the structure is light, and delicately drawn. With the exception of a massive square tower built on a steep slope, sunlight seems to capture every varied surface. The darker forms serve as a foil, a dark repoussoir encouraging our eyes to look towards the light, and so further into the space of the drawing. Another bridge leads over two arches to a more elaborate guard house on the far right, a pale tower with a tall, spire-like roof, topped with an onion dome and a weathervane. Windows project from the spire, the gradually shifting slope of its sides mapped out by the most delicately delineated rows of tiles. Elsewhere the tiny touches of the pen pick out lines of bricks, small apertures, more crenelations, machicolations, cantilevered projections and a wide variety of flat and curved walls; rough and smooth surfaces; conical or flat, sloping rooves; belfries, flags and chimneys. What we see is plentiful and varied, light and delightful against the barely darker background – a miraculous, fairy-tale vision. This visual playfulness and jokey profusion is surely the essence of Cheerful. The role this delicacy plays becomes clearer if we compare our first castle to a second, from another drawing.

Compared to the wealth of detail and the precision with which The Cheerful Castle is articulated, this second fortress is far more moody, a looming presence emerging from the clouds, big, bold and blocky, more ruinous, crumbling even, and scarcely habitable. It has a far more aged air, and the weather is foreboding. Diagonal lines going from top right to bottom left suggest that rain could be lashing down, although the strong contrast of light and shade on the walls implies that the sun is breaking through gaps in the turbulent clouds. Like a flash of lightening, this creates a sense of revelation, as if we can finally see the true state of affairs: this is what the castle has come to. However, we should remember that in each case we are only looking at part of the image. Here is a second detail of the drawing from which this gloomy fortress is taken.

You can just see the castle looming on the left – but bottom right the atmosphere is altogether different. In both drawings Hugo has used black and brown ink and wash – which means that he has covered some the paper with a thin layer of colour (i.e. ink) using a brush, but without leaving any brushstrokes. In this second drawing there are also watercolours, which pick out the delicate leaves and petals of plants and flowers. They wind their way around a block of stone on which is carved an angel in high relief. Its wings are wrapped around its feet and shoulders, but folded high above its head. It looks down, arms crossed and resting on… a cross? Or the hilt of a sword? It could be either… or both. Is this a fragment of decoration from the ruined castle, or something else? Seeing the drawing as a whole might help.

The plant – a sort of imaginary vine or ivy with unexpected flowers – borders the drawing at the bottom and on the right, and thus frames the vision of the distant castle. The angel, in sharper focus – perhaps because it is closer, and not wrapped around with clouds – does not share the colours of the plants. It uses the same palette as the castle, implying that it belongs to the same world: a fragment then – of the castle’s story, if not of its structure. This is The Castle with the Angel of about 1863, and although I described the first drawing as showing a fairy-tale castle, this drawing is itself more like a fairy tale, I think. The colourful flowers around a desolate castle are reminiscent – to my mind at least – of the impenetrable screen of roses which grew around Sleeping Beauty. The angel is melancholy: could this be a memorial sculpture? Or does it give us a clue about what has happened to the castle? Could it even be some kind of guardian spirit who has been turned into stone? However verbose he might have been, Victor Hugo didn’t always explain what he was about, and some of the drawings remain especially obscure. Nevertheless, the author of Les Misérables and Notre Dame de Paris (which Anglophones know better as The Hunchback of Notre Dame – a title the author detested) clearly knew how to tell a story, and he could do it with images as well as words.

If I wanted to be especially fanciful, I could see these two drawings as being part of the same fable. The Cheerful Castle could be a nostalgic look back to the good old days, with The Castle with the Angel showing the lamentable state we are in now, waiting for the heroine or hero to rescue us. Or it could be the other way round: once the foe has been vanquished, and the gloom banished, The Cheerful Castle could be the Happy Ever After. However, given that the two drawings were created about 16 years apart, I think it is safe to say that neither was Hugo’s intention. I do want to compare The Cheerful Castle to a third drawing, though.

It has a completely different feel to it, I think. Even in this detail you get a sense that you know where you are: on a broad river, or lake, in a deep valley cut through the hills. It doesn’t show a ‘castle’ as such, although there is a ruined tower on an island, its form, features and the fall of light perfectly reflected in the mirror-like surface of the water. Another structure – which could be the ruins of a castle – stands on the slope rising up to the right. The two buildings are defined differently. The tower has sharp edges, clearly defined detail, and shading mapping out the three-dimensional structure. The castle, on the other hand, is only defined as an area of dark grey, its form defined by ‘colour’ rather than line. It is further away, and in the shadows – effectively just a silhouette. The light, coming from the top right, and some way behind us, brilliantly illuminates the escarpment on the other side of the water. Between the tower and the right bank, a sailboat sits becalmed, its sail slack, curving down towards the deck. Dark streaks come down from the top of the detail.

In context we can see that these streaks are a sign that the weather is taking a turn for the worse – they are dark clouds and distant downpours. It is an extensive landscape, much of which is actually water. The top of the brightly-lit escarpment is especially dark and cloudy. This is another example of Hugo’s technical brilliance. Having wet the paper, the ink spreads freely, and yet he only allows that to happen at the top of the distant slopes – not too much is left to chance. A different technique creates the streaking clouds: he has dragged dark ink down the page with a piece of fabric, creating this remarkable, atmospheric effect. The drawing, dating to 1847, is called La Tour des Rats. It’s a real place, and one which Hugo had seen: a tower on the Rhine which inspired poems by Robert Southey and, as ‘The Mouse Tower’, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It is a place of myth and fable, involving a bishop being eaten by rats (or mice) which have swum over the river to get him. And yet, of the three drawings, it has a greater sense of ‘fact’ about it – quite simply because Hugo had actually been there. It is a highly romanticised view, admittedly, but it is real.

The three drawings could be seen as representatives of three different modes of drawing – or three different moods. The Cheerful Castle shows many of the features of ‘The Picturesque’. According to 18th Century theory, this term was used to describe landscapes which appear naturalistic, and include irregular forms, variety in texture and detail, and which often featured ruins – they delight the eye, and are pleasurable in their diversity. ‘The Picturesque’ was differentiated from ‘The Sublime,’ which shows grandeur and provokes awe, reminding us how small we are compared to the enormity of the natural world: there is often a real sense of danger. In some ways, La Tour des Rats is closer to the Sublime, given the size and scale of the valley, the dark threatening quality of the weather and the ominous presence of the ruins. For the 18th Century, ‘The Beautiful’ would be a third category – with calmer, smoother, rounded surfaces, relaxing and welcoming. None of these three drawings really match that, though. However, I would suggest that The Castle with the Angel is ‘fabulous’ – in its original sense, that is, meaning that it is related to fables. The curling, coloured foliage and flowers are more alive than the monochrome castle and angel – as if the stones are asleep in the past. It is a highly ‘illustrative’ drawing – although it is left up to us to decide which narrative is being illustrated. This freedom of interpretation just makes the imagery richer, though.

All three drawings show castles, of a sort, and yet all three are different. ‘What’s in a name?’, as Juliet asks. ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. And while this may be true, after centuries of horticulture, roses may small as sweet, but they don’t all smell the same. It seems that something similar is true for castles. It will be interesting to see how many other genres of drawing – and castles – Victor Hugo’s work can encompass when we discover it on Monday.

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249 – Rushing to the wrong conclusion (or, How to Look at Sculpture)

Ernst Barlach, The Avenger, 1922. Ernst Barlach Haus, Hamburg.

I can’t remember when I fell in love with the work of Ernst Barlach, about whom I will be talking on Monday 26 May. It could have been soon after the opening of Tate Modern, 25 years ago, when I included a version of today’s work in my schools’ workshops, but I’m sure he was familiar even then. On Monday, as well as Barlach, I want to sneak in the drawings currently on show at The Courtauld in the small exhibition With Graphic Intent (which is open until 22 June) as these will give us different ideas about German Expressionism. Given that we tend to look at, and talk about, paintings far more than sculptures, as well as writing about one of Barlach’s most famous works today, I also want to give you some hints about how to look at sculpture in general. But we’ll get to that shortly.

Monday’s talk will conclude my May series about German art, which I will follow with three talks related to Paris in different ways. On 2 June I will explore the remarkable mind of Victor Hugo, whose drawings are currently exhibited in the Royal Academy. As the title of the exhibition suggests, they truly are Astonishing Things – I haven’t seen anything quite like them, and many are 60 years, or even 100 years before their time. And yes, this week I have actually included the right link for the talk! Having discussed someone from Paris, I will move on to an exhibition which is currently in Paris, a wonderful and rich exploration of the works of Artemisia Gentileschi, whom the Jacquemart-André Museum describes as the Heroïne de l’art. That will be on 16 June. The day after, for the first time in seven or eight years, I will give a free lunchtime talk at the National Gallery, Seeing the Light: the Art of Looking in and around Duccio’s ‘Maestà’. It would be great if you could all be there (apologies to all those of you who are not in London). However, the following week (23 June) I will be Revisiting Cimabue – looking back before Duccio, and to an exhibition at the Louvre which has sadly already closed. Thereafter my last three talks this summer will explore the new hang of the National Gallery’s Sainsbury wing – but keep your eye on the diary for more information about them.

When looking at paintings we tend to think about colour and composition, tone (light and dark), mood and meaning. Or rather, unless it is an abstract painting, we start by identifying what is depicted – the people, places and things. Looking at sculpture is no different. In this case, a man is running, and running at speed. This sense of movement is created in a number of ways. His right leg is bent, with the foot resting on the ground. As far as we can tell, the left leg is straight, and held out directly behind: either he is running, or has a remarkable sense of balance. Admittedly the human body is usually more upright when running, maybe leaning forward a little, but not on a complete horizontal like this. Clearly, however recognisable the forms, this is not an entirely naturalistic depiction. It is stylised, with the stylisation used to express a mood or sensation. This figure is so entirely intent on moving forwards that this very intent, ‘to move forward,’ has effectively become personified. Not only is the left leg trailing, but the left elbow projects forward, pointing the way. The chin and the nose also jut forward. The left hand is held behind the head (from our point of view), and the fingers of the right hand can just be seen clasping the handle of a long, curving knife, or sword – a sabre, or scimitar, maybe. This trails behind the head, as if it has been left behind in the impetus to move forward. The figure is wearing a long robe which also flies out behind him, as if blown backwards by the slipstream caused by the rapid movement. Two long, continuous folds develop from the arm and continue, almost parallel, to end above the heel of the raised left foot. Another emerges from below the arm and trails back to a kink in the hem of the robe. Other, shorter folds flow back from the hip and the knee, the latter fold joining the hem which then continues back before curving up towards the foot. The ground is represented by a sloping wedge, which itself adds to the impetus of the figure’s movement. A block of material fills the space between the ground and the robe, but this is purely practical: it would be difficult to support the balanced mass of this figure on the slim ankle of the right foot. The sword, and the urgency of the forward movement, imply that the figure is on the attack, a violence enhanced by the angular forms and folds, and by the jutting anatomical details. This reading of what we have seen is confirmed by comparison with the title of the piece, The Avenger (or, in the original German, Der Rächer). But what is he avenging? The date of the piece might help us to understand the artist’s meaning – but 1922 doesn’t mean anything significant to me. So how much more can we say?

Well, a fair amount. After all, this is a sculpture: we have hardly begun to look (and, in truth, we haven’t looked at it at all: we are looking at a photograph). With a painting you can stand closer, or further away – and both are useful. Close up, you can see the details, understand the structure of the paint, and pick out the different brush strokes. Further away it is easier to understand the composition, how the image is balanced (or not), and how the colours are distributed. But, in a museum (with obvious exceptions), you only get to see one side of a painting. This is a sculpture, so another thing to consider is the format: what type of sculpture is it? Is it a relief? In which case is it high or low relief? What would the best viewpoint be? Would it look better placed high up, or low down, for example, or on the left or right side of a wall? Or is it a sculpture carved fully in the round? In which case, is it equally interesting from all points of view? Or does it have a predominant, primary viewpoint? To work that out, you’re going to have to walk round it. Ay, there’s the rub. With most sculptures, in a book or on a website, you will only get one photograph. And that’s why we don’t look at sculptures nearly as much as paintings: we are never given the right tools in reproduction, so we don’t know how to look at them in the flesh. Having said that, I am incredibly grateful to the Barlach Haus Museum in Hamburg who have published numerous photos of this work. Let’s take a stroll around it.

If we take just a step to our right, it really becomes obvious how much the left elbow is projecting – how much of the forward movement this conveys – and also how strongly the arm wraps around the head. It is also clear to me that the left foot stands out against the apparently darker background, a smooth, curving space which is an abstraction of the ‘underneath’ or ‘inside’ of the flowing robe. This gives us a couple more ideas of what to look for in a sculpture. How is it carved to receive the light? Are areas designed to create shadows, for example, as they are across the Virgin’s lap in Michelangelo’s Pietà? Or are they there to catch the light (like this foot)? Is the artist more interested in surface or volume? Are we looking at the mass of the material, or the space that is occupied? This sculpture is a solid volume, defined by the surface of the sculpture, with its energy expressed through line. The only place where the solid is perforated is underneath the sword, reminding us that this weapon is not part of the whole, and that the ultimate aim of the figure’s movement is to swing the sword away from the body with all the energy wound up in the spring of the arms, which will be added to the forward momentum of the charging body.

This is the only photograph of this point of view that I could find on the internet – and I wasn’t sure, initially, if I could believe it. Why are there no others? Well, let’s face it, it isn’t very interesting: just the stylised closure of the bottom of the robe, with a naturalistic foot projecting from it. It seems evident to me that Barlach never imagined anyone looking from this point of view – we are encouraged to keep walking round, so let’s keep moving.

A few more steps, and the figure begins to emerge again. What we can now see is how extremely the right arm is bent, folded back at the elbow like a hairpin.

Yet more steps and we find ourselves on the opposite side of the sculpture from our starting point. Of interest here are the long lines flowing back from the profile of the figure, which again speak of speed and energy. We also become aware of the power of the hands clenched around the handle of the sword, and their proximity to one another, implying that a focussed, driving force will be unleashed when the slashing blow is finally struck. But we cannot see the head of the protagonist, let alone the face, so we are not entirely involved with the figure. I don’t think this view of the figure is by any means as captivating as our starting point.

However, another step or two around and new features start to emerge. Both the elbows are pointing forward, and their joint silhouettes create a counterpoint with the jutting chin, the pointed nose, the angled forehead and the pursed lips.

Further round still, and we become the focus of The Avenger’s intent – or maybe he is focussed on something just over our right shoulders. We see more than before how tightly the left arm is wrapped around the chin, and notice that the forms of the chin and elbow echo one another. We can also see how close the sword is held to the head. Fabric flares out from the projecting knee, and there is almost a sense of weightlessness: there is no evidence – from this viewpoint, at least – of the left leg.

If we step closer now – and yes, like paintings, sculptures benefit from being seen close to, or further away – we get more detail. Apart from anything else, we can see stippling in the surface – not brushstrokes, but small chisel marks, which were used to refine the detail while also retaining a hand-made feel: it has not been polished smooth – the sculpture is not meant to be that ‘slick’. However, given the stylisation seen overall, the accuracy in the depiction of the tendons and the articulation of the wrist and knuckles might be surprising. The bulge formed by the pressure of the palm of the hand against the end of the handle is especially well observed. The brows slant down from the top of the nose, as do the wrinkles from the nostrils to either side of the mouth. The pursed lips are almost pouting. Is this conviction or concern? Is The Avenger really that confident? In a way, that’s up to you to decide, but Barlach really does focus on this expression. The sabre wraps round over the head, the arm wraps round underneath it, and a fold curves up from the figure’s left shoulder (on our right) to form a peak somewhere along its length, that peak echoed by the termination of the fold further away at the hem. The way in which the head is surrounded by these elements was entirely deliberate – the face is something that Barlach wanted us to see.

Having wandered around the sculpture, we are now back to the starting point. Is this a sculpture ‘fully in the round’? Yes. Is it equally interesting from all points of view? Well, my personal opinion is ‘no’. But you might think differently. However, if you google ‘Ernst Barlach The Avenger’ – or ‘Der Rächer’ – the most common photograph you will find is this one. It is undoubtedly the primary or principal viewpoint, and it was where Barlach started. I have only been able to find one example of preparatory material for the sculpture, and it is a charcoal drawing dated 1914 on the website of the Landschaftsverband Westfalen-Lippe.

Der Rächer: 1914, Kohlezeichnung von Ernst Barlach

I think the photograph has been cropped – most of the drawings on the LWL website seem to have suffered in the same way – but maybe this is all of the drawing that survives. The basic ideas are there, though, with the forward movement to our left, the thrusting elbow, the trailing leg, the scimitar wrapped around the head and held over the back. The long, linear folds of the robe are also there, although not in the same orientations. The ground is not sloping, although the long, continuous horizontal lines do imply rapid movement. And the date is informative: 1914. This was the start of the First World War, the ‘war to end all wars’, ‘The Great War’. Like so many people, Ernst Barlach was initially enthusiastic, and this sculpture was designed to express that conviction. He described The Avenger as ‘the crystalized essence of war’, the unstoppable force of the German army, charging forward to cleanse the world in order to leave space for a new and better future. Inevitably, his opinions changed. Having created the initial version of this work from clay and plaster in 1914, this sculpture was carved in wood in 1922. In the process the facial expression changed – from outright conviction to something more ambiguous. By this stage he saw The Avenger as ‘a hammer-wielding butcher’, charging with fury, but without thought, mindlessly swinging out to uphold discredited ideas – as happens all too often after many forms of conflict. It is important to remember, if you ever ask ‘but what does it mean’, that a work of art can change its meaning. Context is so important. Donatello’s Judith and Holofernes is a perfect example of this: what was originally intended as a celebration of the liberty of the people of Florence became a warning to potential despots.

The drawing may show the principal viewpoint, but, as we have seen, it isn’t the only one. Once the initial idea was translated into three dimensions there are many more. And while the Barlach Haus Museum provides a wonderful array of images, they all have one thing in common: they are all taken from the same level, looking horizontally towards the sculpture. But humanity is not that consistent. We are all different heights, and so we all see sculpture differently: from below, from above, from somewhere in between. I have not found a single image of the top of this sculpture. A very few on the internet look down onto it at a slight angle – but none show us The Avenger’s back… The next time I come across the sculpture I’m going to try and see what that looks like. Certain sculptures were undoubtedly intended to be seen from every conceivable point of view, including from above. I’d suggest that Antonio del Pollaiuolo’s Hercules and Antaeus was one of them, but I’ll leave you to look it up. However, the Barlach Haus Museum does have one more image I can show you.

Clearly Barlach never intended the sculpture to be seen from this point of view. It certainly isn’t aesthetically pleasing, even if it is a good, technical photograph. It is useful for research, but maybe not much more. Nevertheless, it is revealing: the base, and so maybe the sculpture as a whole, appears to have been made from more than one piece of wood. That might explain the surface treatment. On the museum’s website it is described as ‘Holz (Linde) mit getöntem Überzug’ – i.e. ‘Wood (lime) with tinted coating’ – and this coating might be there to hide any damage and mending that occurred during the making.

There is always more to say – and we still haven’t finished looking at the sculpture as a whole. If you do google The Avenger, what you see won’t always look the same. We should think about colour and tone again, just like in painting. Not to mention the materials from which the sculpture is made. Compare these three images, for example.

The first image is the 1922 version, carved in wood. However, it is also painted with a ‘tinted coating’, as mentioned above. The second image is from the Harvard Art Museums. It is far darker, and catches the light in different ways: it shines, reflecting light. According to the Museums’ website, ‘an edition of ten numbered bronzes were produced, eight of which were completed before 1934’. They date their version ‘1914 (cast before 1934)’. The third image above, from the Detroit Institute of Arts, is dated ‘1914, cast in 1930’ on the DIA website. It is also bronze – but it looks greener, rather than ‘bronze coloured’. In the same way that, in painting, paints can be treated differently – or can have different media (oil, tempera, or water for example) – sculptures can be treated in many different ways. Wood can be painted, bronze can be polished (in which case it would look ‘gold’ and shiny) – but it is more often given a patina. This is a way of treating the surface to make the bronze respond in different ways, oxidising the surface, for example. It can help to cover faults in the bronze casting process, or it can create an entirely different appearance. The green colour here relates to the copper in the bronze: the patina has encouraged the development of verdigris, which, chemically speaking, is copper ethanoate (or copper acetate as it is still often known). Why would you do this? It’s a matter of personal taste. However, most versions of this sculpture I’ve seen (and there are more than ten) have the more usual dark brown ‘bronze’ look.

The above three examples all use the the ‘principal viewpoint’ – although the Harvard Museum version does have alternative views on its website. However, none of the photographs we have seen is my favourite. That accolade goes to the photographer of the version in the Buffalo AKG Art Museum, who has, I think, a really good eye.

A bronze cast ‘after World War II’ – so not authorised by the artist, who died in 1938. However, it would have been authorised by the estate – altogether I think there are about 21 examples. It is a good cast, I’m sure, but I especially like the photograph: it is lit brilliantly, which always helps, and from a superb angle. The arm, the elbows, the drapery around the forward leg and the face all catch the light. The folds flow along from the left arm, and seem to spiral out from the heart of the sculpture, the doubtful, yet determined face framed by the blockish forms of the sword and the bent left arm. As far as I am concerned it is the photograph which best expresses what the sculpture, for me, is about: a headlong rush to reach the wrong conclusion.

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248 – More value than many sparrows

Max Liebermann, Free Time in the Amsterdam Orphanage, 1881-82. Städel Museum, Frankfurt.

German Impressionism – the subject of my talk on Monday, 19 May – was not a direct rejection of the pristine surfaces and clear, crisp colours of the Nazarenes, who I talked about earlier this week, but it so easily could have been. With Max Liebermann’s paintings, one of which I will be writing about today, we are instantly into the world of rich colour and spontaneous brushstrokes, with all the evidence of capturing the moment and self-conscious making of art that French Impressionism entails. However, we are in a rather different world. During the talk we will look at the way that Liebermann and his contemporaries used the lessons of French Impressionism to take their work in a different direction, and to create paintings which had fundamentally different ideas. The following week (26 May) we will look at the wonderfully emotive sculptures of Ernst Barlach, and use them to think about the nature of Expressionism. I’ve then changed my plans – but fortunately before I’d put anything else online. I was so bowled away earlier this week by the remarkable, inventive, intricate and even surreal drawings by novelist and poet Victor Hugo that I want to have a good look at them while there is still time for you to get to the exhibition at the Royal Academy – it closes on 29 June) – so I will introduce that on 2 June. Many of the drawings belong to the Maison Victor Hugo in Paris, where another private residence, now the Musée Jacquemart-André, is hosting an Artemisia Gentileschi exhibition which runs until 3 August – so there’s a while for you to plan a little jaunt to Paris should it take your fancy! I will talk about that on 16 June, and then on 23 June I will look back to Cimabue – and this is ‘looking back’ in more ways than one. First, I’m afraid that the exhibition at the Louvre (which I saw last week) has already closed – but the talk will give us a chance to reconsider what was there. Second, it looks back before Duccio. Had I managed to time things better, the Louvre’s exhibition would have been a perfect introduction to Siena: The Rise of Painting – which you can still see at the National Gallery. Following on from Cimabue (or even, starting with him) I will end my ‘summer season’ with three talks about the new hang of the Sainsbury Wing in the National Gallery. Keep an eye on the diary for more information!

A large number of girls are gathered in a courtyard, wearing a uniform that is almost identical throughout: a long dress with short sleeves, red on the left and black on the right; a white headdress; and, for most, a white apron. The building is formal, with bold, brick pilasters framing large windows. A sweeping perspective pulls the eye towards the far wall of the yard, and a doorway framed in the same colour as the windows. On the left, the composition is closed by a line of trees, under which some of the girls chat. The leaves are light green, and sunlight passes through them to creates mottled pools of light on the floor and on the wall.

In the foreground on the right a group of eight girls are busy sewing. They are so focussed on their work that we could imagine there is total silence here. Some seem to be sat on the base of the architecture, and one is partially hidden by the strongly projecting pilaster in the foreground. With her left hand she lifts some white fabric, which is indistinguishable from her apron, if she is wearing one, while her right hand pulls back a needle, the thread just visible. Next to her another girl – who clearly is wearing an apron – reaches down to pick up some of the white material, with a third girl sitting on the ground in front of her looking down at her own work. Another girl sits sewing behind the one who is bending over, with a fifth peering down to see what she is doing. Two more sit in the next bay, between two of the pilasters, one of whom is more involved in sewing, while the other seems slightly distracted. However, she is still more involved in her work than the girl who is standing, framed by the pilaster which is second in from the front. She stands upright, her white cloth held with both hands in front of her waist, looking down over her right shoulder as if considering something on the floor – maybe the dappled pools of light. Further back the light falling through the trees hits the wall, and seems to take on the red of the girls’ uniforms. It also falls on the apron of the only girl I can see who is wearing an apron, or smock, hanging full-length from her shoulders, who is precariously perched on the base of one of the pilasters. Behind her another girl, half hidden, reaches up.

This girl is actually reaching up to pump water, the spout projecting horizontally to the left just above her waist. The jet of water that results is disguised, as it follows the outline of her skirt, but it must be there as you can see splashes of water above the broad, low basin on the ground: they are caught in the sunlight. Further back more girls sit and sew, while others stand and chat to them. Elsewhere there is more activity, with one girl running from right to left, the foot of another, curved up in a similar way, just visible: they are chasing one another. There also seems to be more conversation taking place in front of the doorway in the distance. Maybe some sound will reach us from the far side of the courtyard: a buzz of conversation, the footfall of the running girls, maybe the occasionally shout, the splash of water. Nearer to us, on the left, two girls walk arm in arm, and others turn to each other in conversation. High up on the right, attached to one of the pilasters, is the curved bracket of a lamp, the sunlight glinting from the glass of the lantern. The top left of the painting is filled with the trunks, branches and bright green leaves of the trees, their light colour enhanced by the sunlight, yes, but also suggesting that we are probably some way into spring, but by no means at the full height of summer, by which time they would be darker. This precision of detail, the spontaneity of the movement, and the accuracy of the interactions and of the intense focus on the needlework suggests that the artist, Max Liebermann, was there, capturing the essence of the scene as he saw it – but this is all artistry. It might come as quite a surprise to learn that the trees were not there.

This is a sketch of the courtyard – and of the girls – which Liebermann made when he was in Amsterdam in 1876. This was the year of the second Impressionist exhibition in Paris – the first had been in 1874. Like one of his French contemporaries, he was painting ‘en plein air’ in front of the ‘motif’. Or, to put it another way, he was outside painting what he saw, capturing the moment. Born in Berlin in 1847 (he was seven years younger than Monet, so of the same generation), he went to art school in Weimar at the age of 22, and travelled widely, often to the Netherlands. In 1873 he moved to Paris, and spent the summer of 1874 in Barbizon, which could be considered the ‘capital’ of of plein air painting… He was in the right place at the right time, you would think. However, his art continued to align itself more with Realism – effectively painting the things that concern real people, rather than saints or deities, miracles or myths. He made return visits to the Netherlands in 1875 (when he spent a long time inspired by the broad brushstrokes of Frans Hals) and 1876 (when he visited the orphanage in Amsterdam), and settled in Munich in 1878 after meeting a group of German artists in Venice. However, it wasn’t really until 1880 that his style shifted towards Impressionism. In Amsterdam once more, he visited the Oudemannenhuis (the ‘Old Man’s House’), where the men, dressed in black, were sitting in the garden, and light was filtering through the trees. The effects of this light were a revelation, and Liebermann later said that it felt “…as if someone were walking on a level path and suddenly stepped on a spiral spring that sprang up.” It was this that inspired him to paint what became known as “Liebermann’s sunspots” – like the ones we can see in today’s painting. The difference in style is clear, especially when compared to the sketch.

The finished work has tall trees on the left of the path, with bright sunshine filtering through to create sunspots on the floor, on the walls and on the girls’ dresses and aprons. The sketch, from the Kunsthalle, Bremen, does not have these sunspots – but then, there are no trees in the sketch for the light to filter through, just a couple of bushes. It doesn’t even look like a sunny day. Quite the opposite, in fact – it could be grey and overcast. The sketch is signed, and clearly dated 1881 – but Liebermann must have painted it in 1876, when he was there. By 1881, when the finished painting was started (in his studio in Munich) his style had changed substantially – but for whatever reason, that was the date he gave to the sketch. Over the years he based a number of works on the sketches he had made in 1876. In many ways, therefore, he wasn’t an Impressionist at all, trying to capture the ‘sensation’ he first had on witnessing this scene. He may have painted preparatory sketches en plein air, but he developed them later, back in the studio, adding trees, changing the weather, inventing the dappled sunlight… Having said that, the French Impressionists weren’t always as spontaneous as you may have thought – just think of Monet, completing his Thames views during the three or four years after he had visited London. Is has been said, with some degree of justification, that some of the artists (Degas, for example), rarely, if ever painted outside anyway. This is art, though – does it really matter? And even if he invented the trees, and the sunlight, Liebermann’s depiction of the building itself was entirely accurate. We can tell that because it’s still there: here it is with a detail of Liebermann’s painting.

The Amsterdam orphanage – the Burgerwaisenhaus – had its origins in 1520, and moved to this location sixty years later. The ‘Burger’ is important here. It wasn’t an orphanage for the poor, nor were there any foundlings. These were the children of citizens who had been orphaned – effectively the children of the middle-classes – and there were boys as well as girls: we just happen to be in the girls’ courtyard. Plagues and epidemics in 1602, 1617 and 1622-28 had substantially increased the number of orphans, and 1634 the orphanage – which was originally housed in a medieval monastery – was enlarged. This building was probably designed by Jacob van Campen, who was also responsible for Amsterdam Town Hall (now the Royal Palace), and the Mauritshuis in The Hague, among other notable buildings. When Liebermann visited in 1876 the children still wore these uniforms in black and red – the colours of the Amsterdam coat of arms – and would continue to do so until 1919. The orphanage itself staid put until 1960, at which point it was transferred to a new building, which is said to be a modernist design classic. Since 1975 the 17th century building has been the home of the Amsterdam Museum, with the adjoining boys’ courtyard now used as an open-air café.

I’d like to finish by returning to one of the details of the painting: the one distracted girl in the right foreground.

It wouldn’t be true to say that any of the girls here look happy, but they do at least look engaged. All of them, that is, apart from the one standing up. She holds her fabric to her stomach and looks down over her shoulder. To my eye she looks unequivocally Dutch, but I’m probably relying on broad-brushstroke stereotypes. However, she does look melancholy: what is prompting this reflection? What is she looking at?

The direction of her gaze isn’t entirely clear, to be honest, and it could be that she isn’t looking at anything at all, just lost in her thoughts. But if she is looking at the floor, then maybe she is mesmerised by the sunspots, created in the painting with thickly impasto-ed strokes of white and cream-coloured paint. Or maybe she is fascinated by the sparrows, pecking away at whatever they can find, gleaning a meagre existence from anything that has fallen from the trees, or has been dropped by the children. There is no evidence of them in Liebermann’s sketch: were they really there? Or is he trying to say something allegorical about the situation of the orphans, gleaning a meagre existence from the charity of others? Being who I am, my mind instantly turns to two passages from the Gospel according to St Matthew. Chapter 6, verse 26 says, “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” Meanwhile, in Chapter 10, verses 29-31, we read, “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”

It’s possible that these verses are relevant, although it is worth noting that Liebermann was Jewish. Given the increase in secularism over the 19th Century, the gospels were probably not standard reading for many artists at the time, and it would have been even less likely for Liebermann. However, he had painted two versions of The Twelve-Year-Old Jesus in the Temple just a couple of years before: such situations are never as straightforward as you might think. Changes in the Prussian law regarding Jews benefitted him as a child, but as an old man he suffered professionally – as so many did – with the rise to power of the National Socialists. However, his death in 1935 – at the age of 88, and from natural causes – meant that, although a broken man, he was not a victim of their worst atrocities. Inevitably we will touch on this on Monday, although the majority of the time will be spent looking at his paintings, and those of his fellow German Impressionists, as we discover what the implications of that term really were.

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247 – In the midst of the doctors?

Marie Ellenrieder, Christ in the Temple, 1849. Royal Collection Trust.

My next stop on the journey through early modern German art will be The Nazarenes, this Monday, 12 May at 6pm. If you’ve never heard of them, don’t worry, but they are rather wonderful and should be known! Nevertheless, a striking feature of the History of Art is its ability to forget artists who were, in their day, remarkably successful. And the Nazarenes really were successful – especially in Britain. It’s just that very few paintings have made their way into public collections anywhere outside Germany. Not only that, but tastes changed very quickly after their initial success. John Ruskin’s Modern Painters would turn out to be an enormously important and influential book: amongst other things it includes an early defence of the paintings of Turner. However, when the first volume was initially sent to the publishers – the prestigious John Murray – it was turned down: apparently Murray said that they might have been more interested if it had been written about the Nazarenes. As Ruskin was concerned with nature, God and society, he would surely have been interested in their work, as they ticked at least two of these three boxes – God and society.  They would also turn out to be an important influence on British art, as we shall see on Monday. Apart from anything else, their clear, crisp colours and strong simple outlines are a balm for troubled eyes – and trust me, I should know. I must apologise for this post being rather late. I got back from Paris on Thursday, and meant to finish writing it yesterday. However, I went out for an hour or so to have an eye test and order some new glasses, but only got home some 10 hours, four nurses and three doctors later after minor laser eye surgery. I’m fine, it was a precautionary measure, but I lost a day’s work unexpectedly.

Today I want to write about Marie Ellenrieder. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t one of the Nazarenes, who, like the Pre-Raphaelites, were effectively a ‘Brotherhood’. However, she knew them, and her work is strongly influenced by theirs. I’ll go into more detail on Monday, of course. The following week (19 May) I will move onto German Impressionism, and then, to conclude this series, on 26 May I’m looking forward to enjoying the sculptures of Ernst Barlach – whose work will be the main Aspect of Expressionism I will be discussing. In Paris I saw two superb exhibitions dedicated to Cimabue and Artemisia Gentileschi, and I’ll be talking about them in June: do keep your eye on the diary for more details.

In light, crisp, clear colours Marie Ellenrieder is depicting a story whose consequences I discussed just a month or so ago, looking at Simone Martini’s Christ discovered in the Temple. As I said in that post, I think Martini was painting what happened next – after Mary and Joseph had found Jesus. When he was 12, according to the Gospel of St Luke, the family went to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. On the way home Mary and Joseph realised that Jesus was not with the rest of the group – so they returned to the city, and eventually, after three days, they found him in the temple, ‘sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions. And all that heard him were astonished at his understanding and answers’ (Luke 2:46-47). Ellenrieder has a very particular take on the story, and one that differs from the medieval and renaissance versions. Unlike ‘traditional’ images she does not show the moment of discovery, with Mary and Joseph to the side, or in the background, nor does she show a large group of doctors – there are usually at least four, or how could Jesus appear ‘in the midst’ of them? In Ellenrieder’s version he isn’t even in between the two who are present, one of whom isn’t paying him any attention anyway. In a similar way to Simone Martini, I think she is extending the range of the narrative, but whereas he takes the story beyond the moment of ‘discovery’, Ellenrieder has arrived to witness a scene beforehand. Jesus is only really communicating with one of the doctors, which makes me wonder if he has only recently entered the Temple. Let’s see if that makes sense!

The interaction between the old man and the 12-year-old boy is very direct, and very personal. It could be a scene of one-on-one tuition, although one in which the tables are turning. The man, with his long, white beard, is assumed to be both old and wise. On his lap rests a hefty tome with his right hand lying on top, the forefinger tucked into one of the pages to keep his place (there is also a bookmark ribbon marking another page). He looks towards Jesus, his left hand raised to emphasize a point in his argument. Jesus looks up towards him, holding an unrolled scroll, pointing towards the text with his right forefinger. His sanctity is evident – a simple gold ring circles his head as a halo – and his Christianity is subtly alluded to. Whereas the older man has his head covered by a russet-red hood, Jesus’s centrally parted and neatly combed hair is there for all to see. I don’t know when the tradition started – but long before Ellenrieder was alive – but Jewish boys would often start to wear a yarmulka (or kippah, or skull cap) at the age of three. Jesus is twelve – admittedly not yet thirteen, when he would be obligated to follow the commandments of the Torah, but the point is clearly made. In medieval and renaissance iconography, scrolls are usually used by characters from the Old Testament – i.e. Jews – whereas codices (books with pages that turn, rather than unroll) were not developed until the 2nd or 3rd century, and so are associated with Christianity. With Jesus pointing to a scroll, Ellenrieder could be implying that he has a profound understanding of the Old Order from an original text, rather than a ‘modern’ commentary. The glance that passes between the two suggests that this is the case. The old man’s head is tilted, and, to me at least, his gaze seems to imply a sense of doubt, with an idea coming into his head that had not been there before. The tentative positioning of his left hand is similarly not decisive – it is not the bold statement of an unequivocal truth, or the secure gesture of a well-practiced argument. The Doctor’s face is pale, his cheeks hollowed, and there are a few dignified wrinkles (the Nazarenes were not too worried about excessive lifelike veracity, but were more interested in communicating an idea as simply and directly as possible). Jesus has a perfect, porcelain complexion, unmarked but glowing with health – and youth. He looks up into the old man’s eyes with just a hint of a smile, showing conviction, understanding, and even love. His hand casts a shadow on the scroll: it is illuminated from above, as if by his Father in heaven. However, the words on the scroll are not legible. They are neither Latin nor Hebrew characters, but I suspect Ellenrieder is painting something ‘other’ to suggest the latter. Jesus wears a simple red robe, as was traditional, although it is not yet covered with a blue cloak. Perhaps that is because he has not yet formally begun his teaching – and wouldn’t, until after the Baptism. The old man, on the other hand, wears a subtle range of colours – russet, yellow, pale blue, orange and green.

Sometimes I find details in a painting a marvel in and of themselves – and this is one such detail. Above all, I love the poise of the man’s hand directly in front of his beard so that its insecurity is framed by his age and experience. The subtle articulation of the fingers, each one different – with the index finger opening out and the ring finger curling in – surely creates the sense of hesitation. And then there are the colours – the pale lemon yellow of the tabard, which is buttoned on both sides along the shoulders, and the way that this colour is picked up in the patterning of the Wedgwood-blue sleeves. There is a similar pattern on the tabard in a more muted, neutral colour. Above all, though, it is the expression, as if asking ‘how is this possible, from someone so young?’ But then, as it says in Psalm 8, verse 2, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast though ordained strength…’ Maybe that’s the verse that Jesus is pointing at. He would certainly know this text later – in Matthew 21:16 he says ‘have ye never read, Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise?’ He could even be asking that now.

The bottom of the painting has some further, subtle pointers to Jesus’s status – and more delicate detailing. Notice how he wears no shoes, whereas the Doctor has delicate yellow pumps, the same colour as the tabard and with similar decoration. The blue/yellow colour chord is there, as it the contrast between the green cloak and its deep amber lining. Jesus being unshod is presumably a reference to Luke 10:4, in which he instructs his followers ‘Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes’. I quoted an equivalent text (Matthew 10:10) when talking about Martini’s painting, in which the 12-year-old wears sandals (‘nor shoes’ does not necessarily proscribe other footwear…). In the same painting, Simone’s Joseph, like Ellenrieder’s old man, also happens to wear yellow(ish) shoes.

Being younger than the Doctor, Jesus’s legs are shorter, and rest on a higher step. The Doctor’s feet are split between two lower levels. Oddly, perhaps, the old man is on a slightly higher level of the bench or parapet on which both are seated: it does not appear to be continuous. I don’t think there’s a meaning to this, though, and I’m also not entirely sure that it was a deliberate choice on the part of the artist. What was intentional, though, is the lighting. Not only does it shine from above, brilliantly illuminating the scroll and Jesus’s pointing right hand, but it also leads our eyes into the painting, going from the lit floor at the bottom right and up the steps which lead toward Jesus himself, as does the diagonal arrangement of the feet.

But what of the man in the background? He is also Jewish – his head is covered – and although he is not, seemingly, an ‘elder’, as his beard is relatively short and dark, he is clearly a mature man who is focussed on scripture. His right hand is raised ready to point to an unclear word, or to keep his place in case he is distracted. Has he turned away, or has he not yet become interested in the prodigy? It would be impossible to say, without the artist’s explicit statement, and I’m not sure to what extent Ellenrieder explained her own work. He is clearly significant, though, and is neatly framed by the architectonic elements – which give him prominence, whilst also asking their own questions.

Where, exactly, are we? The biblical text suggests we are in the ‘temple’ – but this looks for all the world like a gothic church with pointed arches and ribbed vaulting. It is, admittedly, an unusual form of architecture, as the columns have no capitals, but that’s not unknown, and anyway, maybe Ellenrieder was using her imagination, and seeking something simple. We are looking from the right of centre of one particular arch – columns frame the painting at the left and right. A lantern hangs in between them, to the left of the point of a blind arch on the back wall. The lantern – exquisitely formed – is presumably hanging from the centre of the vaulting in this particular bay. However, medieval paintings – notably medieval Flemish paintings – tended to show the temple with romanesque architecture, acknowledging some form of time frame: Romanesque was ‘old’ (so implied the Old Order), Gothic was ‘new’ (and was used for the New). So why did Ellenrieder choose Gothic? Is it simply, as in other choices here, that she wasn’t too bothered about medieval tradition? This would go against the Nazarene’s ideas: they were interested in the supposed purity and faith of medieval artists, as we shall see on Monday. Maybe she had something else in mind – and of course, I suspect that she did. I’ve talked about this painting more than once in a number of series about women artists, and it’s always reminded me of something, but until recently I couldn’t remember what that was. The cool grey stone and the lighter grey walls are reminiscent of the architecture of Brunelleschi in Florence, but translated into Gothic (curiously, Brunelleschi’s ‘Renaissance’ was doing was neo-Romanesque, rather than neo-Roman, but let’s not go into that right now). But I have seen this architecture somewhere before.

I first came across Marie Ellenrieder in Konstanz, in South-West Germany, which, for four years, was the location of my ‘country house’. She was born there in 1791. At the age of 22 she started her studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich – and was, as it happens, the first woman to be admitted to any German academy. Nine years later she went to Rome, a study trip which lasted more or less two years, until 1824. It was there that she met the Nazarenes, becoming especially influenced by the founder of the group, Johann Friedrich Overbeck. After other travels she returned to Konstanz in the 1840s, where she continued to paint, and teach, until her death in 1863. This particular painting dates to 1849, and so must have been painted in Konstanz. It was bought that year by Prince Albert, and Queen Victoria bought another of her paintings at the same time: both can be seen in Osborne House, the royal residence on the Isle of Wight. Albert’s interest was not explicitly because she was German – he had come across her on one of his visits to Rome – but he presumably got to know her work through the German artists there in whom he was interested and who were, after all, his contemporaries. If it was painted in Konstanz, I’m not sure how it got to Rome – but that is by the by… Konstanz is the clue.

Medieval Konstanz was a very important diocese, and the only place in Germany which has ever hosted a Papal Conclave – back in 1417. The diocese included most of present-day Switzerland – stretching as far as St Gottard in the South, but also going as far North in Germany as Stuttgart. It also stretched from Bern in the West to Ulm in the East… Its Cathedral – now a Minster – was (and remains) magnificent, even though Konstanz ceased to be a Bishopric in 1821. Somewhere along the line the cloister lost two of its wings. The remaining two flank the church and chapter house in an L-shape, and frame one corner of the town’s main square. Here is a photo of the interior, together with a slightly truncated version of Ellenrieder’s Christ in the Temple:

Notice the gothic arches, and the bench running along the back, at the base of a blind arcade. Notice also the way in which the ribs of the vault overlap, the spaces they create, and their cool, grey colouring. But more than anything else, look at the columns: it’s clear to me that there are no capitals. This is a section of the cloister which is deeper than others, hence the free-standing column on the right of the photo – elsewhere it is only one bay deep – not unlike the painting. I can’t help thinking that Jesus and the Doctor are in this cloister, seated in one of the arches that lead into the open space in the middle, and imagined as seated on a similar bench to the one which runs along the back wall. This is Ellenrieder’s ‘mother church’, still a cathedral while she was growing up. What better place to imagine as the Temple than the oldest and most majestic building in the city of her birth? Admittedly she has slightly changed the profile of the arch, and includes a different transition from column to ribs – but I think these are small details. Her imagination has taken her to Jesus’s arrival in the Temple, having left his earthly step-father to ‘be about [his] Father’s business’. This could be the first interaction with one of the people there. The old man might then alert the younger man, and they could then summon others, who will be ‘astonished at his understanding and answers’. Eventually, when Mary and Joseph arrive, they will find Jesus ‘sitting in the midst of the doctors’. At least, that’s what I think is happening.

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246 – Lonely as a Cloud?

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, about 1817. Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog is one of the archetypal images of German Romanticism – so what better painting to look at as an introduction to my eponymous talk this Monday, 5 May at 6pm? To be honest, I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen it in real life, as the last time I was in Hamburg (December 2023) they had moved it into an exhibition looking forward to the 250th anniversary of the artist’s birth (1774), which unfortunately didn’t open until the week after we’d left… Since then, different embodiments of the show have been seen in Dresden and Berlin, and it is currently at the Met in New York, marking over a year of celebrations. The American incarnation closes on 11 May, in case you are stateside and on the East Coast: the first half of Monday’s talk will effectively walk us through it. However, I’m hoping that the Wanderer will be back on the walls of the Kunsthalle in Hamburg by the time I get there on 29 May – who knows if I’ll be lucky? As well as Friedrich, Monday’s talk will also look at the intriguing and idiosyncratic paintings of Otto Philipp Runge, an acquaintance and colleague of Friedrich, and another of the leading Romantic artists. I shall try and include others when appropriate. In the weeks that follow I will gradually work my way through German art history, looking at The Nazarenes (12 May), German Impressionism (19 May), and Ernst Barlach (26 May). All of these talks are now on sale, and you can either click on these links or look in the diary for more information. In the midst of it all I am heading to Paris for two days to catch the exhibitions Revoir Cimabue (‘A New Look at Cimabue’) at the Louvre and Artemisia: Héroïne de l’art at the Musée Jacquemart André. I am hoping to give lectures on both in June. Meanwhile… Germany.

This is undoubtedly one of Western Art’s ‘iconic’ paintings – the sort that is widely recognised, and often quoted. Maybe it’s not as familiar as the Mona Lisa, Munch’s The Scream, or ‘Whistler’s Mother’, but it is up there somewhere. Like all of them, there is a single figure forming a bold silhouette, so that the composition makes a strong, initial impact. This is easily remembered, and so can be instantly recognised: the boldness creates a sense of familiarity. This painting has the added bonus of mystery: who is this man? We would not recognise him even if we met, as he stands with his back it to us. We cannot see what he is thinking, or guess how he feels. He stands atop a rock formation looking out over the title’s ‘sea of fog’ (‘das Nebelmeer’ in the original German), and over the mountaintops which project from it. He wears a dark green, well-tailored coat, knee-length and gathered at the waist, with matching trousers. The rocks on which he stands are as dark, although brown, while the fog ranges from white to bluish-grey, with hints of lavender and pink, colours which are echoed in the sky.

These colours, and the shapes they form, help us interpret the painting, I think. I don’t know how much time you spend looking at the sky, or thinking about what you see, or even where it is, but if you look directly upwards, you are looking at the part of the sky that is closest to you. The sky above the horizon, or just touching it, is furthest way. I know this is obvious, but it’s worth considering, and I suspect it is not something we often register explicitly. When painted, the sky acts as a sort of external ‘ceiling’, directly above an equivalent, perspectival floor, so that, at the top of the painting, the sky is in the foreground, and the lower down the painting it goes, the further away that section of the sky is: where it meets the horizon the sky is in the background. This is still really obvious, I know, but it’s worth clarifying. In this detail, which shows all of the sky above the distant mountains, the clouds at the top are turbulent, with puffs of strongly contrasted light and dark, whereas those below are calmer, with stable, horizontal streaks of similar, close-hued, light tones. This implies that the weather nearby is rougher than that in the distance. If we are travelling in that direction – as the gaze of the ‘Wanderer’ suggests – things are going to get better: we are looking towards the calm on the horizon, both visually and metaphorically.

However, it is not entirely clear where the Wanderer is standing: on top of some rocks, yes, but not quite at the very top. And we don’t really know where these rocks are. Placed against a backdrop of fog, and with other rocky peaks which seem to be lower, we inevitably assume that he is at the top of a mountain. However, as we see these rocks out of context, we have no way of telling how broad, or high, this mountain is, nor how close he is to any vegetation… or for that matter, civilisation. He seems to be alone in the world, and potentially on the edge of a precipice. Nevertheless, these rocks do create that archetypal artistic construction – a pyramid – and he is placed on top of it, the focus of the composition. His left foot is higher and placed at an angle. His right foot points directly into the painting, stable at the end of a straight, supporting leg. The left leg is bent. I have no doubt that he is poised, stationary, to contemplate the view – he has a walking stick which projects to the right, helping to create visual, as well as physical, stability. Nevertheless, there is still the possibility that he could straighten that bent left leg and take a step forward with his right, either onto the higher stone, or even over the brow of this particular peak. Is he content to reach this summit, or will he head on to the mountains in the distance?

To the left, the rocky peaks are broad, and rounded, and, like the foreground where he is standing, they are devoid of vegetation. To the right, a larger mass of stone is topped with trees, but trees which, thanks to their distance, appear quite tiny: each would easily fit, pictorially, into the gap formed by crook of his arm. But has Friedrich got the perspective ‘right’? The trees seem too small, making that distant outcrop seem even further away than the shapes made by the fog would suggest. Of course, there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ about it: the artist is using our understanding of perspective to show us the size and scale of the world around us: the world is enormous, and we are tiny in comparison. The painting is an example of the ‘Sublime’ which, in philosophical terms, represents a greatness beyond all possibility of calculation, measurement, or imitation. It can be exciting, or terrifying, or even both. For observers of a painting it works particularly well, though, because we know that, how ever large and potentially dangerous the world is, we, at this moment, are safe in the comfort of our own home.

Having said that, this man does not appear to be ‘tiny’ in comparison to the world. By making the rocks on which he stands equivalent to those in the distance, and by showing him as so much larger than the trees, this man is made truly monumental – heroic, even. Indeed, he is the very essence of the Romantic hero. His head is of the same order of size – on the picture surface – as the rock formation to the right. This is actually a fairly accurate depiction of the Zirkelstein, a table mountain which overlooks the River Elbe about 50km South East of Dresden, where Friedrich lived and worked. I can’t help thinking that the mountain has a head and shoulders not unlike the ‘Wanderer’. He is part of nature, and yet separate from it – another essential Romantic idea. Nature seems to converge on him. Notice how, just below the Zirkelstein, the top of a long, gently-sloping hill emerges from the clouds, and leads down in a shallow diagonal from the right edge of the painting to the Wanderer’s right arm. Another hilltop leads down in a similar shallow diagonal from the left to his left arm. There are mountains visible on either side of the flared skirts of his coat, and, as we saw above, he stands on top of a pyramid of rocks – which could in themselves be the tip of a far larger mountain.

Our eye level should be where we see the horizon, which suggests that the distant mountain is higher than his current position: it looms above his head. The slopes are apparently less rocky, and we might assume that it would be relatively easy to climb – an uphill walk, maybe, arduous, given the scale, but not a scramble. Some people think this is either the Rosenberg, or the Kaltenberg, but I’m not sure that either has exactly the right profile – but again, that is immaterial. Friedrich went out into the countryside, made sketches, and later rearranged them and altered them according to what would work in the painting – ‘pictorial necessity’. Here it is notable that the right slope of this mountain leads down behind the man’s face: he is looking at this very slope, and the hills beyond.

However bold the composition as a whole, the details are remarkably delicate. Notice how the light catches his shirt collar on the left, and to a lesser extent, also on the right. If you look closely enough, you can also see that it glances over the outline of his left ear. His ginger hair blows in tufts in the breeze. Caspar David Friedrich had red hair, by the way. This could be him.

But what does it all add up to? Everything focusses on the Wanderer: the rocks in the foreground support him, the apex of a pyramid, and mountains frame him to the left and right. The tops of the hills slope down towards him on either side – as if pointing towards him – and a distant mountain even resembles him. He is also exactly in the middle of the painting, his body lined up with the central vertical axis. We are looking directly at him, and yet we cannot see his face. However, by painting him from behind – what the Germans would call a Rückenfigur (literally, ‘back-figure’) – we are invited to look at what he is seeing, the ultimate repoussoir. We are looking at the act of looking, and the implication is that we consider not only what we can see, but also, how that would make us feel. This is the very essence of Romanticism: a personal response to the world around us. The movement grew as a reaction against the Enlightenment, during which the world was explored, measured, evaluated and rationalised. Romanticism invites a more emotional response. Friedrich is not documenting a precise geographical location, telling us physically where he stands, but is provoking us into a metaphorical consideration: how do we feel about our place in the universe? However, he doesn’t tell us how to feel. As a result, the interpretations of this painting are many and varied. It has been suggested that Friedrich’s concerns were political – relating to German Nationalism, as a response to the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815, just two years before the painting was begun. Ironically, by occupying many of the small independent states that made up the fragmented political landscape of Germany, Napoleon’s actions provoked a greater sense of what it meant to be German. He therefore helped to promote unification (the same was true in Italy). Alternatively, the painting could be a religious statement, expressing awe at the majesty of God’s creation, with the rocks as a symbol of a secure Faith, standing strong and reaching to the firmament. Friedrich profoundly believed in God’s presence in nature, as we shall see on Monday. Or it could be a meditation on his own journey through life. Every peak of achievement can turn out to be the brink of a precipice. And even if that’s not the case, how can we ever know if we have reached the ‘top’? How many more mountains must we climb – metaphorically – before we can find the peace promised by the calmer skies and gentler slopes on the horizon? As far as Friedrich’s own life is concerned, is it a coincidence that not long after he began this painting he would get married?

However we see the painting, the formalised composition implies that there should be a metaphorical interpretation. The sense of life’s journey, and the Romantic notion of an individual’s response to the situation in which they find themselves, is expressed explicitly through the notion of the Wanderer himself, and the very idea of Wandering. You only have to remember what William Wordsworth was doing in the opening line of what is surely most famous poem by one of Britain’s most famous Romantic poets: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud…’. Wandering – and the discoveries which result – is essentially Romantic. However, for Caspar David Friedrich – judging by this painting, if nothing else – clouds were anything but lonely.

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Flora: a second bloom

Evelyn De Morgan, Flora, 1894. De Morgan Collection.

As I said when I originally posted this essay, ‘There have been a plethora of exhibitions of the work of Evelyn De Morgan in the past few years, but I am only now in a position to dedicate an entire talk to her’ – that was in August 2023, thanks to the exhibition The Gold Drawings at Leighton House. It was focussed on a very specific aspect of her work – and an especially refined, and elegant one at that. Now, with the exhibition Evelyn de Morgan: The Modern Artist in Victorian London at the Guildhall Art Gallery, I will give a more general introduction to her work (Monday, 28 April at 6:00pm). I saw the exhibition yesterday – and it’s a perfect opportunity to get to know a wonderful artist and remarkable woman. Not only that, but it’s free – so don’t miss it! I first encountered one of her paintings at the exhibition Botticelli Reimagined at the Victoria and Albert Museum in 2016 – it was today’s work which was exhibited – and then she resurfaced in the National Portrait Gallery’s Pre-Raphaelite Sisters in 2019: the catalogue of that exhibition includes what is probably the best writing about her that I know. One of the stars of that show, as far as I was concerned, was Night and Sleep, about which I wrote on Day 41 back in April 2020. This talk will conclude what has been a short series about exhibitions currently in London. After this, May will be devoted to German art, starting with German Romanticism on 5 May, and then, on 12 May, The Nazarenes. More will follow – but check out the diary for information about them, including dates, and on-sale dates.

Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers, vegetation and fertility – and so effectively, also, of Spring – is shown full-length in a suitably floral dress, scattering blooms and standing on a lawn growing and strewn with yet more flowers. Behind her is a fruit-laden tree, dark against the clear blue sky, with just a hint of dusk on the horizon. She stands in classical contrapposto, with her weight on her left leg and her right lifting off the ground as if she were walking, or even, possibly, dancing. Over her shoulder is a blood-red shawl, and her hair flies freely in the breeze.

The tree is a loquat (Eriobotrya japonica), presumably chosen as it has the rare distinction of flowering in autumn or winter, so that it bears fruit as early as spring – an ideal demonstration of Flora’s fecundity (for this and all subsequent botanical identification I am, as ever, deeply indebted to the Ecologist, now Professor of Ecology at the University of Liverpool: congratulations, and thank you!). The loquat has its origins in China, but was known to Europeans as early as the 16th century. It may even have arrived in Portugal back then. The silveriness on the underside of the leaves is diagnostic, apparently, and is one of the many features that De Morgan captures accurately. The full moon hovers in the dusk sky, and below it a goldfinch flaps its wings. Not only is the bird colouristically related to Flora – the red on its face matches that on her shawl – but its association with the Passion of Christ, and therefore Easter, also makes it appropriate for a spring painting, a natural resurrection following the death of winter.

Further down, a second goldfinch looks up towards its mate from the right of the painting, not far from the head of a siskin, whose pair can be seen on the left, just below Flora’s elbow. A third type of bird is shown on her red shawl: picked out in gold, there are stylised swallows. Even if ‘one swallow doesn’t make a spring’ the number represented suggest that the season is well advanced. Admittedly this particular saying is also applied to summer, but I should be able to explain this confusion later on. The red colour of the shawl itself is related to the rich red roses which Flora is clasping, along with the others she is scattering – a metaphor for the way in which the arriving spring brings with it flowers. I particularly like the flick of the beaded red shawl just above Flora’s right elbow which echoes not only the curls of her hair, but also the shapes of some of the leaves and the curve of the siskin’s back and tail.

De Morgan captures the fall of the scattered roses rather brilliantly. It is as if they are frozen in time. The swirls of drapery, on the other hand, seem to have a life of their own, clinging to her bent right knee and curling behind, almost as if they are growing. All over the dress – which is modulated from cream in the light to a buttery yellow in the shadow – we see pansies, apparently growing with their leaves, which are either embroidered or printed onto the fabric. The name ‘pansy’ is derived from the French pensée, or ‘thought’, although that probably has little relevance here. They are included, like so much else, as indicators of spring, even if developments in horticulture mean that there are now varieties which will bloom all the year round. They don’t withstand the heat of summer, which could be relevant: as we shall see, De Morgan was painting in Florence, where the heat can be unbearable.

By the time we hit the ground (a final pink rose can be seen falling from the top of this detail) there is an explosion of flora. In between the left border of the painting and the figure’s right toes is a cyclamen, and to the right of the same foot are two primroses (Primula vulgaris), one the more common yellow form, the other a pink variant. There are also pinkish daisies (Bellis perennis) mid-way between the feet and below Flora’s left heel, and below the latter daisies are the flowers of another cyclamen. The rest of the flowers – whether deep blue, light blue or pink – are florist’s cineraria (Pericalis x hybrida), with the exception of some tiny forget-me-nots (Myosotis) to the left of Flora’s right foot (above the cyclamen), and a periwinkle (Vinca) to the left of the second set of cyclamen flowers.

The bottom left of the painting shows the same species, although the deep pink flower at the very bottom left corner might be ‘new’. The periwinkles can be seen more clearly (to the left of the full cyclamen plant and above a yellow primrose), and there are more forget-me-nots in the bottom right corner of the detail.

The bottom right of the painting also has the same selection, with more scattered roses, but there are also what appear to be double flowering ranunculus blooms, with tightly-packed petals in either yellowy-orange or red. The ‘new’ flower in the previous detail might also be a ranunculus. In addition, there is a cartellino – a small piece of paper, or label – inscribed with a verse and, on the underside, curled round on the right, the signature: ‘E De M. Maggio 1894’ – Evelyn De Morgan, May 1894. May is the month of spring, even if nowadays we associate its arrival with March. The Romans celebrated Floralia – the festival in honour of Flora – from 28 April – 3 May, and in Britain these rites survived with the celebration of a May Queen well into the twentieth century (there was a maypole in our playground at school, although I don’t remember anyone ever dancing around it). This ‘traditional’ celebration of spring is followed close on its heels by the arrival of summer in June (optimistically speaking – it was still raining in August when I originally wrote this), with ‘Midsummer’ being 21 June. This might explain the confusion over which season is ‘made’ by the arrival of an appropriate number of swallows. From 1890 until 1914 Evelyn and her husband William De Morgan (renowned potter, some of whose work I will include in Monday’s talk) spent the winter months of every year in Florence – and in this particular case at least, that could continue through to May. It was in Florence that Flora was painted. As far as I can read it, I think this is a correct transcription of the verse, for the benefit of those of you who have some Italian:

   Io vengo da Fiorenza e sono Flora
Quella città dai fior prende nomanza
   Tra Fiori son nata ed or cambio dimora
   Fra I monti della Scozia avrò mia stanza
Accoglietemi ben e vi sia caro
   Nelle nordiche nebbie il mio tesoro.

It uses antiquated Italian – even for the late 19th Century – including the medieval form of the city’s name, Fiorenza, as opposed to the ‘modern’ version, Firenze. The medieval form (like the English) is closer to the Roman name ‘Florentia’ – the flourishing city – and so to Flora herself, but also ties in with the ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ ethos of the painting, influenced as it is by an artist born many years before Raphael. As a sophisticated group of cognoscenti you will have seen the parallels already, and I hinted as much when I said that I’d first seen the painting in the exhibition Botticelli Reimagined. Before we get to that, though, here is my translation of the verse (you will understand why I never became a poet). It is rough, I know, but I wanted to try and replicate the rhyme scheme, and allude to quaint archaic forms (or rather, in this case, Scots dialect – apologies to my Scottish readers).

   I come from Florence, and I am Flora –
That city from the flowers takes its name.
   Born among flowers I’m now an explorer:
   The hills of Scotland soon will be ‘ma hame’.
Welcome me well so that my treasure
   Amid the northern mists will give you pleasure.

The implication is that Evelyn De Morgan painted Flora for a Scottish patron, although precisely who that was remains unknown: the first recorded owner had no known connections north of the border. As for its visual origins, De Morgan’s love – and understanding – of the work of Botticelli must be clear. For one thing, Flora owes a great deal to her namesake in the Primavera, which De Morgan could easily have seen in the Uffizi (in Florence) during her regular winter sojourns.

Dressed as a Florentine bride, with jewelled belt and necklace turned into garlands of flowers, Botticelli’s Flora has a similar dress to that of De Morgan’s, with the draperies folding and flowing in equivalent ways, covered (whether embroidered or printed) with flowers growing complete with their leaves. Both figures also scatter roses. Botticelli associates her with the nymph Chloris, seen emerging from the right edge of the detail. According to Ovid, Chloris was captured and raped by Zephyr, the west wind. To atone for his misdeeds, Ovid tells us, Zephyr transformed Chloris into Flora – hence the flowers coming from Chloris’s mouth as she looks back up at Zephyr whose head is just visible in this detail. This myth explains the origin of spring, as the barren land is made fertile, so it was believed, by the arrival of the west wind. Flora’s dress is also exceedingly like the figure reaching over to clothe the newly born goddess in Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, which is also in the Uffizi.

De Morgan’s Flora has hair more reminiscent of Venus herself, though. The colour may be similar to that of the attendant – reddish to fair – but the long curling locks blowing in the wind are closer to those of the goddess. I’ve cut Venus out from this detail for technical, WordPress related reasons, but you don’t need to take my word for it. We know that Evelyn de Morgan knew Botticelli’s painting: she copied a detail from The Birth of Venus, and her study has survived. Like today’s painting is owned by the De Morgan Collection.

In this small sketch De Morgan conveys the gilding which Botticelli used freely across his paintings with strokes of cream-coloured paint, but elsewhere – including in her painting of Flora – she picks out details in gold – real gold – just like her Florentine inspiration. She became especially interested in the use of this particular material, a metal, and an element in its own right, to the extent that she executed a considerable number of drawings using gold, and gold alone. It is a highly unconventional technique and one that was practiced by very few artists. As far as I know, she was the major exponent. There are a few examples of this remarkable refined technique in the current exhibition, and I will include them in the talk on Monday. I will also be able to discuss the development of her career as a whole, thanks to the superb collection of paintings and drawings currently on display at the Guidlhall Art Gallery.

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Asking again: painted by a madman?

Edvard Munch, The Scream, 1895. Private Collection.

If you think I’m being rude – or insensitive – I should point out that the title of today’s post is simply a quotation, in English, from the words that Edvard Munch himself wrote on the first (or second) version of The Scream. An infrared photo of the offending text is at the very bottom of the post, if you want to check it for yourself… There are several versions of today’s painting – two in paint, two in pastel, and a lithograph which survives in a number of different versions, some coloured, some not. I am reposting this entry today as an introduction to the talk I will be giving on Monday 21 April, Edvard Munch Portraits, introducing the eponymous exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in London. Sadly the exhibition doesn’t include today’s work, even if you could argue (at a stretch) that it is a form of psychological portrait… but that’s not the point of the exhibition. The talk will be the second of three looking at exhibitions currently on show in London. The third will be Evelyn de Morgan: The Modern Painter in Victorian London (which has just opened at the Guidlhall Art Gallery) on 28 April. After this, I am devoting May to German art from the 19th and early 20th centuries, starting with German Romanticism (5 May), and then The Nazarenes (12 May). I will also cover German Impressionism (19 May) and the series will conclude with a talk focussing on the sculptor Ernst Barlach (details still to be defined) – but all that will find its way to the diary before too long.

The Scream is one of those images which needs no introduction, so familiar are we with it, and with all the versions, mainly satirical, that it has spawned. Let’s face it, it’s the only painting I can think of that has inspired an emoji 😱, and the film franchise, Scream, uses the protagonist’s face for the mask worn by the killer. Like the many pastiches of Munch’s masterpiece, this franchise is a ‘comedy’ hommage (French pronunciation) to the slasher genre it apes. I’m sure the irreverent approach is just a means to undermine the darker implications of the painting. It is so familiar, perhaps, that we no longer look at it properly. We think that we know what is there, and we just stop looking: familiarity breeds disregard. So let’s look again. I’m going to focus on Munch’s third version of the subject, the pastel painted in 1895, but will consider the development of the series (briefly) below.

When you look at this image (and try to look at it as if you’ve never seen it before), what is the first thing that you notice? My first response, when I started thinking about this post, was surprise at the brilliance of the colour. The colour is why I’ve chosen this particular version to focus on – the others have faded, or were, in any case, duller. The sky is an intense vermillion, the bold, wavy lines interspersed with buttercup yellow and a couple of bands of pale blue. It takes up just under a third of the height of the painting, with a clear horizontal line in a darker blue marking, as the adjective suggests, the horizon. The lowest band of the sky appears to be made up of undulations of this darker blue – although reference to other versions imply that these ‘undulations’ are based on distant hills, blue as a result of atmospheric perspective. The majority of the land and sea is formed from a mid-toned blue, although small amounts of the reds and yellows creep in, in the same way that there is some blue in the sky. Overall, therefore, we have warm colours in the sky and cold down on earth. This lower section is almost square in shape, cut across diagonally by a straight path, with a fence or railing running alongside it. The path is formed of a series of straight lines, individual strokes of the crayon, and the railing consists of three parallel bars. The lines of the path and the bars of the railing conform to a strict, if exaggerated, perspective, converging at a vanishing point on the horizon at the far left of the image. The depiction of the land and sea is all curves, contrasting with the rigid, linear depiction of the path – we are looking at geometric forms and abstract values, particularly contrasts: warm and cool colours, straight and curved lines, squares and triangles, horizontals and diagonals. These abstract values are given meaning by what is represented. The path is presumably a jetty, and we see the sea with a curving coastline forming a bay, and, judging by the greens interspersed on the right, some vegetation. There is an androgynous figure, just to the right of centre, cut off by the bottom of the image. Its mouth and eyes are wide open and its hands are clasped on either side of its face. Further away on the jetty two more figures – men, as they wear top hats and this is 1895 – are sketched out full length. There is a boat on the sea, and buildings on the land, just visible on the horizon.

Looking closer at the figure at the bottom we can see its alarm more clearly, although the precise nature of the expression of this skull-like face is not easy to define. What is the wraith-like figure actually doing? The body seems almost immaterial: it is wavy, rather than solidly vertical, and is made of strokes more like the sky than the earth, all of which gives it a sense of insecurity. Is this person screaming, or does the open mouth speak of surprise, shock or horror? And do the hands express surprise as well, or are they clasped over the ears to shut out sound? There seems to be an unbearable pressure here, either coming from within, or closing in from the outside. As suggested above, the perspective of the jetty is distorted. It seems to recede too quickly, or, rather than receding, it could be seen as rushing towards us, giving the impression that we are zooming in, focussing on a close-up of the protagonist in a moment of high drama. Even the vegetation pushes in, the curved lines echoing the bend of the inflected wrist, pressing claustrophobically on the fragile figure.

Compared to the heightened drama of the protagonist, the two characters in the background seem relaxed, nonchalant even. One walks away, another stops to lean on the railing. If there is an audible sound – a scream – they do not seem to hear it: they certainly do not appear to be reacting to it. The boat just off the shore is a common feature in Munch’s work, and may imply the possibility of escape – but this is a possibility that is all too distant.

The sky is searing, with rich and brilliant colours, although oddly only the yellows are reflected in the water. The railing along the jetty, and even some of the planks of the path do take on some of the reds, but the intense colour is really the preserve of the sky, and is its defining feature. However, the nonchalance of the two figures could suggest that there is nothing unusual about it. Or maybe it is simply that they do not see it – or, that they do not see it like this. But then, the character in the foreground is not looking at the sky: he (is it ‘he’?) may have turned away.

I think that everything I have said so far is visible in the painting, although I can’t help wondering that so much of what I ‘see’ is coloured (deliberate choice of word) by what I have always known. It seems like ‘always’, anyway. I can’t remember when I first became aware of Edvard Munch, let alone The Scream. However, although there are unanswered questions in the interpretation of the image, we do know what Munch himself thought about the painting, as he wrote about it on more than one occasion. His first account was written a year before he made the first image. In a diary entry dated 22 January 1891, he said,

I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun went down – I felt a gust of melancholy – suddenly the sky turned a bloody red. I stopped, leaned against the railing, tired to death – as the flaming skies hung like blood and sword over the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends went on – I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I felt a vast infinite scream through nature.

This makes considerable sense of the image: it is Munch and two friends. They have moved on, but he remains, ‘trembling with anxiety’. Maybe this explains the wavy forms of the torso, even if he is not now leaning against the railing. The sky is ‘bloody red’ and we get a sense of the ‘blue-black fjord and city’ even if the colour chosen is not quite as dark as that might imply. What is key here is the last phrase, ‘I felt a vast infinite scream through nature’. He is not screaming (it is ‘he’), but there is a scream, a scream that maybe he is trying to block out with his hands. However, this is problematic, as he doesn’t hear the scream, so he can’t silence it – he feels it. What is truly ground-breaking about this image is that it isn’t a picture of something seen, but of something felt. We are at the very beginnings of Expressionism.

The year after Munch had this experience he tried to capture it visually twice, once in pastel – which may have been the first version, it’s not entirely clear – and once in paint, using both oil and tempera, with pastels as well. These two are both in Oslo, and are owned by the Munch Museum and the National Gallery respectively. The reason for thinking that the pastel is the earlier of the two is that, although the basic ideas are sketched out, the details are absent – no boats, and no buildings – features which do appear in what is, presumably, the later version.

There were two more versions in 1895 – the pastel which I have discussed (the only one in which one of the ‘friends’ leans on the railing), and a lithograph. We don’t know how many prints were drawn from the original stone, but about 30 survive, some of which were hand coloured by Munch himself. They were published in Berlin, and bear the title Geshrei, i.e. ‘The Scream’ in German, although the literal translation of this would be ‘Screaming’ or ‘Shouting’, apparently (‘The Scream’ would be Der Shrei in German, or, in Norwegian, Skrik). There is also a phrase at the bottom right, ‘Ich fühlte das grosse Geschrei durch die Natur‘ (‘I felt the great screaming through nature’). Often the image has been trimmed down, effectively cutting it out of the original ‘page’, meaning that the words do not appear – even if they were clearly important to Munch. This particular version, in the Museum of Modern Art in New York, was signed by the artist in 1896.

A final version was painted in tempera in 1910. This, too, is in the Munch Museum in Oslo, and, like the others (with the exception of the lithographs), is on cardboard. The first version in paint (1893) is the one which bears an inscription. It says (in translation): ‘Could only have been painted by a madman!’ It is written in pencil on top of the paint, and recent analysis has confirmed that it is in Munch’s handwriting. It was probably his reaction – presumably ironic – to the public response to the painting when it was first exhibited in Norway in 1895. Typical of this was the comment of critic Henrik Grosch, who wrote that the painting was proof that you could not “consider Munch a serious man with a normal brain.”  The implications of this statement would have been more profound for the artist than Grosch would have realised – probably. I don’t know how aware he was of Munch’s family background. Born in 1863, Edvard was the second of five children. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was five, as did his elder sister when he was fourteen. He was a sickly child, and was often kept out of school, which created an enduring sense of isolation. One of his younger sisters was diagnosed with a mental health disorder at an early age, and by the time The Scream was exhibited, she was cared for in a local institution. For the rest of his life the artist was haunted by the possibility that he had inherited the same condition.

Somehow, through all of this, he seems to have captured the essence of what could be described as one of the defining features of the 20th and 21st Centuries: angst. A quick internet search defines this as ‘a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general’. The painting would have been perfectly at home in Vienna at the time of Sigmund Freud, but it also appears to visualise the Existentialists’ post-war fear of ‘the Void’: if there is no God, what is the point? For that matter, it could be an expression of man’s inhumanity to man, as seen in the holocaust, or even the cold war fear of nuclear annihilation. It speaks of the inner horror of so many of Francis Bacon’s subjects – even if it isn’t one of the usually acknowledged sources – and, oddly perhaps, it seems to demand to be owned. Both paintings have been stolen – the 1893 version in 1994, and the later one ten years later. And in 2012 the 1895 pastel – the one we have looked at – was sold for $119,922,600 to a private buyer. That’s very nearly 120 million dollars, which at the time was the most ever paid for a single painting.

‘Could only have been painted by a madman!’? It was as much the fear of the implications of this phrase – even before he had written it – that must have inspired his initial experience, and the images that flowed from it. This total honesty is what people have found hard to face, and yet, at the same time, it is so totally compelling. What else can have made it an early modernist Mona Lisa, ubiquitous and instantly understood? It undoubtedly touches a nerve, triggering an understanding of the human psyche. And, as we shall see on Monday, it was Munch’s psychological perception that helped to make him such a great portraitist.

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245 – Out of the Corner

Édouard Manet, Corner of a Café-Concert, probably 1878-80. The National Gallery, London.

This week, after the splendour of Siena in the 14th century, it is time to turn our attention to another flourishing city – Paris, in the second half of the 19th century – but we will look at it via Switzerland. Over several decades in the 20th century the Swiss businessman Oskar Reinhart acquired a remarkable collection of paintings and works on paper. These included an admirable selection of the Impressionists and Post Impressionists, some of which I will be talking about this Monday, 7 April at 6pm, as they have been lent – for the first time as a group – to The Courtauld, where they form the nucleus of their enormously successful exhibition, Goya to Impressionism. I want to lead into this by writing about a painting by Manet from the National Gallery, at the other end of the Strand in London. It is not in the exhibition, but it was, for a while, part of a painting that is. Two weeks later, on 21 April, I will look at the National Portrait Gallery’s exhibition of Edvard Munch Portraits – some of his finest work, frankly. And finally, for April, I want to go to one of London’s great, but under-visited, free museums, the Guildhall Art Gallery, to introduce their exhibition Evelyn de Morgan: The Modern Painter in Victorian London. I am planning to devote May to German art – but more news about that as the series develops: keep an eye on the diary!

The Café-Concert of the title would have been just one of at least 150 such establishments in Paris at the time this was painted. They varied in size and in the scale of their entertainment – from a piano in the corner to a full-sized orchestra – but the basic idea was the same: they provided musical entertainment and refreshment. However, up until 1867 they were strictly regulated: the performers were not allowed to wear costumes, being restricted to everyday ‘streetwear’, and no more than 40 songs could be performed in one evening. Even then, the entire programme had to be passed by the police to prevent any seditious material being heard. There was to be no dancing, no dialogue and no sets – the aim being to protect musical theatre. Theatre as a whole had long been under ‘royal’ control, but by 1867 Napoleon III’s popularity was waning, fifteen years into the ‘Second Empire’. The relaxation of the law in 1867 not only led to the flourishing of the Café-Concerts, but also helped just a little to keep the Emperor going – until France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian War just four years later. The Café-Concerts, on the other hand, went from strength to strength, and, as a feature of contemporary society, they became a popular subject for avant-garde artists such as Manet, hailed as ‘the painter of modern life’. In the painting, we see members of the public seated at a table being served drinks. A waitress places one glass of beer on the table while holding two more in her left hand. She looks off to our right, perhaps checking for other customers in need of service, or reminding herself who ordered the drinks she is still holding. In the background we can see a singer, or dancer (or both) on stage, with an orchestra seated in front.

One of the reasons for the popularity of the Café-Concerts was probably because they were – like the ballet – some of the few places where you could see a woman’s legs in public. Indeed, the performer appears to be dressed for the ballet, wearing something like a tutu. She has a remarkable slim waist (and is presumably corseted), and sports a décolletage which is low-cut, even given the word’s definition, and held up by the slimmest of shoulder straps. Leaning forward with her arms flung out she could either be taking or bow, or maybe singing. The setting is non-specific, with just a hint of a pale château with a blue roof seen between trees, in the midst of a Renoir-like array of light turquoise and blue brushstrokes. The gilded curtain can be seen to the far right just inside the proscenium arch, which frames the stage. The orchestra is separated from the performer by a screen topped by a row of glowing footlights and what looks like a low fence.

The orchestra itself is painted remarkably freely. A trombonist sits on the left, his instrument stretching behind his head on a diagonal from bottom left to top right, and, neatly framing the grey hat, a tuba player sits behind him. Both instruments are only just sketched in with creamy yellow and blue dashes, a style of painting that would be more at home in a late Impressionist or a spontaneously Divisionist painting. But then the freedom with which Manet could deploy paint, yet still hold onto the essence of his subject, is demonstrated clearly by the dashes of colour with which the beer is painted, a slight head of foam visible through the glass, the waitress’s black dress seen through the beer, but broken up by the colour of the light which both illuminates the beer and reflects off the glasses. There’s a real sense of how much these drinks would weigh – and therefore of the waitress’s skill in delivering one drink whilst focussing elsewhere. Nearby, the man in the foreground holds a clay pipe, from which curls a puff of smoke. The stem of the pipe rests on his thumb and his forefinger is curled over it, clamping it onto the knuckles of the remaining three bent fingers.

The central ‘drama’ of the image is not whatever is happening on the stage, but the split focus of the two protagonists: the waitress looking to our right, the smoking man to our left. Both appear to be focussed on things beyond the frame: there are aspects of this Café-Concert that we will never know. This fragmentary depiction is one of the truly modern features of the painting: the artist is not showing us everything, but allowing us a glimpse of just one of the things which interests him, a moment of alienated interaction which suggests that these two people have no interest in each other. While we may not know everything that is going on, this impersonal interaction is one of the hallmarks of life in modern society: Manet is showing us not only what people look like, but also how they behave. He is also giving us a small cross-section of Parisian society. The smoker, in the customary workers’ blue – the Bleu de Travail – is wearing a black cap and smoking his pipe. Next to him another man wears a slightly smarter hat, like a taller version of a bowler hat, but in grey and with a broad back ribbon – I think it’s a tall crown bowler (or, for the Americans, a high crown derby). Beyond him, a woman turns away, her hair pulled back behind her ear and piled on top of her head, where it is dressed with yellow ribbons which merge, visually, with the brass of the trombone. Is she with the man in the grey hat? There is no evidence that she is, but could she be her on her own? It would seem unlikely, in the 1870s – unless she is there alone professionally… draw your own conclusions.

The Bleu de Travail is the dominant element in the foreground, baggy so as not to restrict movement at work, hardwearing and cheap. But it’s not evenly blue – a hard line cuts down the worker’s back directly below the two beers, lighter on the right and darker on the left. This is a sure sign that Manet extended the painting, adding a new section of canvas on the right. When originally completed it would presumably have looked more coherent, but as the new section was not prepared in the same way – the surface blue doesn’t have the same layers of paint underneath it – it has faded to reveal the addition. While we’re looking at this detail I’d like you to try and find something else. The beer is not necessarily for this worker – he has a dark brown drink in a tall glass in front of him. To the left of the top of this glass, just above the level of the liquid, is a tiny pink detail, at the bottom of a green drink that looks suspiciously like absinthe. This pink detail casts a shadow on the table beneath it – remember it, because I’ll come back to it later.

According to the art critic Théodore Duret, Manet was particularly impressed by the waitresses in the Brasserie de Reichshoffen, ‘who, while placing with one hand a glass on a table in front of a customer, were able to hold several more in the other, without spilling a drop.’ Manet asked one of these waitresses to pose for him, but she was reluctant, and said she would only agree if her ‘protector’ could be there too – and he would have to be paid as well. He is the worker in the foreground: the ‘alienation’ is a fiction, as they knew each other well. This may have allowed Manet to develop a particularly taut composition. The waitress’s left arm hangs down from her shoulder to her elbow and then up to her hand holding the beers, while the worker’s left arm goes down to the elbow, resting on the table, and up to his hand holding the pipe. The two hands, together with the beers, frame the worker’s head. The waitress’s right arm, clad in black, fills the gap between the worker’s brilliantly illuminated left forearm, and her white cuff meets his blue. Her hand remains hidden behind his arm, even though we can see the beer she has placed on the table. The far left and right of the composition are framed by the heads of the trombonist and a double bass player respectively, and also, on the right, by the proscenium arch. Its visibility on the right, but not the left, implies that the stage spreads far beyond the frame of the painting on the opposite side. Whatever the apparent spontaneity of the image (and remember, Manet never exhibited with the Impressionists – he wasn’t necessarily painting what he saw when he saw it) this is a rather brilliantly planned composition. However, it isn’t called Corner of the Brasserie Reichshoffen – we are in a Café-Concert, not a Brasserie. But then, Manet had changed his mind.

This is actually a screen shot taken from Monday’s talk. On the left is Manet’s Au Café (1878) from the Oskar Reinhart Collection – one of the paintings in the Courtauld’s exhibition. On the right is Corner of a Café-Concert. The painting of the Brasserie Reichshoffen was originally intended to be a reasonably sized composition, but Manet was unhappy with its progress, and cut it in two. Most accounts say he ‘cut it in half’ – but they are nowhere near equal ‘halves’. If you remove the addition from National Gallery’s painting, it is about half the width of its Swiss companion: he effectively cut a third from the original composition. Both were then re-worked into independent paintings, with the setting of the left section remaining securely in the Brasserie, while the other was transformed by the addition of a stage, a performer and an orchestra into a Café-Concert. All of these elements are far more freely painted, showing that the younger generation of Impressionists had a notable impact on their older mentor. I haven’t read a full account of the precise relationship between the two paintings (stuck in my study on the Wirral I don’t have access to the right libraries), but this is the best match I can come up with, the shadows of the drinks on the right matching those on the table on the left. Not only that, but the tiny pink detail at the bottom of the ‘absinthe’ is revealed to be the fingertips of the girl on the left. The Reinhart painting shows a more obviously respectable couple – a man in a top hat with a cane (of a ‘higher class’ than the men opposite him, clearly), with a woman modestly dressed in a beige-coloured coat and hat – who is probably his wife. The girl at the far end could even be their daughter, but she wouldn’t be drinking absinthe. Maybe that belongs to the unaccompanied woman at the end of the table who is turning away from us. [A few days after I wrote this I finally got round to reading Rachel Sloan’s entry about the Reinhart painting in The Courtauld’s catalogue – the re-working of the original painting was more complex than I had realised, and initially the canvas was cut between the man in the top hat and the ‘girl’ at the end of the table – who might originally have been a young man: look at the stiff white collar… That’ll teach me to research things properly!]

The additions to the Corner of the Café-Concert turn it into the very type of establishment mentioned in the title – a place of popular entertainment, which would in its turn evolve into the British Music Hall. By extending the canvas Manet also makes the waitress central, so that she becomes the real subject of the painting, rather than leaving her cornered. It does leave me wondering, though: if he hadn’t done this, how would he have painted her particular skill – delivering one drink while securely holding several more? Surely there would only have been just enough room for one glass of beer, if that. Maybe it was this that led to his dissatisfaction.

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244 – Full of Grace

Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Madonna del Latte, about 1325. Museo Diocesano, Siena.

I will complete my series of talks relating to the National Gallery’s truly glorious exhibition Siena: The Rise of Painting this Monday, 31 March with Ambrogio Lorenzetti. I always thought I knew his work, but there is so much more than I imagined – although his masterpiece, The Allegory of Good and Bad Government in the Palazzo Pubblico, does loom large: we will look at it in depth on Monday. However, today I want to have a look at a painting which is in the exhibition, the Madonna del Latte, bearing in mind that this Tuesday (25 March) was the Feast of the Annunciation. The painting belongs to the Museo Diocesano in Siena, a museum I have never visited. However, I am hoping to get there next year as part of a visit to Siena with Artemisia. We will also go on a daytrip to Massa Marittima to see the painting I posted last week. We’re still very much in the planning stages, but if you are interested at all, contact Charlie Winton via the Artemisia website and she will get in touch when the plans are more secure.

If you’ve missed my talks in this series, I am repeating them in an edited form for ARTscapades, combining my five talks into a two-part short course, Four Sienese Artists. I delivered part one, about Duccio and Pietro Lorenzetti, on Tuesday, but it was recorded and will be available on catch up for a month. Part two, Simone Martini and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, will follow next Tuesday, 1 April – you can book them separately via those links.

After Siena, April will be taken up with talks based on exhibitions in London, introducing shows at The Courtauld, the National Portrait Gallery, and the Guildhall Art Gallery. They are, respectively, Goya to Impressionism (7 April), Edvard Munch Portraits (21 April), and Evelyn de Morgan: The Modern Painter in Victorian London (28 April). I plan to dedicate May to German art – but more news about that soon. Of course, you can always check on the diary! But for now, back to Ambrogio Lorenzetti.

The painting is called the Madonna del Latte – a literal translation would be ‘Madonna of the Milk’ – i.e. the breastfeeding Madonna. It is a subject that was relatively common in medieval and renaissance art, stressing the humanity of the holy mother and child, something which is also clear from the child wriggling in its mother’s firm grasp, and distracted from feeding by something over our left shoulders. At the same time as making the figures entirely human, Lorenzetti assures us of their sanctity through the prominent inclusion of richly tooled haloes. These touch the gabled frame at top left and middle right, ensuring that we focus on the couple and nothing else. The composition is beautifully rigorous, with Mary leaning to our left, so that her elbow (and, almost, Christ’s right toes) are effectively touching the frame, while the hem of her cloak, which hangs down from her left hand, leads down to the bottom right corner. The flat gold background is delicately tooled around its edges, and is surrounded by a red-brown painted frame. The base of the outer, wooden frame of the triangular gable is slightly narrower than the rectangular base on which it rests. It forms an equilateral triangle, triggering thoughts of the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and the realisation that God the Son is now also a man, sprawling in his mother’s arms. Whether or not the triangular form of the gable does refer to the Trinity, its combination with the lower, rectangular shape seems to imply something more about this painting, an idea confirmed by comparison with Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s earliest known work, the Madonna di Vico l’Abate, painted in 1319 and currently in the Museo di Casciano in Val di Pesa, about 19km outside of Florence.

The rigid and sculptural qualities of the earlier Madonna (on the right) echo not only the paintings of Giotto, but also the sculptures of Arnolfo di Cambio, reminding us that Ambrogio, like his elder brother Pietro, spent a considerable time in Florence in his early years. That the later work is more fluid, and lyrical, suggests a return to the ethos of Siena, even if we don’t know the original location of the Madonna del Latte. However, by this stage he had been painting frescoes alongside Pietro in the Chapter House of San Francesco in Siena, which we will look at on Monday. The main point of this comparison, though, is not necessarily to point out Ambrogio’s stylistic development, but to explain the shape of the frame. The earlier work, named after the town for which it was painted, has a similar shape, although the triangular gable is narrower in relation to the rectangular section below. The shape of the painting is defined by the shape of the throne on which Mary is seated. Its arms are depicted in an early form of perspective, with the result that the nearer, splayed ends are cut off by the frame of the painting. Nevertheless, the inlaid panel behind Mary’s legs fits the width of the picture surface perfectly, while the equivalent panel behind her back is further away, and so appears narrower, allowing it space for a flat, fictive frame of its own. This upper inlaid panel is equivalent to the flat gold background of the Madonna del Latte, while the framing element, painted as if made of a pale wood, is replaced by the red-brown frame in today’s painting. When we look at the panel of the Madonna del Latte what we see is actually the throne itself, with Mary and Jesus painted in front of it. By doing this, Ambrogio presents mother and child with an unparalleled immediacy – not unlike the image of Christ in his brother Pietro’s Cut-out Crucifix.

Mary’s apparent proximity is enhanced by the layering of forms: her halo is in front of the painted frame, and her head is in front of the halo, thus pushing her closer to us. I can’t be certain how the red-brown frame was made, and I don’t have access to any technical reports, but if you look in the corners where the halo touches the wooden frame, there are small patches where the colouring seems to have flaked off, revealing gold. I am fairly sure that the painted frame is a rich, reddish, translucent paint applied over tooled gold leaf – but don’t quote me on that! You can see the gold through the paint, which creates a slightly unusual effect, almost like tooled and gilded leather. The asymmetry of the placement of Mary’s head – with the halo covering the painted frame on the left, but clear of the delicate tooling along the edge of the flat gold background on the right – emphasizes the way she is leaning back to get a better look at her son. Her gaze is incredibly subtle, but I can’t help seeing a contained, inner radiance, a subtle look of profound love combined with awe, and the slightest hint of a smile on her pink lips.

Jesus does not return this gaze, but looks out beyond us, his tiny hands firmly clasping Mary’s breast. Admittedly Ambrogio wins no prizes for anatomy here, but there is the possibility that he was trying not to be too explicit – or naturalistic. The Madonna Lactans – the Latin term for the genre of breastfeeding Madonnas – fell out of popularity in the second half of the 16th Century, a victim to the Counter Reformation, which considered it ‘inappropriate’ – in a somewhat 21st century way. The decorated pattern at the end of Mary’s white veil curves around the breast, and the veil hangs down in narrow, wrinkled folds, implying that it is made of the thinnest and most delicate of fabrics. Ripples of the hem frame Mary’s face, and the veil is twisted, rope-like, as it curves across her chest and under her blue cloak, which appears to be turned back near her left shoulder to reveal a green lining.

The same green appears as a belt around Mary’s waist, gathering her dress which is a bright, un-patterned red. Jesus has got himself into one of those awkward positions in which babies excel, wriggling so much that Mary looks in danger of losing her grasp. His left foot is lifted, and rests in the crook of her right elbow, while the right foot hangs down by her side. Ambrogio has tried to emulate the folds of flesh in a chubby baby’s limbs and stomach with curving lines which I suspect were more subtle, and less evident, when the painting was first completed. Their curves clearly show us the three-dimensional forms of his body. I am intrigued by the pink swaddling cloth in which Jesus is wrapped. It is not the usual white, which so often looks forward to the shroud, and I am not aware of an others of this colour (although it could be that I have simply not registered them). It may relate to the red loin cloths with which Jesus was painted in Crucifixions of the late 13th Century (and also, later, by Raphael, in the Mond Crucifixion), a reference to Christ’s royalty – but that might be an interpretive step too far. What is clear is that Ambrogio has thought very carefully about the way it hangs: notice the folds that are pinched up by Mary’s right forefinger, and the sagging of the drapery behind the child’s back, held up by the middle finger.

The same is true for her left hand, where her fourth and fifth fingers pull up curves of drapery, marked by little pools of shadow ringed by highlights above. The flat back of her hand is strongly marked by shadow, and separated from the light on her fingers by the knuckles. The pink cloth curves over the thumb and forefinger, falling down to the left and right, hemmed by the thinnest of black lines. The gold hem of her cloak cuts between the pink cloth and the back of her hand with an almost abstract geometry. This photographic detail was taken from a different file to the others, and dates from before the recent conservation. It still shows signs of woodworm in the panel – the tiny black holes in Jesus’s forehead, for example. But it also shows clearly the delicacy of the tooling of the halo, a splayed cross-shape marked out to remind us that this is indeed Christ, created with a variety of tools. There are smaller and larger rings, dots, and a stippling between the shapes in the one arm of the ‘cross’ that we can see clearly. The leaf-like forms were probably ‘drawn’ into the gold leaf with a stylus after the gold had been burnished. The rings would have been made then too, using a tiny tube tapped onto the gold with a hammer. After this, a thin stylus would have been repeatedly pressed onto the gold to make the stippling which fills the gaps in between.

I took this detail at an angle from below in order to catch the reflection of the light. Up close you can see how egg tempera is applied, with small, unblended brush strokes in different colours. From a distance they combine to create the overall effect. The brush strokes themselves help to define the form of the jaw and chin, modelling the contours, and creating shadows as more dark strokes are introduced. The thicker black lines along the nose and the profile cut the face away from the veil which hangs behind, thus making the head look more sculptural. The veil itself hangs in thin folds in front of Mary’s forehead, and faintly reveals the hair underneath. But the point of the photograph was really to look at the intricacy of the tooling. The halo is defined by the thinnest of circular guidelines, created with a sharp stylus and a pair of compasses. There are eight of these, and going in from the outside, between the third and fourth is a circle of rings containing dots. Between the fifth and a sixth guidelines, letters were incised in the burnished gold and surrounded by stippling. Further in still is another circle of dots, but without the rings. This is hidden at a point in front of Mary’s forehead by the veil, enhancing the sense that all this is real and solid. As for the letters, they can be read more easily where the light is reflecting from the gold, but if you move your head as you look at the painting itself you can read quite easily the words of the angelic salutation:

AVE · MARIA · GRATIA · PLENA · DOMINUS · TECUM · BENE

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee’. The ‘BENE’ is cut off, but is the beginning of the next phrase ‘benedicta tu in mulieribus’ – ‘blessed are you among women’. This is a quotation from Luke 1:28 in the Vulgate, the official Roman Catholic version of the bible. In this context, ‘grace’ refers to acceptance and goodwill, regardless of whether or not it is deserved. Another term would be ‘favour’ – which is why the King James Version renders the phrase as ‘Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women’ – Mary’s name is not included in either translation, but it becomes an essential part of the one of Christianity’s most essential prayers – the ‘Ave Maria’, or ‘Hail Mary’.

Ambrogio’s inclusion of this prayer in Mary’s halo is a first, and the combination of word and image would become one of his areas of expertise. We will certainly see it as vital to the interpretation of the Allegory of Good and Bad Government on Monday. For now, though, the inscription in the halo is a fitting reminder that the good news brought to the Virgin on the Feast of the Annunciation – celebrated on Tuesday – was fulfilled by the birth of Christ. Full of grace, Mary now holds Salvation in her arms.

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Revisiting the Virtues in Colour

Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Maestà, c. 1335. Museo di Arte Sacra, Massa Marittima.

Siena: The Rise of Painting 1300-1350 at the National Gallery is undoubtedly the most beautiful exhibition I have seen for many years, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it this coming Monday, 24 March at 6pm. It charts, as the title suggests, the rise of painting to become ‘top art form’, taking over from the work of goldsmiths and enamellers which had flourished in the 13th century. As my recent talks have outlined, the exhibition ‘stars’ four main artists: Duccio, Simone Martini, and the brothers Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, although the exhibition includes much more besides. I will cover as much as I can this Monday, and then the following week (31 March) I will come back to Ambrogio Lorenzetti. As yet, I haven’t dedicated an individual talk just to him. Details about the subsequent talks, introducing exhibitions at the Courtauld (From Goya to Impressionism) and the National Portrait Gallery (Edvard Munch) will be posted soon in the diary.

To make up for the delay in talking about Ambrogio, I’m going to have a look at one of his paintings today. It is not in the exhibition, but I do hope to go and see it in Massa Marittima with Artemisia next year, as a daytrip during a visit to Siena itself. This is actually an entry I first posted back in 2021, about a year into the blog. As it happens, the fifth anniversary of the first post was yesterday.

Evidence about the two Lorenzetti brothers is scarce, although both were, in all probability, born in Siena (Pietro around 1280, and Ambrogio about a decade later). It is possible – but by no means certain – that they both trained with Duccio. Ambrogio spent some time in Florence, as did Pietro, who also worked in Cortona, Assisi, and Arezzo. It may well have been in Florence that they became familiar with the work of Giotto, whose naturalism and solid humanity influenced both brothers, although neither ever let go of the lyricism inherent in Sienese practice. They worked alongside one another on the façade of the Hospital opposite Siena Cathedral (although sadly these frescoes have not survived), and each painted an altarpiece for the cathedral as part of the elaboration of the themes of Duccio’s Maestà.  As there is no mention of either brother after 1347 it seems likely that both died during the Black Death. Today, I would like to look at the Maestà which Ambrogio painted for one of the churches in Massa Marittima, famous enough to have been mentioned by Vasari, but lost for centuries. It turned up in 1867 in the attic of the Convent of Sant’Agostino, where it had been split into 5 sections, and, although some of the altarpiece has probably been lost, to look at it today you would never know that for a while the panels were used as a bin used to clear ashes from a fireplace.

Maestà means, quite simply, ‘Majesty’, and as the title for a painting it implies the full majesty and splendour of the Madonna and Child enthroned in the Court of Heaven. Ambrogio pulls out all the stops, packing the firmament with more saints than you will ever have seen, and, for that matter, more than you could identify, or even count. They are arranged in three ranks, although precisely how this works physically is by no means clear. It could simply be that all the saints at the bottom are really short, although there could be three platforms on which they stand. However, apart from the six angelic musicians – three on either side – who are clearly kneeling, or the three figures sitting on the steps, it is not at all obvious what is supporting any of these people. But then, they are souls in heaven, so the question is immaterial, in more senses than one. You can see the front row of each of the ‘ranks’ of saints quite clearly, and this disguises the number of people who are present – until you look closer.

You might start to see that the halos overlap like waves, each ‘rank’ of saints being three or four deep. You might also realise that there is, actually, no throne. The steps are the only solid element. The cushion on which Mary is seated is actually supported by a pair of angels, whose inner wings are raised. The stone-grey feathers suggest the back of a throne – but there is nothing there. It is a matter of faith: you know there must be a throne, and so you believe it. At the very top, another pair of angels is preparing to scatter flowers in celebration of the Virgin, who is herself associated with so many different flowers, although the splendour and majesty is subtly undermined by the oh-so-human affection demonstrated by mother and child. They bump noses, slightly cross-eyed, and yet maintain what is, under the circumstances, an almost comical gravity. This is God made Man in a very real sense, and a detail to the left suggests that Jesus has only just been born: as yet, nothing has happened to write about.

John the Evangelist stands in the position of honour at the right hand of the throne (that is, on our left – although on the right of this detail). He is poised to write the opening of his gospel, ‘In the beginning was the Word’ –  but as yet the page is blank, apart from the illuminated initial ‘I’. His quill is held delicately between thumb and forefinger, all of the feathery bits removed as was the practice at the time. The beautiful and elaborate illumination is made up of scrolling leaf-like forms reaching down the left hand side of the left hand page of the otherwise empty spread, looking for all the world like the sort of decorated paper you can still buy in Tuscany today. Standing next to him is St Peter, with the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and then St Paul, sword held informally over his shoulder. Although the halos are gold leaf (would it be possible to count them?) his sword was silver, but it has tarnished to black. Behind and below these three most of the saints cannot be seen, let alone identified, but at the bottom left is St Catherine of Alexandria (see the full painting above for her wheel), and next to her, St Francis, in the brown Franciscan habit.

In the foreground, and forming the foundations and support of the spiritual throne, are three steps, each of which is a different colour, with a figure dressed in the same colour sitting on it. The white, green and red steps are labelled ‘FIDES’, ‘SPES’, and ‘CARITAS’ respectively – Faith, Hope and Charity. The three figures are personifications of the three ‘Theological Virtues’ which I first discussed back in April [2020] (see Day 42 – Some Virtues and Day 45 – Virtues, again…). The relevant biblical text is, of course, the first epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians, chapter 13, which ends with verse 13:

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

Faith sit on the lowest step and holds her left hand to her chest while looking at a painting – or a decorated shield, perhaps? – on which we can see two faces looking left and right, both bearded, the former with a shorter beard. What we can’t see, hovering above the heads, is a dove – the Holy Spirit – but technical analysis must confirm that it was there, as this is identified as an image of the Holy Trinity, the very thing in which Faith believes. She wears a gorgeously fashionable, beautifully painted semi-transparent wimple, held in place with a crown. She also has gold work on her bodice for which the gold leaf was applied, then tooled (circular ‘punches’ of different sizes have been pressed, or tapped, onto the gold leaf to create indentations) and then, in part, painted. A pair of wings spreads out behind her, crossing the top, red step, which is delicately decorated. This is another way of using gold. In this case the leaf was applied to the panel, and the red painted over it. Much of the decoration you can see – including the ‘TAS’ of ‘CARITAS’ – was revealed by scratching away the red paint to reveal the gold underneath, a technique known as sgraffito – which, like modern-day ‘graffiti’, means ‘scratched’ (even if today graffiti is applied with a spray can).

Hope sits on the middle, green step. Unfortunately her robe has discoloured, and looks more brown than green now. Usually we would expect her to look up towards heaven, hands joined in prayer, but here she supports a tower, representing the Church. The image of the Virtues in this painting is derived from a 12th Century French theologian called Peter the Chanter.  Faith forms the foundation of the Church, Hope lifts it towards Heaven, and Charity, which St Paul says is ‘the greatest of these’, sits at the top, expressing the burning passion of the unqualified love of – and for – God.

An ethereal pink, rather than the richer vermillion of the step, Charity has a more spiritual feel than the other two, partly because she is all but monochrome, and partly because she lacks the naturalistic, contemporary dress of her companions. In her right hand she holds an arrow, or dart – more like the pagan Cupid, perhaps – and in her left, a heart, just as Giotto’s Charity does in the Scrovegni chapel (See Day 45) .

Colour symbolism is notoriously unreliable in art, but the common understanding that white, green and red stand for Faith, Hope and Charity is given its fullest and clearest exposition in this painting. It was this symbolism which led the colour combination to be so widely used – by the Medici in Florence, the Gonzaga in Mantua and the Este in Ferrara, for example. Raphael’s portrait of Pope Julius II (in the National Gallery) also uses precisely these colours: so many virtuous people. As for modern Italy – well, the tricolore was inspired by the French tricolore (different pronunciation!) Apparently the Italian press (or equivalent) had mis-reported the French Revolutionary colours as red, white and green (rather than blue), and the Italian nationalists adopted these instead – and stuck with them. Subsequently they have become associated with the Theological Virtues, although that was not the original intention. However it would have been driven home by reference to the Divine Comedy, for centuries the second most widely-read book in Italy. When Dante first encounters the semi-divine Beatrice, to him the paragon of virtue, towards the end of the Purgatory (Canto XXX, 28-33), she wears precisely these colours:

‘within a cloud of flowers which rose from the angels’ hands within and without, a lady appeared to me, girt with olive over a white veil, clothed, under a green mantle, with the colour of living flame’.

I can’t help thinking that, in Ambrogio’s Maestà, Charity looks like a ‘living flame’ – and that the angels at the very top of the painting scatter flowers in much the manner that Dante describes. Between Dante and Peter the Chanter, much of the imagery of this altarpiece can be explained. But how much of this would Lorenzetti have known? In 1347 he appeared before the Council of Siena and impressed them ‘with his words of wisdom’. So he must have been learned, a reputation which lasted long enough for Vasari to mention it in the 16th Century. But someone else must have suggested the elements to be included – and in particular, precisely which saints he should paint – although by no means all of them would ever have been identified. As yet, we do not know who that was. I shall leave you with one more saint, though, as it is one you have probably never seen before – and may never encounter again.

On the far right of the painting is a bishop in black. It is San Cerbone, the patron saint of Massa Marittima, and dedicatee of their cathedral: he is believed to have been the bishop in the middle of the sixth century. Once appointed to the diocese, his flock were soon disappointed because he always said mass at daybreak, which was far too early for most. After a while he was summoned to Rome to explain his behaviour to the Pope, and on the way he tamed a gaggle of wild geese with the sign of the cross. They followed him all the way to Rome, only flying off again when he made the sign of the cross a second time. He may have to do it again, though, as the geese have just rushed into the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. That’s how we know who this is.

This Monday, when I talk about the National Gallery’s glorious Siena exhibition, I will include the few images by Ambrogio Lorenzetti which are included, but will discuss his work as a whole – including his masterwork, the Allegory of Good and Bad Government – the week after. I do hope you can join me for either – or both – of these talks!