Day 93 – A Baptism and a Wedding

Giotto, The Baptism and The Wedding at Cana, c. 1305, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua.

Bother. Oh bother. I hate it when I get things wrong. Last week I said that we would start today with The Baptism of Christ, saying that it was opposite Christ among the Doctors. But it isn’t, it’s next to it.  Here is the opened-up scale model of the chapel which I first showed you for Picture Of The Day 45 – it was made for an exhibition in Australia, apparently.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

There are six paintings in The Story of Joachim and Anna (POTD 66 & 73) at the top of the South wall (on the left of this photo – you can only see the last two scenes of the six), but only five in The Childhood of Jesus (POTD 87) because of the windows. And I tried to include six. Well, that’s what comes of trying to rush… I mean, covering six images in one blog, what was I thinking? I’ll add some dodgy edits to last week’s entry. Anyway, The Childhood of Christ ends with The Massacre of the Innocents, more-or-less opposite which, on the North Wall, is Christ among the Doctors – even as a boy he had started his Mission. So, the first three scenes in the middle tier of the North wall should look like this:

We have Christ Among the Doctors, The Baptism of Christ, and The Wedding at Cana. The first was discussed last week, and the Baptism is fairly straightforward – nothing compared to the Baroque complexities of Juan de Pareja’s version (POTD 89), although it’s more complicated than it might appear at first glance.

Jesus stands in the centre of the image, up to his elbows in the River Jordan, and completely naked. This was not unusual in Medieval painting, although Giotto is not exactly explicit. It was not unusual for Jesus’s genitalia to be visible, because this would emphasize the theological point that he was both God and man. But Giotto doesn’t feel compelled to drive the point home – there is so much humanity in his painting anyway. There is more interest, I would say, in the swirling water, and, just in case we didn’t realise that it is water, there is a fish swimming beside Jesus’s calves. God the Father appears on high with quite surprising foreshortening – yes we’ve seen Uccello do this upside down (POTD 37), but that wasn’t until 140 years after after Giotto was painting. A glow of white light radiates all around – but there are clear signs that paint has been lost. The blue sky, painted a secco, is not in a great condition, and the Holy Spirit has vanished completely – but I can’t imagine that he wasn’t originally there. Last week, and even the week before, we saw how important the ‘landscape’ can be for the narrative, and here is no exception. The rocks on either side, effectively forming a valley through which the Jordan flows, focus our attention down towards Jesus. They also act as a background for the secondary characters, whereas the protagonists – John the Baptist and God, in the persons of the Holy Trinity (even if we can’t see the Spirit) – appear against the sky.

The Baptist wears his traditional camel skin and pink cloak, and reaches over to Jesus from the shore, while angles stand on the other side of the river, holding onto Christ’s blue robe and red cloak. If you remember, Pareja had added a third angel, but here, Giotto has two additional figures standing in the background, one only visible because of a hint of a halo and a slice of his neck. John the Baptist also has two attendants, one of whom is a Saint, the other isn’t. For their identity we must see what happened after the account of the baptising of the multitudes in the Gospel according to John 1: 35-37 & 40:

Again the next day after John stood, and two of his disciples; And looking upon Jesus as he walked, he saith, Behold the Lamb of God! And the two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus… One of the two which heard John speak, and followed him, was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother.

St Andrew is the one with the halo. Giotto depicts him as he is often seen in Italian art, with a long white beard and white hair, wearing green. He is considered to be St Peter’s older brother. In the other Gospels St Peter is considered to be the first disciple, whereas John makes it quite clear that Andrew was the first, which makes the Scots happy. Andrew also makes his way into The Wedding at Cana. 

This isn’t entirely surprising, as the John’s Gospel – the source for Andrew’s presence at the Baptism – is the only one of the four to recount this particular miracle, always seen as Jesus’s first. The young man in between Jesus and St Andrew could be the second of John the Baptist’s followers, who is not named in the quotation above, and who did not end up following Jesus – hence the lack of halo. But then that begs the question as to what he is doing at the wedding. Andrew’s glance seems to suggest that he too is curious. The account of the wedding takes up about a third of a chapter, but I’m going to quote it in full – John 2: 1-10:

1 And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there:

2 And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage.

3 And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.

4 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come.

5 His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.

6 And there were set there six waterpots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece.

7 Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled them up to the brim.

8 And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it.

9 When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom,

10 And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.

It’s intriguing that Mary was there, and is mentioned first, but was not named – and also that Jesus’s disciples were also ‘called to the marriage’ – even though Giotto only shows St Andrew (well, there is limited space, I suppose, in these paintings). It is also interesting how Mary tries to take charge, only for Jesus to be downright rude to her, even if he does end up doing what she wants anyway.

On the left Jesus is giving very clear instruction to one of the servants, whose body language is not good. Crossed arms – and the facial expression – clearly indicate that he (I’m going for ‘he’) is not open to Jesus’s suggestion. But Mary (who clearly has some clout) has said ‘do whatever he saith unto you’ – and so the servant is listening attentively.

John recounts, ‘there were six waterpots of stone’ – and Giotto has painted all six. On the far right, a servant pours water into one of the pots (her – I’m going for her – face is turned away from us, a very delicate profil perdu), while the Governor of the Feast (I think we’d say Master of Ceremonies – or MC) has already drawn some of the wine, in a silver flagon – which has tarnished and now looks black. Mary raises her hand – as if to instruct him, maybe, or to find out how it is going. Her halo is gold – but it is also built up with a technique known as pastiglio. The wall is plastered, and for true fresco, painted while still wet. But you can add more layers of plaster to make a sculptural effect. In this photograph the fresco is lit (artificially) from below, and Mary’s three-dimensional halo casts a shadow on the wall above. From the floor of the Chapel it makes the halo look like solid light. 

The MC is one of my favourite characters in the entire chapel – a man who knows good wine because he has clearly sampled a lot of it – his belly is every bit as round as the waterpots which his form so clearly echoes. I’m also glad that he has brought his son along to help, and, in the fullness of time, I’m sure he would want him to take over the family business. Both have the same snub nose, narrow eyes, square forehead, rounded jawbone and protruding upper lip. The lad hasn’t developed the paunch yet, though.

This is not a great picture, I know, but it gives us a reminder of where we are, looking at the North Wall of the Scrovegni Chapel. At the top tier we see The Birth of the Virgin, The Presentation of the Virgin to the Temple, and The Suitors bringing the Rods (POTD 73 & 31), and then below, Christ Among the Doctors, The Baptism and The Wedding at Cana. Whereas the South Wall has windows, the North Wall does not – leaving space for decorative panels in between the different scenes. Notice how the top tier is decorated in a different way to the lower two, and elements of the decoration keep it quite separate. That is because the top tier involves Mary, and the material is not biblical. The middle and bottom tiers are drawn directly from the bible, though, and concern Jesus himself. Of the decorative strips, those in between the biblical scenes contain important references. Here are the details which occur between the first three scenes in the middle tier.

On the left, we have Circumcision, and on the right, Moses bringing forth Water from the Rock. Both relate to the Jewish scriptures – the Old Testament – and both imply that, as a result of Christianity, the old order has changed. Circumcision is followed immediately by The Baptism – and the implication is that, for men to enter into the Jewish faith they had to be circumcised, seen as an act of ‘making clean’, whereas in Christianity, this ritual has been replaced by Baptism. Circumcision is represented as a symbolic act, rather than using an Old Testament narrative, whereas the small scene showing Moses comes from Numbers 20:11. The Israelites were in the wilderness heading for the Promised Land, but had no water. Moses was instructed by God to strike a rock with his staff, and water sprang forth, thus providing for his people. In the Old Testament, Moses provides water for physical sustenance. In the New, Jesus not only turns that water into wine, but also, later, tells us that the wine is his blood – thus providing spiritual sustenance. And not only that – as the account tells us, he has kept ‘the good wine until now’ – a phrase which theologians interpreted as referring to Jesus himself. The Wedding at Cana is not only Jesus’s first miracle, but it also hints at the events of the Last Supper.

When seen next to each other it should be clear how the interpretation of The Wedding at Cana is enhanced by the image of Circumcision which precedes it: the new order has replaced the old. You will see that there is another decorative panel on the right, and you might be able to see what that is. If not… well, I’ll tell you net week. In the meantime, it’s worthwhile remembering the Jesus was not advocating abstinence. Christian teetotalism is a myth. Cheers!

Day 92 – Vanity vs Prudence

attributed to Ginevra Cantofoli, Vanity, n.d., Private Collection.

Occasionally I like a bit of a challenge, and today’s painting certainly qualifies. It was sold on the art market in 2009 (I think) as an undated work by the 17th Century Bolognese artist Ginevra Cantofoli, about whom there is almost no information available, and is now in a private collection. However, the main authority on women artists in Bologna in the 17th Century, Babette Bohn, is dubious about the attribution. But I’ve never let anything like that get in the way of a good story… So why do I want to look at it? Well, it’s a rather beautiful painting, I think, and deserves some attention, whoever it is by. I’m also interested in any artist I’ve never heard of before. I came across it because I’m also getting interested in mirrors: I’ll be delivering a Zoom talk about Velázquez and his interest in reflections this coming Wednesday evening (contact Art History Abroad if you’re interested!).  

We see a woman in a delicate lavender dress, belted at the waist, with a low cut neckline that has a richly embroidered border. A form of cape, made from the same lavender material, is pinned to her shoulder, and wraps around her waist in copious spiralling folds. A dark blue headdress, decorated with gold, is just visible as it touches her forehead, curving over her hairline, and holding down a plait which circles her head. Her blonde hair falls down the side of her face in waves, with a few strands lying on her pale flesh. This is not the strictly controlled coiffeur of the plait, but seems freer. Her left shoulder is brought forward, as if she were previously looking at the mirror, but she has now turned towards us, creating an interesting twist through the body – the turn of her head counteracts the reach of her left arm.

It is not entirely clear whether she is holding the mirror up, or resting her hand on it – the lower edge seems to rest on a shelf, implying that she could be twisting it towards us, allowing us to see an alternative view of her face, in profile, from a slightly low angle as a result of the position of the mirror. She looks at us, with an almost sphinx-like expression, challenging us, perhaps – or simply inviting us – to make up our own minds about what we see.,

Her left hand reaches across her body, fingers open and palm downwards. Underneath are a few golden elements, two of which look like jewelled pins – my guess would be that they are hair pins she has just taken out, and has dropped onto the table – which would explain why the curls to the left of her head flow more freely. 

Mirrors function in different ways in paintings, and are a good example of the complexities of symbolism. It is not always possible to pin down a single meaning for an individual object: context is everything. We’ve come across mirrors before. One was held by Prudence, one of the four Cardinal Virtues, at the lowest level of the decorations of the Scrovegni Chapel (Picture Of The Day 59). Prudence – the ability to make wise decisions based on experience – is often seen as relying on self knowledge, and hence the need for self reflection. Here is another example, in a painting by Elisabetta Sirani.

Elisabetta Sirani, Caritas, Fortitudo, Prudentia, Private Collection, Modena.

Not only do we have two women artists today, but in this painting we have three Virtues – it being an Allegory of Charity, Justice and Prudence. Giotto’s Justice was also discussed in POTD 59, whereas his Charity, one of the three Theological Virtues, appeared in POTD 45.  In all three cases Sirani’s choices for the Virtues are more traditional than Giotto’s, but that is undoubtedly because there had been more time for ‘tradition’ to develop. Charity, or ‘Love’, is shown with three children, one clambering over her shoulder, one breast-feeding, and another reaching up to play with the baby. I have often thought that ‘Charity’ in these cases should be re-named ‘Long Suffering’ – but it is undoubtedly Love! The central Virtue of the painting (in more ways than one) is Justice, holding her sword aloft in her right hand, with the scales of Justice put to one side in the other. She looks out to her left, into the middle distance, as if contemplating a judgement, whereas the other two both look towards her – as if to say, be charitable in your judgements, and make the right choice. Prudence points to her mirror with her right hand, and rests her left, which is holding the mirror firmly, on a sizeable tome – presumably containing all the knowledge needed to make a wise and cautious decision.

As I said when discussing Elisabetta Sirani (POTD 62 ), the study of her work is enormously enhanced by the log book that she herself kept, which lists around 200 different works (by comparison Artemisia Gentileschi, a far more famous 17th Century artist, was not as productive: about 120 works are known). In it, she lets us know that this Allegory was commissioned by Cardinal Leopoldo de’ Medici, one of her most important patrons. Apparently he was so happy with it that he gave her a cross, studded with 56 diamonds, as a reward. These three virtues were chosen as being those especially exemplified by the Medici family, who in the 17th Century were the Grand Dukes of Tuscany (you will notice that Modesty was not one of the Virtues that they claimed). Sirani signed the painting – rather presumptuously perhaps – on the hem of Justice’s bodice.

As well as being a very productive artist, and keeping good records of her works, Sirani was also important as a teacher. According to contemporaries, her most gifted student was Ginevra Cantofoli.  A couple of decades older than Sirani, her family had no previous connection to painting (unlike Sirani herself, who had learnt from her father). One of our main sources of information about her is Carlo Cesare Malvasia, the 17th Century version of Vasari in Bologna, who published his Lives of the Bolognese Painters in 1678. He heaps special praise on the women: not only does Bologna have great artists, he says, but has more talented female painters than anywhere else. He lists a number of paintings by Cantofoli, some of which are still in the churches for which they were painted. However, he does not always heap praise on her in particular. She may have been the best of Sirani’s pupils, but Malvasia describes at least one of her paintings as cattiva – i.e. ‘bad’ – and suggests that Sirani would often design and then correct Cantofoli’s work, citing at least three examples that he knew of.  If the Vanity is by Cantofoli, it would rank among her best works, and Babette Bohn is not convinced it is by the same hand as the verifiable paintings. 

It might be worthwhile comparing it to a self portrait in the Brera, the main art gallery in Milan. This is Cantofili painting a copy of what, in Bologna, was an especially famous painting, the Madonna di San Luca – a 12th Century work which, for a very long time was believed to have been painted by none other than St Luke himself (who, as you may have noticed, was not alive during the 12th Century). The composition of the two paintings is not entirely dissimilar – with the main character’s head tilted in one direction, balanced by another face on the other side of the picture, which, in both cases, is an image – one a reflection, the other a painting. Each also has an arm crossing the foreground. The faces are not entirely dissimilar either, sharing a sweet simplicity, a quality also apparent in the lack of articulation of the hands in the foreground of each. However – and this is tricky as the Brera painting is clearly in need of a clean, and a better photograph – the self portrait does not come across as being equally elegant, or for that matter refined. The subtle shifts in tone and colour in the Vanity are unmatched in the relatively drab draperies of the Self Portrait. I’m really not an expert, though – but as Bohn is not convinced, I would also hesitate to accept the attribution. 

Whoever painted it, though, it is a rather glorious image – but why is it Vanity rather than Prudence? Both have a mirror, after all. There are two things, at least, which sway the balance. First, there is nothing to say that this woman is about to make a decision based on knowledge or experience – no book, as in Sirani’s version, no desk, as in Giotto’s. And secondly, she is beautifully attired, with fine clothes and jewellery, some of which she appears to be discarding, as if she has realised that her focus on physical appearance and finery is ‘vanity’. In this respect, we are more likely to understand the concept in terms of Vanitas rather than ‘vanity’. As a modern concept, ‘vanity’ is about excessive pride and interest in one’s own appearance. In its origins, though, this was seen as ‘vain’ because it wouldn’t last. This is the way we use the word in the phrase ‘all that attention to your looks will be in vain’ – because we can’t always stay as we were when we were young (no, not you, of course, I know you are eternally youthful). As such ‘vanity’ refers to the vanities of worldly existence, all of which will pass away (in Christian terms). We should be relying on eternal values, rather than fleeting, superficial ones.

This then creates a problem, especially for a female artist. ‘Vanity’, in Italian, is a feminine noun – La Vanità – and so the personification is specifically a woman with a mirror. If any woman were to want to paint herself, she would have to look into a mirror to do so – and so the act of self-portraiture, for women, implies that they are embodying Vanity. Not only that, though: women were supposed to be meek, modest, and mild, keeping themselves to themselves and always averting their eyes. The female gaze had always been seen as a threat to men – but for an artist it was essential. This attitude was just one of the things that held women back: if they weren’t allowed to look at things, how could they possibly paint them? And even though Justice and Prudence are also represented by women – La Giustizia and La Prudenza – both of these qualities, in society, were part of a man’s realm. 

However, if you were really clever, as a woman, you could represent yourself as La Pittura – Painting – which Artemisia, of course, did (POTD 69). She uses a mirror in order to see herself – so for self-knowledge, and not for vanity. After all, art is seen as a mirror onto the world around us… which is what I will be thinking about this coming Wednesday. It is a symbolism used both by Jan van Eyck in his Arnolfini Portrait, and also by Velázquez in Las Meninas. As it happens, the latter was probably influenced by the former, as the Arnolfini Portrait was part of the Spanish Royal Collection in the 17th Century. But more of that on Wednesday (although no more about the Arnolfini – I’ve said enough about them already!)

Of course, the mirror does something else in the painting by Cantofili (?). As well as identifying the woman as ‘Vanity’, it also allows the artist to show us one woman from two points of view: full face, and in profile. This is a ploy sometimes used for portraits, allowing us to see more of the sitter. This painting could even be a self-portrait. It also confronts the nature of painting, a framed image of the world, just like the reflection in the mirror. We can see that it is a mirror, because the image is so much like the woman herself. But that, in itself, lends credence to the full-faced image, which is, in a different sense, a ‘mirror’ onto nature, a true reflection of someone’s appearance. I don’t know what the frame of this painting looks like, which is a pity. I would love it to be framed in the same style as the painted mirror, though.

Day 91 – Another Flight

Workshop of Goossen van der Weyden, The Flight into Egypt, about 1516, National Gallery, London.

I am so sorry about yesterday. I was expecting it to happen at some point, but I didn’t know when. Basically other things just got in the way, and I was in no position to write – especially as I was doing the Cummings Commute, from work in London to lockdown in Durham. I’m sure this will happen again, but I’m going to carry on (as if yesterday didn’t happen), until I get to Picture Of The Day 100. After that, I will keep going as and when I can. I will probably write a few times a week, but we’ll see! Meanwhile, let’s get back to the art, and a third Flight into Egypt, following on from Picture Of The Day 85 and 87. During the former I said that the source for these images was biblical – Matthew 2:13-14 – but that there could also be additional outside sources. This painting from the National Gallery is a good example, as it includes two stories that were not in Juan de Pareja’s version – although there is no guardian angel, included by both Pareja and Giotto.

Workshop of Goossen van der Weyden, The Flight into Egypt, about 1516 Oil on oak, 80.2 × 69.7 cm https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG1084

The focus of the painting is the Virgin Mary, feeding the Christ Child and sitting on a gloriously hirsute donkey. They are passing in front of a dark wood, travelling along a path which leads along a shallow diagonal to the bottom left-hand corner of the painting. Mary’s dark blue clothes stand out clearly from the grey of the donkey, and, together with the dark green of the trees, the blue helps to focus our attention on her face, which is pale and flawless, and on her breast. Mary has already played her part in our salvation by bearing Jesus, but continues to do so by nourishing him. His tiny head – the same size as the breast – and the white cloth in which he is wrapped (perhaps a precursor of the shroud) makes his image shine out from the darkness.

The donkey is placid and dutiful, it needs no leading. Although Joseph is a few steps ahead, and holds a rope tied around the donkey’s head as a halter, there is no tension – he is guiding, but not compelling. He holds the rope in his left hand, which is held behind his back – this means that we can see his hand, and can tell that he is in control. The loop of the rope also echoes the folds of his red robe, and the shape of the gourd, which has been hollowed out as a water flask – one of his most common attributes, or symbols. Others include a flowering rod, or staff, a reference to the story of the betrothal of the Virgin, but that is not included here (for the story, see POTD 31). In this painting he is a walking stick, another of his attributes, as is the bag slung over it. They have come to a sharp bend in the path, and Joseph is already round the corner. In between his feet and the donkey’s is a small water trough, with water flowing out to form a stream crossing the path. This is undoubtedly a reference to Jesus as the water of life, and to the idea of Baptism – the washing away of sin. The turn in the path is a clever compositional device – not only does it make the painting more interesting to look at, it also enhances the sense of movement and directs our attention to the two scenes which play out in the background. 

Soldiers emerge from one of the gates of the city – Jerusalem – heading towards a small village – Bethlehem. One group is crossing the bridge which leads out of the city, while another has already made some headway. The latter group, closest to Joseph’s nose (on the picture surface, at least), has a leader on a white horse, others hold spears, and a few have flaming torches. At the point where the buildings emerge from behind the trees, flames are visible: they have set fire to the village.  On the green a woman stands with her arms in the air, a soldier attacks another woman to the left, while on the right a third woman runs away from another soldier. This is the massacre of the Innocents: Herod’s soldiers have come to find Jesus and to kill him, and so as not to be outwitted, they kill all the children under the age of 2 (Matthew 2:16). Pareja included this story in the background of his painting, although it was far too small to be seen with any clarity, whereas Giotto dedicated an entire painting to it. 

Closer to us is a ripe field of grain, unusual for January, you might think, particularly as we would appear to be in Northern Europe rather than the Holy Land. The crops are being harvested by a man with a scythe, who is addressed in a somewhat operatic fashion by a soldier, fully clad in 16th Century armour, who gestures towards the right of the picture. This story, which grew up during the middle ages, and is included in the background of more than one National Gallery painting, is written down in a text called La Vie de Nostre Benoit Sauveur Ihesuscrist – ‘The Life of Our Blessed Saviour Jesus Christ’ – which was written some time around 1400. One of the episodes it relates tells how, when the Holy Family were fleeing Bethlehem, they passed a man sowing his crops. Jesus (who was, remember, less than a month old) took a handful of the seeds and scattered them, whereupon they grew to head height. When one of Herod’s soldiers asked the farmer if he had seen a family passing by, he replied, ‘yes, when I was sowing seed’ – but as the crop was already fully grown, and ripe, the soldier calculated that it must have been some long time before, so it couldn’t have been the Holy Family. 

On the far right of the painting, in a dead tree, is a monkey (in the dark at he top right of this detail). There are several references here! One is the old idea that ‘art is the ape of nature’ – although in this context the monkey is unlikely to be a comment about the nature of picture making. It is more likely to represent man at his most animalistic, his most uncivilised: a monkey is like a man but without the manners, and so could be a symbol of the sinners that Jesus has come to save, washing them clean with the water of life. And the dead tree? Quite possibly a reference to Ezekiel 17:24: 

And all the trees of the field shall know that I the Lord… have made the dry tree to flourish…

This can be interpreted in more than one way – either as a symbol of Mary’s virginity (Mary is the ‘dry tree’ which ‘flourishes’ with Christ’s birth), or as a prophesy of the Crucifixion (the Cross is sometimes described as a tree, and Jesus as the fruit of the tree) – or, for that matter, both. Both is almost always possible when interpreting symbols! However, the main reason why I chose to talk about this painting this week, given that we have already seen two flights into Egypt, is the detail to the left of the dead tree.

A column rises from a hollow cubic base, and at the top stand two legs and a pair of buttocks. Tumbling down is a torso with an arm, and on the ground are a head, a hand, and a commander’s baton, a symbol of worldly authority. This illustrates another anecdote from La Vie de Nostre Benoit Sauveur Ihesuscrist, which tells us that, as Jesus entered into Egypt, the pagan idols all crumbled, and fell to the ground: the triumph of Christianity is acknowledged by the end of pagan statuary. At some point in history a statue was erected to someone who, given his staff of office, was some sort of figure of authority, but to God this was an idol, it represented someone unworthy of respect, and he has toppled it. Statues have always been toppled. It is part of the history of mankind.

Day 90 – Sofonisba, too

Sofonisba Anguissola, Self Portrait, 1556, Łańcut Castle, Poland.

I promised you more about Sofonisba Anguissola, and so today I bring you several of her paintings – I am only focussing on this particular self portrait because it makes the perfect companion to both the double portrait of Bernardino Campi painting her, which she painted (Picture Of The Day 77), and the self portrait by Caterina van Hemessen (POTD 28). The latter was the first self portrait that is known of an artist at their easel, and, as far as I know, this is the second.

I am fairly sure that Hemessen’s self portrait shows her painting her own self portrait, whereas Anguissola is painting a Madonna and Child. Apart from that difference, and the position of the palettes, the works are rather similar. We see the artist seated on the right side of the image, looking towards us, paintbrush in their right hand, and mahl stick in their left.  Sofonisba holds hers with a refined elegance, resting it on the unpainted edge of her canvas, and using it to support her right wrist, poised to continue painting the Christ child’s left arm – which, to my mind, looks finished anyway. We again have to ask, as we did with her before, who is she looking at and why? She can’t be looking at Mary and Jesus, for obvious reasons, and it is unlikely she would be looking at a model (this painting is more likely to have been based on drawings). It seems likely that she is just looking to us, so that we can acknowledge her skill. Her choice of a religious image is interesting, as all of her surviving works are portraits. But here she is showing us that she is available to fulfil religious commissions as well, painting in a subdued, mannerist style. The long right arm of Jesus, curving round his right flank, and the strong twist of his head is reminiscent of paintings by Bronzino, who was at the height of his powers when Sofonisba was painting this self portrait. Setting the holy characters in front of the base of a classical column also shows that she was au fait with the work of her contemporaries. 

Unlike the other female artists we have seen, Sofonisba was not the daughter of a painter. Her father, Amilcare, was a nobleman from Cremona, although not an especially wealthy one. He seems to have been strongly influenced by Baldassare Castiglione’s Book of the Courtier, which, as well as discussing the character of the ideal courtier (male), implies that women should also receive an all-round education. Amilcare made sure that this is precisely what his six daughters got. 

Sofonisba was the eldest of seven children, and in 1546, when she was 14, both she and Elena, the second daughter, were effectively apprenticed to Bernardino Campi (who we saw in the double portrait, POTD 77), living with him for three years, and only leaving because he moved to Milan. Elena gave up painting when she became a nun, but Sofonisba continued to study with Bernardino Gatti, a student of Correggio, and became sufficiently adept that she ended up teaching three more of her sisters – Lucia, Europa and Anna Maria. Lucia died around the age of 30, but some of her paintings survive, while the other two gave up on marrying.

In 1554 Sofonisba headed down to Rome, where the story goes that she was introduced to Michelangelo. She is supposed to have shown the elderly master a drawing of a girl laughing, which he admired, but then challenged her to draw someone crying, which is supposedly more difficult.

Sofonisba Anguissola, Asdrubale bitten by a Crayfish, c. 1554, Capodimonte, Naples.

The drawing shows her one brother, Asdrubale, being bitten by a crayfish. Michelangelo apparently recognised her talent, and offered her more advice, even informal tuition. However, I really need to look into this incident – Michelangelo was a notorious old grump, and the idea that he would be interested in the work of a young woman seems inherently unlikely. However, if it turns out to be true, then how much more remarkable a man he was! Whatever the origins of this fragile drawing, though, it is significant that it shows members of Sofonisba’s own family. Her most famous works show that however good her education, and whatever her talent, as a woman she was, as often as not, restricted to the domestic sphere. In her self portrait of 1556 she may have shown herself painting a Madonna and Child, and a rather fine painting it would be if she actually executed it, but most of her paintings are portraits, and a substantial number are of her own family, or herself.

Sofonisba Anguissola, The Game of Chess, 1555, National Museum, Poznan.

Here are three of her sisters, for example, in a charming group portrait which is signed and dated 1555 – an inscription runs around the edge of the chess board:

Sofonisba Anguissola virgin daughter of Amilcare painted these three sisters and a maid from life 

Clearly the education was paying off! I still can’t get my head around chess (but then, it might help if I actually wanted to…) From from left to right we see Lucia, Europa and Minerva, the 3rd, 5th and 4th daughters respectively. Minerva appears again, and very well dressed, in another family portrait, painted about 3 years later.

Sofonisba Anguissola, Portrait of the Artist’s Family, 1558-9, The Nivaagaard Collection, Copenhagen.

This is the only surviving portrait of Sofonisba’s father Amilcare. As befits the head of the family he is seated between his son and daughter. He looks out towards us, acknowledging Asdrubale with a protective gesture, his left hand on his back.  Asdrubale himself is standing by his father’s side and ready to take over the responsibilities of the family – however young he might be. He looks up to Dad (in more ways than one, I suspect) holding his father’s right hand, which rest on his lap, with his own, thus communicating the continuation of the dynasty. He is a little gentleman, and as such has the right to bear arms – the hilt of his sword projects from under his left wrist. 

Despite the family setting, Sofonisba’s reputation grew, and grew quite remarkably. In 1559 she was invited to Madrid by Philip II, to act as an attendant to the Infanta, and lady-in-waiting to Philip’s third wife, Elizabeth de Valois, whom she also taught to paint. She adapted her style to the more formal requirements of the Court, although tragically much of the work she carried out in Spain was destroyed by the devastating fire of 1734 which led to the complete rebuilding of the Alcázar – now the Palacio Real. In 1579 Sofonisba returned to Italy, and would have settled back in Cremona had she not met the captain of the ship – a Genoese nobleman – and married him (as it happens she was already widowed, Philip II having provided the dowry for her first marriage to a Sicilian nobleman). In 1624 she was visited by the young Anthony van Dyck, who found her mind to be very sharp – she was 92 at the time. He sketched her in his notebook, and wrote down her advice. He had arrived just in time, as she died the following year.

Sofonisba Anguissola, Self Portrait, 1610, Gottfried Keller-Stiftung, Winterthur, Switzerland.

Fourteen years before van Dyck’s visit, at the age of 78, she painted this remarkable self portrait. She was clearly one of those artists whose work just kept getting better. Vasari, whose second edition of ‘The Lives’ was published while she was in Spain, was clearly impressed:

Sofonisba worked with deeper study and greater grace than any woman of our times at problems of design, for not only has she learned to draw, paint, and copy from nature, and reproduce most skillfully works by other artists, but she has on her own painted some most rare and beautiful paintings.

Day 89 – The Baptism

Juan de Pareja, The Baptism of Christ, 1660s, The Prado, Madrid.

Yesterday we saw Velázquez’ beautiful portrait of Juan de Pareja, and last Thursday, Pareja’s own Flight into Egypt (Picture Of The Day 85 & 88). Today, I want to look at his Baptism of Christ. As only ten of Pareja’s works have so far been identified, talking about two of them might seem excessive, but, as I said, I want to look at it… I find him fascinating. I’m also beginning to think, with admittedly no time or resources for much research, that his three decades working as an assistant came to fruition in the last decade of his life, when he was finally free to paint for himself, and his style must have developed very quickly. The Flight into Egypt was lovely, I thought, entirely charming, but there was something awkward, maybe even a little staid about it. In the Baptism of Christ he really lets rip, and whereas the earlier work (it is dated 1658) is more like a Venetian painting from the first half of the 16th Century (apart from the Spanish fashion, that is), this is a truly Spanish 17th Century painting. 

We are fully into the baroque, with movement, drama, contrasts of light and shade, strong diagonals both across the picture surface and into depth, and just a few more details than you really need. It’s glorious! The main element of the narrative is treated as the Epiphany it really was, with a flash of light singing out from the darkness on either side. Back in the day the Feast of the Baptism of Christ was celebrated on the same day as the Feast of the Epiphany (6 January), until the church separated them to allow for more celebrations. In one, the Wise Men recognise the boy born to be King, and kneel down before him, and in the other we have the acknowledgement that Jesus is the Son of God. The Central axis, shifted onto a diagonal, shows all three members of the Holy Trinity, God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in white. While the Father is in white from head to foot, with a long white beard, the Holy Spirit, as a dove, sports pure white feathers. Although Jesus only wears a white loin cloth, his skin is pale – reflecting his high status. He is certainly far paler than the very swarthy John the Baptist, who has, after all, spent some time in the wilderness by now. The areas of the painting on either side are far darker, but there is a transition into the shadows, with the angel in white on the left, and a lamb, whose head is white, with the body getting gradually darker, to the right.

The Baptism of Christ is described, with variations, in the three synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark and Luke, but I’m just going to quote from Matthew to make things simpler. This is Matthew 3:1-4, in which John is seen as fulfilling the prophecy of Isaiah (the King James Version calles him Esaias), as the ‘voice crying in the wilderness’: 

In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judaea, And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. And the same John had his raiment of camel’s hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey.

The scene of John ‘preaching in the wilderness of Judaea’ is depicted in the top left-hand corner of the painting, way into the background. Many people have gathered, and some have even climbed up into the trees to get a better view. John stands with his back to one of the trees, our attention drawn towards him by the light that shines on him from our left. He is near to the patch of blue sky, and one of the two men with bright white turbans points towards him. He is shown wearing the ‘raiment of camel’s hair’ which was his habitual garb. Many artists were not entirely sure what ‘camel’s hair’ would look like, but he is usually dressed roughly in some form of animal skin, with more of his arms and legs showing than would be appropriate for civilised society – and certainly for the churches in which the paintings were displayed. However, just in case ‘camel’s hair’ looked too low-status he is often given a royal-red cloak, as he is in the main image here. I have deliberately stretched this detail further out to the right than necessary, because I love the way that one of the angel’s wings runs parallel to one of the trees – the composition of the painting runs across both diagonals, as we shall see.

Matthew 3:5-6 continues the story:

Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judaea, and all the region round about Jordan, And were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins.

Pareja includes this too, in the bottom right-hand corner. One person kneels as he is baptised, while others, scantly clad, await their turn sitting on the rock just below, or standing to the right. There are also some women, lining up with children, next to a waterfall coming down the adjacent hill. In this detail you can see the reed cross that the Baptist often carries – it is often made out of bamboo – and here there is a scroll wrapped round it saying ‘Ecce Agnus Dei’ – ‘Behold the Lamb of God’. This is actually a quotation from the Gospel of St John 1:29:

The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.

In the main image Pareja has combined this with the Baptism itself, just to drive the point home. Jesus is there, and there is a lamb off to the right, and there is the scroll saying ‘Behold the Lamb of God’ – we are not left in any doubt as to what is going on. Why a lamb? Well, I’m sure I mentioned this around Easter (POTD 21 & 22), but Easter falls at the same time as Passover, and it was the Passover meal – during which a sacrificial lamb is eaten – which was being celebrated at the Last Supper. From a Christian viewpoint, Jesus becomes the sacrificial Passover lamb.

All three of the synoptic gospels then have some version of the following – although I am going to quote from Matthew again, in this case 3:16-17:

And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him: And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

There are many things about the Baptism of Christ that make it important. It is one of the sacraments in which Jesus himself participated, which is why it is one of the two sacraments followed by both Protestant and Roman Catholic churches alike (the Catholics have five more). But also, embodied within one or two verses is the doctrine of the Holy Trinity – the ‘Spirit of God’ is mentioned, as is a voice saying ‘This is my beloved Son’, which implies that the words are spoken by the Father. Not only that, but it says, quite specifically, ‘the Spirit… descending like a dove’, which explains why, in 99% of images of the Holy Spirit, it is shown as a dove. 

There is no mention of any accompanying angels in any of the biblical narratives of the Baptism, and yet they had become part of the iconography of its representation. This was how you showed it. Necessary to paintings of the Baptism were Jesus, John the Baptist and the River Jordan, although the Holy Spirit is almost always there, and God the Father is implied, even if he is not visible. But some members of the angelic host are usually present as well, and very often they assist by holding Jesus’s clothes, his red robe and his blue cloak, as they do here. Pareja has added a third angel, who has no specific wardrobe-related role, but he may be alluding to the Holy Trinity by deliberately including three angels. If he was really clever (or if his patron was), he could have been alluding to the three angels who visited Abraham back in the Old Testament. Early Christian theologians interpreted Abraham’s three guests as representing the Holy Trinity, and the Orthodox Church, which had an interdiction against representing God directly, chose to show the New Testament Holy Trinity by reference to this story (I must show you the most famous example of that some time). As it is, Pareja had dressed them with great refinement. On the right, the angel holding Christ’s blue cloak has a paler blue collar on his off-white/pale primrose robe. This delicately coloured garment is cut down the leg, with a gold-embroidered hem, and reveals a delicate coral pink lining, which echoes both Jesus’s pink cloak held by a second angel, and the fluttering red sash the latter wears as a belt. Like the Guardian Angel in Pareja’s Flight into Egypt (POTD 85), the second angel has pseudo-Roman peep-toe boots. The third angel is behind a tree, so we can’t see his clothes too well, but he does have rather fine sandals. 

The angels complete a diagonal of sanctity, which starts with God the Father, passes through the Holy Spirit and Jesus, and broadens out to the right-hand angel. Along the other diagonal we have John the Baptist – he is preaching in the top left, baptising Jesus in the centre, and dealing with the multitudes at the bottom right. It is a masterful construction, remarkable for its ability to include a wealth of both narrative detail and theological significance. It also seems a remarkable leap from the relatively straightforward depiction of the Flight into Egypt we saw last week. It’s not entirely clear when it was painted: you can see Pareja’s signature on the rock at the bottom left of the detail with the angels, and a date which could read 1667, and yet the Prado is unspecific, saying just ’17th Century’. I’ve also seen 1661 suggested, which could be another reading of this inscription. As Pareja died in 1670 it must certainly have been before then – which is why I have suggested ‘1660s’. He was certainly an artist who knew what he was doing – if only there were more paintings by him – or that he had had more time to practice his craft freely.

Day 88 – Juan de Pareja

Diego Velázquez, Juan de Pareja, 1650, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

I used this portrait as an illustration last week when I talked about Juan de Pareja’s own painting of The Flight into Egypt (Picture Of The Day 85), but I wanted to look at in its own right, because it is rather wonderful – and also because it gives a good opportunity to talk about both artist and sitter.

It was painted in 1650 in Rome, when Velázquez was visiting Italy for the second time. He was there at the behest of King Philip IV of Spain, and he had been sent to acquire paintings and sculptures for the Alcázar in Madrid. He was accompanied by Juan de Pareja, who had been in his service since the early 1630s. They sailed from Málaga to Genoa, and then travelled through Milan to Venice. There he bought paintings by Titian, Tintoretto and Veronese – all of which seem to have influenced Pareja’s own work, although they were, in any case, already in plentiful supply back in Spain. From there they headed to the Este Court in Modena, and thence to Rome. While there he was commissioned to paint Giovanni Battista Pamphili, better known as Pope Innocent X. ‘In order to get his hand in’ (as Jennifer Montagu phrased it in an article in the Burlington Magazine of November 1983) he practiced by painting ‘a head’ of his assistant. This was the term used by Antonio Palomino, who wrote one of the first biographies of Velázquez, published in 1724. From our point of view this masterful painting is far more than just a head – it is a fully finished portrait – but that was the term they used. Indeed, Palomino went on to say that it was included in an exhibition held in the portico of the Pantheon on 19 March 1650, and that, “it was generally applauded by all the painters from different countries, who said that the other pictures in the show were art but this one alone was ‘truth’.” 

The comment speaks for itself in many ways, although it does include much ‘art’. It is a herald of Velázquez’ late style, which contemporary Spaniards called the maniera abreviada , the ‘abbreviated style’. When you look closely, there is the most remarkable freedom in the handling of the paint, however detailed it may appear from a distance.

All of the details are there, we know how every item of clothing fits, where and how it is attached – and yet it is nothing but a mass of paint. Velázquez’ style had been developing a greater freedom ever since his earliest days of minutely detailed precision (POTD 20), but added to that we might be seeing a way of making a virtue out of necessity. You don’t always get long with a Pope, and Velázquez needed to be sure that he would be able to paint him quickly, and from life, rather than relying on a pre-existing model (a very common practice for ‘state’ portraits) – hence the need to practice on Pareja. However, the challenges were very different, but even here he might have been rehearsing. 

  • Diego Velázquez, Pope Innocent X, 1650, Galleria Doria Pamphili, Rome.
  • Diego Velázquez, Juan de Pareja, 1650, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Apparently the Pope had quite a high, reddish, complexion – but was also to be shown wearing his scarlet biretta and mozzetta – the hat and cape – while seated on a red throne against a red curtain.  Although completely different in appearance, Pareja was also portrayed with a limited palette, but this time of mid- to dark-browns. It is a far subtler portrait, as a result, and I think a far more beautiful one, however brilliant Innocent X may appear – although of course I’m more than happy for you to disagree!

The gentle highlights on the forehead, nose and cheeks give us a real sense of form, while a softness around the mouth and eyes – and especially the double catch-lights that make the eyes seem so moist – create a sense of inner sadness, which may be projection on my part. Pareja may have been very happy at this point. 

He was born in Antequera, not so far from Málaga, in 1606, just three years before the Moors were expelled. His mother, Zulema, was mixed race, and in part of African descent, while his father (after whom Juan was named) was a white Spaniard. Pareja came to Madrid in the early 1630s, probably entering Velázquez’ service soon after the latter returned from his first visit to Italy in January 1631.

In Velázquez’ service he must have learnt how to paint, although Palomino says that the master wouldn’t allow him to do so because of his status, adding that in the Classical world only free men were allowed access to such sophisticated practices. However, he goes on to say that Pareja did paint in secret, and arranged for one of his own paintings to be in the master’s studio one day when King Philip IV visited. The King was so impressed that his insisted he should be freed, and allowed to practice in his own right. Sadly, this charming story is manifestly not true. A document in the archives in Rome, dated 23 November 1650 – published by Jennifer Montague in the article cited above – is a notarial act granting Pareja his freedom, ‘In view of the good and faithful service the slave has given him and considering that nothing could be more pleasing to the slave than the gift of liberty’ – provided that he stayed in Velázquez’ service for a further four years. This was quite a common clause, apparently, as was the ‘ownership’ of slaves by artists (and, I assume, other members of Spanish society).  Francesco Pacheco, Murillo and Alonso Cano all had enslaved assistants, for example.

Pareja’s earliest dated painting is The Rest on the Flight to Egypt which we saw on Thursday (POTD 85), and that was not painted until 1658 – four years after his ‘freedom’. It could be that other, earlier paintings have been lost – only ten survive, as far as we know – or it could be that he really didn’t start painting on his own until he was free. But however much he might have relished his liberty, he did not go far, as I said last week. He continued to work as Velázquez’ assistant until the master died in 1660. He then became the assistant to Juan Bautista del Mazo, Velázquez’ son-in-law, and remained part of that household until his own death in 1670, even though Mazo himself had died three years earlier. I hope to look at another of his paintings tomorrow.

Day 87 – The Childhood of Christ

Giotto, The Childhood of Christ, c. 1305, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua.

So, as we continue to explore the Scrovegni Chapel we hit the middle tier of frescoes on the side walls. With the Last Judgement at the West End (Picture Of The Day 38), and the Annunciation and Visitation at the East, spanning the chancel arch (POTD 80), we start near the altar on the South Wall with the Nativity – the birth of Christ. If each tier on each wall represents a chapter, then this is the third chapter, after the story of Joachim and Anna, and the Birth and Betrothal of the Virgin.

We start Jesus’s story as he is handed into the scene by a midwife. If we remember that the altar is to the left of this painting, and that during Mass the bread becomes the body of Christ, it is almost as if she could have taken the child, newly ‘born’, from the altar. With the help of a reclining Mary, the midwife places the child into the manger. The word comes from the French manger, ‘to eat’, which takes us back to the Mass – with Christ’s body on the altar, to be eaten by all the communicants. A ‘manger’ is a food bowl, after all, which could be why the ox and ass look a little perturbed. Joseph sleeps. Well, he had had a long walk to Bethlehem, leading the donkey, and anyway, for Giotto, he definitely was an old codger (POTD 31 & 85). Meanwhile the angels somersault over the roof of the stable, eventually telling the shepherds the glad tidings of great joy.

Notice how one, large rock forms the background for the stable, while another, cut off on the right, defines the space of the shepherds (one of whom has had the elbow of his tunic patched…). The gap in between, where we see the blue sky, helps to suggest that they are really some way off, and allows space for an angel to fly down to speak to them.

Mary is lying down. It wasn’t until the early 15th Century that we see Mary kneeling in adoration of her newly born son, an image derived from the visions of St Bridget of Sweden. Up until that point the Nativity was painted, almost with out fail, with Mary and Jesus lying alongside one another. I’m not surprised, as I have always imagined childbirth to be extremely exhausting. I also wanted to point out a technical detail: Mary’s blue cloak is in a bad way. Artists loved to use ultramarine, extracted from lapis lazuli, because of the intensity of its blue – and patrons loved them to use it too, as it was enormously expensive – more so than gold, even – and it showed their wealth. That was fine when painting in egg tempera (or, for that matter, oil), but for true fresco the pigments were mixed with limewater before being painted onto the wet plaster. However, ultramarine reacts with limewater, so you cannot paint it in true fresco. Consequently, ultramarine could not be used until the plaster was dry, and painting a secco like this meant that the paint did not bond with the wall, and was likely to flake off. Giotto painted Mary’s cloak red in true fresco first, because, with the blue painted on top, it would give it a slightly more royal purple tinge. However, as the blue has worn away, the red has been revealed. And before we move on, look at the way that the ox is looking up at Mary!

The angels above the stable are also a delight: they are torn between worshipping God in Heaven (1st, 2nd and 4th from the left), worshipping the Christ Child (3rd), and getting on with announcing to the shepherds (5th) – the effect, as I suggested before, is that they appear to be having the best time, looping the loop above the stable in celebration of the birth of our saviour. The upward swoop of the two on the left matches the hill behind them, and, as I pointed out earlier, the fifth angel fits nicely into the gap between the hills. The blue of the sky has suffered the same fate as Mary’s cloak, painted a secco with ultramarine, and much of it has now gone.

In the next image it is almost as if the camera has panned to the left as the Wise Men arrive – the stable is more or less at the same angle, although it is now at the right of the image, and the bed, stable, ox and ass have been removed, and replaced by a stepped throne on which Mary sits, Jesus, still swaddled, on her lap.

The Holy family are joined by two angels, one of whom bears the gift of gold.  The eldest Magus, who brought it, kisses Christ’s foot, having placed his crown at the foot of the throne, a sign of his humility. The three magi represent the three ages of man – old, middle aged and young, as shown by grey beard, brown beard and beardless – but not the three continents (I alluded to this briefly in POTD 70): they are all white. The black king does not appear until the early 15th Century – but more of that another day perhaps. The star is looking more than usually like a comet, as opposed to the camels, which look less than usually like camels… but then, I don’t suppose Giotto had ever seen one.

The third scene is the Presentation at the Temple, described in Luke 2: 21-38. Luke described many of the features that Giotto includes – the offering of two turtle doves, the High Priest Simeon, and the prophetess Anna. It had been predicted that Simeon would not die until he had seen the Messiah, and here he receives him, recognising him with the words, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: For mine eyes have seen thy salvation‘ (Luke 2:29-30) – the words of the Nunc Dimittis in the Anglican Evensong.

  • POTD 66
  • POTD 73
  • POTD 31

Notice also how Giotto uses the same ciborium in most of his representations of the temple – Joachim had been thrown out, Mary accepted in, and now we are back. The twisted, Solomonic columns (also known as barley-sugar columns) were associated with the temple of Jerusalem, and the Vatican is supposed to have some of the originals: Giotto would have been aware of this, having designed a mosaic for St Peter’s at the end of the 13th Century. This is a different part of the temple, I have assumed, from the inner altar where the bachelors waited to see who would be chosen to marry Mary, but the altar cloth is the same. When looking around the chapel, these echoes may not be immediately obvious, but inevitably they will add to the sense that the paintings are somehow familiar: memories of the images we have already seen must linger in the back of our mind somewhere.

There is no stopping the story – the Holy Family must leave, after Joseph’s dream warning him that Herod was coming for Jesus. Unlike Pareja’s version of The Flight into Egypt (POTD 85) Joseph leads the way on foot, although the Guardian Angel is here, flying above, watching over them and pointing the way. This time they are accompanied by two midwives (we only saw one briefly at the Nativity) and two servants (previously unseen).  

Mary sits side-saddle on the donkey, who is looking inordinately proud to be carrying her. I would even say it was smiling. The ultramarine blue of Mary’s cloak has almost completely worn off here. Rather than the red underpainting we saw in the Nativity, the colour left behind is a pale pink (the red is her robe, under the cloak). Originally, therefore, it would not have looked as rich as in the Nativity – a reminder that this is not as significant an event as the birth of the Son of God. See how – as so often – the landscape expresses the drama of the event, the rocks forming a background for Mary and Jesus, and enhancing the momentum towards the right of the painting. The Holy Family were fleeing, of course, to avoid Herod and his men, who, as we mentioned on Thursday, ‘slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under’ (Matthew 2:16). 

The grief of the mothers is almost unbearable – all sense of decorum is lost as their hair becomes uncovered. They reach for their children, grabbed by the soldiers, killed, and piled in an undignified heap on the floor. One, in green at the top left, seems to imagine holding her baby once again with her now functionless hands. Tears streak their faces – Giotto used some unconventional technique here to make the flowing tears almost three dimensional, apparently – and their faces crumple in sorrow. On the right a soldier lifts his hand above his shoulder, but apart from some black marks it is hard to see why. Although the hilt of his sword looks gold, the blade would have been made of silver leaf, and sadly, as we shall see again, silver tarnishes. Not only has most of it come off, but what little remains is now completely black.

To end this chapter we must jump twelve years, to the point at which Joseph and Mary lose Jesus in Jerusalem, only to find him in debate with the Doctors in the the temple. Many weeks ago we saw how Pinturicchio set this discussion outside the building (POTD 40), but for Giotto they are securely seated inside, with Joseph and Mary arriving from the left. This is how the event is described in Luke 2:41-47: 

Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the feast of the passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up to Jerusalem after the custom of the feast. And when they had fulfilled the days, as they returned, the child Jesus tarried behind in Jerusalem; and Joseph and his mother knew not of it. But they, supposing him to have been in the company, went a day’s journey; and they sought him among their kinsfolk and acquaintance. And when they found him not, they turned back again to Jerusalem, seeking him. And it came to pass, that 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. And when they saw him, they were amazed: and his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing. And he said unto them, How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?

What I find astonishing about Giotto’s depiction is that the building takes up almost the entire picture space – we see cut away walls and roof, leaving just a sliver of sky at the top, and the projecting walls of the side aisles on the outside – but basically the ‘fourth wall’ of the temple is as close as is possible to the frame of the picture itself. Jesus is ‘sitting in the midst of the doctors’ – right in the very centre – and his gesture implies that he is deeply involved in the discourse. 

In this chapter of the Scrovegni story, we started with the Baby Jesus being handed in to the scene of the Nativity – pictorially being ‘delivered’ – and we end with him finding his place in the centre of the image, firm and secure about his Father’s business. From here we will have to jump another 18 years or so, when he will begin his Mission in earnest. Directly opposite this painting, we will see Jesus in the centre of the image once more, but standing upright in the River Jordan at his Baptism. But that will be next week.

Day 86 – Ethiopia

Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller, Ethiopia, 1921, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington DC.

Today we make it into the 20th Century – so far I’ve deliberately avoided it, to be honest, for reasons of copyright, but that is the only reason… I’m assuming nothing will happen on this occasion, though. However, despite what I suggested a couple of days ago, I have decided not to confront the angst I thought I might try and deal with – the French press once labelled today’s artist ‘the delicate sculptor of horrors’ – because I wanted to end this mini-survey (to which I will return) with something more positive.

There are various versions of this piece, entitled either Ethiopia or Ethiopia Awakens – or other variations of these terms. You will also find it given a number of different dates, the result of an error in a book from 1940, which dated it to 1914, an error that has often been repeated. A publication from 1943 even said it was created in 1889, which is remarkably unlikely, as Meta Vaux Warrick would have been 12 years old! I am sticking to the date 1921: the work was commissioned for the America’s Making Exposition which took place that year in New York.

Meta Vaux Warrick was the daughter of prominent members of the African-American community in Philadelphia – they were friends with Henry Ossawa Tanner (Picture Of The Day 81), who was to be a great support when she got to Paris in 1899. Her father was a barber and caterer, her mother a wig-maker and beautician for wealthy white women. These included the woman after whom their daughter was named, Meta (pronounced the same as ‘metre’), the daughter of Senator Richard Vaux. By the time Warrick arrived in Paris she was a graduate of the Philadelphia Museum and School of Industrial Arts. Once in Europe, she continued her studies at the Académie Colarossi, well known as one of the first places to accept female students, and at the École des Beaux-Arts. She visited Rodin in his studio at Meudon, and he is supposed to have told her, ‘My child, you are a sculptor; you have the sense of form in your fingers’. To be honest, this is such a ‘typical’ thing for him to have said, I’m not entirely sure that it’s true, although he is known to have been very supportive. Some of her work at the time was very much in his style, as was the work of Camille Claudel, Rodin’s student – and lover: he had that sort of charisma that would knock people off their feet, it seems. Warrick was lucky enough to be exhibited by Siegfried Bing, whose gallery, the ‘House of New Art’, or Maison de L’Art Nouveau, which opened in 1895, gave the movement its name. This really put her name firmly on the Parisian map, and her work was also accepted for exhibition in the Salon of 1903, the year in which she returned to Philadelphia. Her last name – Fuller – comes from her marriage, in 1909, to one of the first black psychiatrists in the United States, Solomon Carter Fuller.

Things did not always go smoothly for her, though. Even on arrival in Paris she was denied access to the American Women’s Club, even though she had already booked a room, because she was black: it was Henry Ossawa Tanner who helped her find lodgings. Back in the States a fire in her studio in 1910 destroyed 16 years worth of work, a disaster which is just one of the reasons why her name is perhaps not as well known as it should be. As her work developed she introduced biblical themes. She was a regular church-goer, but stopped attending when she was faced with discrimination. Nevertheless – and despite its appearance – it was the bible that inspired today’s sculpture.

One of the first people she met in Paris, the author W.E.B. Du Bois, had always been one of her greatest advocates: it was he who came up with the idea for this particular work. The America’s Making Exposition was intended to celebrate the artistic and industrial creativity of the immigrant communities of the United States, and Du Bois was an executive committee member of the section entitled ‘Americans of Negro Lineage’ – Fuller’s sculpture was to feature prominently in the exhibition’s catalogue.

Although Du Bois had more or less described the sculpture he wanted, Fuller developed her own ideas, which are both subtly elegiac and profound. For both of them, however, it was the place that Ethiopia had in the African-American philosophy of the time, particularly in relationship to the church, which gave the sculpture its meaning. The inspiration came from the Book of Psalms, 68:31:

Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God.

This text was regularly cited within African-American churches as prophesying their eventual liberation. As Renée Ator explains in a superb article in American Art (Autumn 2003 – I was hoping to include a link, but sadly that’s not possible), ‘Ethiopia ultimately served two seemingly contradictory purposes. It filled a need for African Americans to formulate an authentic racial identity by looking to the grand achievements of Egyptian history while also supporting the romantic ideal of Christian Ethiopia as a symbol of black liberation’. Fuller herself explained in a letter to a friend,

Here was a group (Negro) who had once made history and now after a long sleep was awaking, gradually unwinding the bandage of its mummified past and looking out on life again, expectant but unafraid and with at least a graceful gesture. Why you may ask the Egyptian motif? The answer, the most brilliant period, perhaps of Egyptian history was the period of the Negro kings.

For African American theorists, the dominance of the Egyptian kingdoms was important, and served as a historical precedent for their own cultural aspirations. Supporters of slavery looked to Egypt as part of a continuum of culture that led through Greece and Rome to modern Europe and thence to the United States, and saw the Egyptian use of slaves as the inevitable domination of one race by another, and therefore, inevitably, a precursor to their own denial of the first sentence of the Declaration of Independence, ‘that all men are created equal’. For the African American community, if the Egyptians were seen as a noble race of Black Africans then the argument that had so incensed Edward Mitchell Bannister (POTD 84), that ‘the negro has an appreciation for art while being manifestly unable to produce it’, was manifestly untrue: like the Egyptians they had a culture of their own. We have already seen the importance of Egypt at the time in Edmonia Lewis’s The Death of Cleopatra (POTD 82), who, like Ethiopia, wears the nemes ­ – the headdress usually worn by Egyptian kings. 

The version of Ethiopia I have shown you so far is made of plaster, painted to look like bronze (Fuller often couldn’t afford to have her sculptures cast), but in a maquette preparatory for the finished work, she uses colour to pick out some of the details, which can make the piece easier to read.

Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller, Maquette for Ethiopia, Danforth Art Museum, Framlingham, MA.

I think it is far easier to see that the bands of the mummified form are starting to unravel, and that the figure holds one end of the bandage against her heart. The legs are still firmly bound, rigid, incapable of movement, but the torso has become more flexible. Both hands can move – the ‘graceful gesture’ of her left hand, and the act of self-liberation embodied by her right. The head also twists at the neck, no longer fixed, staring straightforward, but now able to look around and find a new place in the world. The sense of awakening was important. The Emancipation Proclamation ending slavery may have happened in 1863, but there was still not true freedom, and certainly no equality. Fuller had been a firm supporter of the Equal Suffrage Movement, hoping to get the vote for women, until she found out that black women were not included. However, culturally, things were changing, and, as Fuller hoped, a race which had lived out centuries in mummified subservience was taking hold of its own destiny. Ethiopia effectively serves as a fanfare announcing the birth of the Harlem Renaissance, an explosion of art, music and literature centred in the eponymous New York neighbourhood during the 1920s. Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller was one of the most significant women in this movement, and one of its most important sculptors – I should really talk about it another time. 

Day 85 – The Flight into Egypt

Juan de Pareja, The Flight into Egypt, 1658, The Ringling, Sarasota, FL.

Ah, look, you say – back in our comfort zone. A Spanish artist, a familiar subject. Yesterday I said Europe, I said 20thCentury, I said America – well, two out of three ain’t bad. It’s a European painting alright, in an American collection, but it was painted in the middle of the 17th Century. And just in case you thought I’d shifted away from what I said would be this week’s theme – think again! Juan de Pareja was born a slave, and was owned by Diego Velázquez.

The Flight into Egypt is a common subject in Western European painting, drawing its imagery both from the Bible and from popular retellings of the story. According to Matthew 2:13-14, after the Wise Men had departed, 

 ‘…behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him. When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt’

Joseph has several dreams in the gospels, which explains why he is regularly shown nodding off in medieval and renaissance paintings. It’s not just that he was considered to be old (Picture Of The Day 31), although I have already got to the age where I regularly nod off… And in this case, if you actually look at the painting, he isn’t old at all.

With reddish hair and beard, and an unlined face, I could easily imagine him to be in his 30s. This is a feature of Spanish 17th Century painting – and it is partly the result of the visions of St Theresa of Avila (POTD 63). According to Catholic belief, after their marriage Mary and Joseph continued to live a life of chastity – and therefore, both remained virgins. The medieval mindset couldn’t understand how Joseph could live with the most perfect woman ever, and not sleep with her (I’m not convinced that the outlook of some men has changed…). The only explanation they could come up with was that Joseph was, to put it bluntly, past it – and with the account in the Golden Legend that he too considered himself to be old, it’s hardly surprising that that is how he was depicted. In a number of medieval mystery plays he was even treated as a cuckold. Although he was married to a woman having someone else’s baby, that would, of course, have implied that Mary was having an affair with God – so it’s surprising that the church let the actors get away with it. St Bernardino of Siena, the 15th Century Franciscan preacher who first advocated the bonfires of the vanities, was appalled that Joseph should be considered a figure of fun – but it was really St Theresa who called a halt to it all… at least in Spain, where far from being an old codger, he starts to appear as a younger, and more virile man, a suitable step father, capable of working, and of caring for both Mother and Child. 

In between the calm and clearly delineated faces of Mary and Joseph is a distant crowd of soldiers: they have come to look for Jesus and kill him. In the end, as they could not be sure which of the children he was, the ‘slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under’ (Matthew 2:16). Mary and Joseph have a curious glow over their heads, Pareja’s version of a halo, a holy emanation, whereas Jesus simply glows – it is not unlike the light you would find around the head of Tintoretto’s holy figures. Indeed, the Venetian influence in this painting is strong, probably the result of the number of Titians in the Spanish Royal Collection. 

Having said that, Joseph reminds of the Christ in Altobello Melone’s Road to Emmaus in the National Gallery – do look it up, but I suspect this is purely chance: both wear similar clothes. With his sturdy leggings, coat and hat, Joseph is dressed far more like a contemporary (17th C.) traveller than a 1st Century carpenter. Mary wears her timeless combination of red and blue, plus a rather jaunty 17th Century hat. And the angel – well, the angel is dressed how the Spanish liked to dress their angels, a pseudo-classical skirt and peep-toe boots, blue and red scarves, plenty of gold and a resplendent pair of wings. The angel is not part of the biblical narrative, but became a common presence in depictions of this story, derived from the messenger who appears to Joseph in his dream, promising to return. He becomes a guardian angel pointing the way, and leading them in safety to Egypt. Joseph effectively becomes the rear-guard – having led the donkey bearing Mary to Bethlehem, he is happy now to be the faithful follower. 

The classical temple on the hillside reminds us that these things came to pass during the reign of Caesar Augustus. And, like the Guardian Angel, the cherubs flying above the Holy Family watch over their progress. However, if I’m not mistaken (and sadly the reproductions I can find are very poor) two of them appear to be holding an apple. This is not something nutritious for the baby, but a reminder that Jesus has come to take original sin upon himself. The branches held by a couple of the cherubs could presage much the same: as palms of martyrdom they are, like the apple, a reminder that this tiny child has come to die. 

And yet, they do look like the amoretti Titian painted in the sky of The Rape of Europa – the subject of the very first POTD. But then again, as this was painted for Philip II, grandfather of the King alive in Pareja’s lifetime, that is not impossible. It is, however, surprising, that Pareja should be so strongly influenced by Venetian art given that he had been Velázquez’ assistant for nearly 30 years by the time he painted this. He became a free man in 1654, but even after this he continued to work for Velázquez until the master died – at which point he assisted Juan Bautista del Mazo, Velázquez’ son-in-law. I am entirely indebted to my sister, Jane Wickenden, for bringing him to my attention. I was aware of his name, and of the portrait that Velázquez painted of him, but not that he was, himself, an artist. I will tell you more about him another time, when I tell you about this truly glorious portrait.

Diego Velázquez, Juan de Pareja, 1650, The Met, New York.

I will look at more of his work in the future – although only ten of his paintings are known – and I will of course be talking about Diego Velázquez for Art History Abroad at 6pm (UK time) on Wednesday 24 June (yep, if you looked it up, I got the date wrong last time I mentioned it – sorry!).

Day 84 – Boston Street Scene

Edward Mitchell Bannister, Boston Street Scene (Boston Common), 1898-99, The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland.

Another landscape today, very different in style to yesterday’s, but, in some very subtle way, connected by a common mindset. Edward Mitchell Bannister’s work contains even less reference to social status or racial issues than paintings by Robert S. Duncanson, but, like Duncanson, he creates a world in which liberty and calm seem to dominate, creating a sense of being at ease in a world where nature is essential benevolent.

Having said that, today’s Picture is not typical of his work, as it is a cityscape. Also, unlike most of his more ‘solidly’ painted works, inspired by stretches of barely populated countryside, it is in an avowedly Impressionist style. Like most national schools of Impressionism outside of France, the Americans were late to the party. Whereas the series of eight exhibitions held by the French stretched between 1874 and 1886, it wasn’t until then – 1886, and the end of ‘official’ Impressionism – that William Merritt Chase’s views of New York parks kick-started the American movement. Another of the great American Impressionists, Childe Hassam, had made his name in Boston between 1882-86 painting in a Realist style, before heading to France. It was there that he took on board the lessons of Impressionism, and took them home with him in 1889. By the time that Bannister was painting in 1899 American Impressionism was a fait accompli, but nevertheless, for him this was a new development in a long and successful career. He had been living in Providence, Rhode Island for nearly 30 years, and was visiting Boston when he painted this work. However, what might have been a new direction for his art stopped short: Bannister died two years later, and this was one of his last works.

As it happens, he was not American by birth. He was born in St Andrews, New Brunswick – in Canada – in 1828: he was just seven years younger than Robert Duncanson. His father was a native of Barbados, his mother’s heritage remains unknown. Orphaned at the age of 16, he was fostered by a white family, and destined for a life at sea, like most of the male population of St Andrews. However, he settled in Boston in 1848, and worked as a barber, supplementing his income by hand-colouring photographs – which was also Sorolla’s route into painting, as it happens. Although he had started painting and attending classes in the 1850s and 60s he became determined to become a successful artist through anger, having read an article in the New York Herald which stated, with the assurance typical of the ill-informed, that ‘the negro has an appreciation for art while being manifestly unable to produce it’. Less than ten years later he was awarded the bronze medal for painting (the first prize) at the Philadelphia Centennial – the very same exhibition at which Edmonia Lewis exhibited The Death of Cleopatra (POTD 82). I would show you the painting itself, but sadly Under the Oaks has not been seen since the beginning of the last century. Fantastic, you think, he won the bronze medal. But when the judges found out he was black they decided they had come to the wrong decision. Fortunately, Bannister’s white ‘competitors’ wouldn’t accept this, and the judges were forced to uphold their original choice. A substantial and successful career followed – in 1880 he was one of the seven founders of the Providence Art Club, which is still active today, for example. He was a prolific painter, and, despite his name being forgotten after his death, as those of so many artists of colour were, the Smithsonian American Art Museum, home to both The Death of Cleopatra (POTD 82) and Landscape with Rainbow (POTD 83) owns 122 of his works. 

Edward Mitchell Bannister, Driving Home the Cows, 1881, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington D.C.

The majority of Bannister’s output – including the 1881 painting Driving Home the Cows – is associated with Tonalism, a predominantly American movement inspired by one of the predecessors of Impressionism – the Barbizon School: think Corot, Millet and Daubigny. His direct source was probably one of the Boston-based Tonalists, William Morris Hunt, as, unlike other successful African-American artists in the 19th and early 20th Centuries, he never travelled to Europe.

I wanted to include this painting, though, because it is unlike anything else of his I have seen. The looser brushwork and lighter, pastel colours had gradually developed through the later 1880s and 1890s, but not quite to this extent. It is, as all good Impressionist paintings are (and there are one or two bad ones!), beautifully composed. The skill of such art is not just painting what you see when you see it, but choosing the right thing to look at in the first place, and the right way of looking at it. The authenticity of plein air painting in front of the motif (i.e. painting outside while looking at the subject – let’s cut to the chase!) has often been questioned. Were they really outside, for one thing? Many of the works were, of course, ‘improved’ back in the studio (but there’s nothing wrong with that). And were they really painting exactly what they saw? Well, no, of course not. They were artists! The main aim was to capture the ‘feel’ of being there. Well, one of the main aims, anyway. And in this case, the painting is dated ‘1898-99’, so even if he had been outside, he wouldn’t have been there all that time. Maybe he, just like Degas – and for that matter, Henry Ossawa Tanner – had recourse to photographs (The Banjo Lesson, POTD 81, was based on pictures that Tanner had taken). 

All that aside, we are probably heading along Tremont Street in Boston, with the Common to our right, and buildings – none of which survive, as far as I can tell – on our left. The street cuts in on a diagonal from the bottom left, with the line of the kerb starting in the corner, a favourite compositional device to lead the viewer’s eye into the painting. Here, it takes us to a stroller (yes, this is America) pushed by one of two ladies.

Bannister is using colour to unite the two, rather than painting what he saw, I suspect. The woman on the left, further back, has a brown top, the same colour as the skirt of the woman on the right. The latter’s top is pink – and uses the same colour as the dashes which describe the baby in the pushchair. There is a wonderful freedom in the handling of paint, wet-on-wet, almost scratchy in places, and a real ability to conjure up a sense of time and place. There is so little traffic – unlike late 19th Century Paris – with one horse and carriage coming towards us on the far left, and another heading away in the middle distance on the right – with a few more in the background.

The clear sky is built up from flecks of different blues, laid on top of brush strokes going in all directions. Surrounding the leaves, and what looks to me like blossom, it reminds me of some of van Gogh’s cherry trees. However, as the Dutch artist wasn’t exhibited in America until 1913, and, as I have said, Bannister did not travel to Europe, this is probably coincidental. There is such a delicate touch – the tall pink building is almost sketched in with the thinnest of horizontal and vertical lines building up its form – and across the painting, every window, windowsill and roof, however free, is still surprisingly secure. It is beautifully painted, I think, and I will certainly seek out more. Meanwhile, before tomorrow, we will have to leave the apparent calm of Boston at the end of the 19th Century, and head off to a more angst-laden 20th Century Europe. Although we may find that I’ve had to return immediately to America.