Day 51 – The True Cross

Giambattista Tiepolo, The Discovery of the True Cross, Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice.

Just over a week ago I talked about Verrocchio’s lively bozzetto, or Model, for the Funeral Monument for Cardinal Niccolò Forteguerri (Picture Of The Day 42), and I mentioned that a bozzetto could be any type of sketch (or model) that an artist creates as part of the development of a new work. That happened to be a relief sculpture in terracotta, and today we have a bozzetto which is an oil painting. In case you were wondering, this should be pronounced ‘bot-tsetto’, the double ‘z’ being pronounced as in pizza, and not as in razzle…

It is a gorgeous little thing, measuring just 50cm across, and shows just how brilliantly Tiepolo could handle paint, with freedom, delicacy and precision. He doesn’t get a great press nowadays. People tend to find his pale pinks and blues a little bit chocolate-boxey – which is a great pity, as they are gorgeous colours, light and airy, and ideally suited to a fine spring day on the Venetian lagoon – or dawn in La Serenissima at any time of the year, to be honest. These colours evoke the spirit of the place, and given the vast areas of ceilings he was required to paint, it is hardly surprising that he chose to simplify matters by painting so much sky. Tiepolo is also seen as being on the frivolous side of religious painting – which is simply not true. If only more people had found quite so much joy in the depiction of saints and of sanctity, the church itself might have had a better press. 

The bozzetto is a sketch for a circular ceiling painting originally made for the Church of the Capuchins, which is not so terribly far from Venezia Santa Lucia (the railway station) or, in Tiepolo’s day, the Church of St Lucy (which was destroyed to build the station). I don’t think I’ve ever been in – but then, that’s probably because the Tiepolos aren’t there: the finished painting has ended up in the Accademia, in the same room as the bozzetto. It shows The Discovery of the True Cross, the high point of a story which is rather wonderful, but far too long to tell here (well, it does start with the death of Adam…) There are two main fresco cycles illustrating the story, one in Santa Croce in Florence (which makes sense, as the Church is dedicated to the True Cross), and the other is in San Francesco in Arezzo – we saw the Annunciation by Piero della Francesca from this cycle back on the Feast of the Annunciation (25 March, POTD 7). It is not a coincidence that both are Franciscan Churches – St Francis himself had a particular devotion to the Cross (POTD 29), and as the Capuchins are a reformed Franciscan order, it’s not surprising that they were interested in the same subject. 

The Legend of the True Cross is recounted in full in The Golden Legend. This episode comes towards the end of the story. After the conversion of the Emperor Constantine to Christianity, it says, his mother, the Empress Helena, went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to find the Cross on which Jesus was Crucified. On arrival, none of the locals would tell her where it was, although it was clear to Helena that they knew. So she had one of them, named Judas (probably not a coincidence – it must have been part of God’s plan) thrown into a pit. Seven days later he was more than happy to dig up the Cross himself. However, he got more than he bargained for: he dug up three crosses. Not only was Jesus’s there, but also the two on which the Good and Bad Thief had been Crucified. But which was the True Cross? Judas came up with a cunning plan. As it happened, the funeral procession of a young man came past. I used to think that the deceased went by the name of Lazarus, which also wouldn’t have been a coincidence, but I might have made that up, as I can’t find any evidence for it just now. I’ll stick with it, though, to make things simpler. The funeral bier was placed on the first cross – but nothing happened. It was then placed on the second cross – nothing again. Finally, when they got to the third, Lazarus stirred, came back to life, sat up, and then promptly knelt down in adoration. This was it – the True Cross!

This bozzetto might be the one that Tiepolo would have shown to the Friars to get their approval. Would this composition would suit them? As with so many canvasses designed for a ceiling, it is painted da sotto in su (from below, looking up – POTD 44), as if we are at the bottom of the hole which was dug to find the crosses. The True Cross is held aloft, with the Empress Helena, or St Helen (she became a Saint because of this, and because of her association with Constantine), standing at its foot, and pointing up to it. On the other side of the hole, Lazarus kneels, having fought his was out of the shroud, praying in thanks for his renewed life and in awe of the discovery of the Cross. His funeral bier is dark and discarded in the shadows at the bottom of the sketch. Behind Helena, in the shadows, is a Bishop – his mitre forms a silhouette against the sky. On the other side of the sketch looms the silhouette of a Roman soldier on horseback. Angels float on Tiepolo-pink clouds up above, one of them waving a thurible, or censer, while others pray and throw their hands out in astonishment.

Accademia – Giambattista Tiepolo, L’esaltazion della Crose e sant’Elena

If we get close in, and look at a detail, we can see how effortlessly Tiepolo seems to have thrown it together. St Helen’s creamy white robe flows around her body, picked out by a minimum of brushstrokes made with a loaded, small brush, in shades of dark brown (for the shadows), creams and whites, flicked on to create movement and form. Then, in an even darker brown, he has drawn in the outline to define the shape. You would think he would start with the ‘drawing’ and then do the ‘colouring in’ – but Tiepolo does it the other way round: get everything in more or less the right place, and then check you know where that is. Dufy would do the same a couple of hundred years later.

Helena’s face is almost lost behind her shoulder – we just catch her left eye, and her profile, as she looks down towards the miraculous resurrection, while pointing upwards to explain it. Her red cloak flows back to the edge of the circle, held back by a creeping figure in blue, and wraps around her to show a flash of red to the left. The colour is picked up by a cloak on the other side of the gap between her and Lazarus, drawing our attention towards him. The darkness of the forms below the red, and the purity of the shroud around his legs, make his body ring out. Further back we see the quickest sketch of the face of an onlooker – a daub and some detail – and the head of a white horse, with a rather dashing mane spirited out of two or three quick flicks of the brush. A little flash of red in the distance helps to hold the composition together. I love Tiepolo’s facility with paint, and I love his economy of means. And I also love that fact that, because this bozzetto is exhibited in the same room as the finished painting, you can, in true exam style, ‘compare and contrast’.

If the sketch is a mere 50cm across, the finished canvas is 5m: every measurement is ten times longer – or, in terms of the surface area, one hundred times larger. I would love to know if all of the changes were specified by the patrons: ‘Yes, it’s lovely Giambattista, but you can’t see her face. People don’t like it if you can’t see their faces’ – so he repositions her, makes her stand behind the cross, and look down towards Lazarus so she is more visible to us, more majestic, perhaps, but less original and less intriguing. Lazarus is also slightly turned towards us, and his bier pushed further down into the darkness, marginalized. Helena stands on a classical entablature: the story says that a Temple to Venus had been built over the site of the Crucifixion – maybe this represents its destruction. The soldier on horseback is still very present, a witness to the scene, and framing the image on the left-hand side, but the Bishop has been told to be more reverential. He kneels down, and has removed his mitre: it is held by a servant, who also has his crozier, just a little to the right. One of the other crosses lies, unregarded, to the bottom right, and nearby a banner reads SPQR – Senatus Populusque Romanus – ‘the Senate and People of Rome’. Helena was the wife and mother of Emperors, after all.

The angle of the True Cross has also changed. The upward diagonal leads our eye up to an angel who wasn’t in the bozzetto: the angel with the thurible has been somewhat demoted. The newcomer carries a small plaque saying INRI – Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudeorum – ‘Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews’ (POTD 23), an explanation of the ‘crime’ of Jesus which, according to the bible, Pontius Pilate attached to the top of the Cross. It is known as the titulus and is rather important here, as St Helena is supposed to have taken it to Rome. According to tradition, she founded a church called Santa Croce in Gerusalemme (Holy Cross in Jerusalem) in about 325AD to house the relics she had brought back from the Holy Land. The church is still there, heavily rebuilt, although rarely visited nowadays. However, some people believe that the titulus is there to this very day. It would still have been an important relic in the 18th Century, and no doubt the Capuchins would have wanted it to be clearly visible – hence its position at the top centre of the painting.

Sadly, the pink clouds of the bozzetto have gone – and with them the poetic, almost nonchalant air that Tiepolo had conjured up. The finished painting has all the majesty of a grand statement, and, when you get close to it, it has the master’s typical bravura brushstrokes – he lays on paint with a freedom and ease that looks like butter icing applied to a firm cake – but it doesn’t have the refreshing spontaneity of the bozzetto. I like both, if I’m honest, as Tiepolo excelled at both ‘modes’ of painting. But I know which one I’d rather hang in my study.

Day 50 – St George

Paolo Uccello, St George and the Dragon, about 1470, National Gallery, London.

It is now two weeks since St George’s Day, and I did say I was going to tell you the full story – at least, the full story as I know it. In the full story St George gets killed several times, and at one point, I believe, is even chopped up into tiny bits and scattered across the land, only to come back to life. In this, he is related to the Green Man, a symbol of fertility, and inevitably to the idea of death and resurrection – new life being especially important around the end of April when he is celebrated. But today, I just want to talk about the dragon.

Paolo Uccello, about 1397 – 1475 Saint George and the Dragon about 1470 Oil on canvas, 55.6 x 74.2 cm Bought with a special grant and other contributions, 1959 NG6294 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG6294

We make certain assumptions about dragons which weren’t common in Paolo Uccello’s day, as we can see from this painting. His source material would have been the Golden Legend – which I have mentioned before (Picture Of The Day 31 & 36), and will mention again tomorrow. We tend to think that dragons live in caves, and breath fire. But that’s not what the Golden Legend said about this one. Apparently, it lived in a large lake, and its breath was so toxic that if you breathed it you would die – it spread the plague. Basically, in future you should remember to stay at least 2m away from any dragon – although personally I would avoid them altogether. 

Uccello is slightly hedging his bets here, as there is a cave, but inside the cave, there is a lake, which seems to have some kind of whirlpool in it – you can see it on either side of the Princess’s shoulders. While we’re talking about assumptions, the other assumption that we commonly make is that princesses are scared of dragons, and need rescuing, but that really doesn’t seem to be the case.

If anything, she looks like she has put the dragon on a lead, and is minding her own business taking it for a walk, when St George has charged up and stabbed it through the head with his lance… She looks mildly irritated, gesturing towards it with a feeble look of dismay. In her place I would be furious. The dragon is clearly suffering – the head being lowered is surely a bad sign, although my understanding of the body language of dragons is sadly limited. But it is bleeding, and a pool of blood is gathering on the ground. Uccello is playing all sorts of games here. One is the pigment: there is a pigment called ‘dragon’s blood’ which was used for red paint, although this red is different. ‘Dragon’s blood’ came came from the resin of a tree, and I have always imagined it dripping down and forming puddles in the forest just like this. I’m not convinced that’s how it works, but Uccello does use the pigment elsewhere – in his other painting in the National Gallery, for example, the Rout of San Romano, where it colours the hat of Niccolò da Tolentino. He is also playing with the idea of feet – the princess’s shoes are of the same red as the dragon’s blood – and very pointy. It is as if her feet were equivalent to the dragon’s talons. Have a look round the painting – there are all sorts of pointy things, including the toes of George’s armour, and the dragon’s fangs: indeed, its open mouth is rather similar to the wide, craggy mouth of the cave. There are also a large number of circular elements – from the whirlpool in the cave, the strange cloud formation in the sky (which no one has ever explained satisfactorily) and the curious crescent moon, to the plates on St George’s armour, and the RAF targets on the dragon’s wings. It seems to be trying to get in on the Englishness of it all (not that Uccello would have known anything about that) – given that St George’s horse is white, and it has red trappings, forming the cross of St George (or as I explained in POTD 36, the Flag of Christ Triumphant) all over it.

Another curious feature is the grass, which appears to be growing in unnatural squares. The fact is, Uccello was slightly obsessed with perspective – Vasari certainly thought so, telling a story in which Paolo referred to perspective as his new mistress, to the extent that he wouldn’t go to bed with his wife. Perspective is fine if you have an avenue of trees, or a train track (which Uccello obviously didn’t), or even a tiled floor, as Donatello did yesterday (POTD 49), but if you’re outside in the countryside, how can you show parallel lines getting closer together? Uccello seems to have decided that the best way to do this was to invent astroturf, and lay the grass in squares.

But apart from that, what is going on? Well, the people of Silene, in Syria (you may remember that the Golden Legend moves George from Cappadocia to Syria – he got around), were being persecuted by this dragon, and, long story short, decided to do a deal with it: they would send two sheep every week. Unfortunately, the sheep ran out, so they decided to send a person instead. Lots were drawn every week, and the person who drew the short straw was sent off to be eaten, a system which seemed to work reasonably well, unless of course, you were the one to get eaten. That was until the Princess drew the short straw, and her father, the king, refused to let her go. I imagine he was planning on marrying her to a handsome prince so that they could live happily ever after – whether she wanted to or not. Eventually, after a while, the dragon started to get hungry and came closer to Silene, at which point the people panicked because they thought they were all going to die from the breath of the dragon. Rather than rushing off into self-isolation, they all rushed to the king, and protested that, as their children had been eaten, so should his daughter be. As the king was about to pull out his Trump card, and say that his daughter was supposed to marry a handsome prince (who would also, I’m guessing, handle the King’s business portfolio), his daughter piped up and said ‘No’! It was better that she should be eaten, than that everyone else should die from the breath of the dragon. So she headed out to die, and at that moment, St George happened by (the Golden legend really does say it like that). At this point, you may be thinking, she would swoon, recognising a Knight in Shining Armour when she saw one, and beg him to save her life. Oh no! Not this princess! She asked him what he was doing there, to which he replied ‘I have come to save you from the dragon’. Now, although she suggested that there really was no point in both of them dying, as that is surely what would happen, he stuck to his guns, repeating ‘I have come to save you from the dragon’ in a needlessly macho way, and an argument ensued. Eventually St George did what men tend to do – which is do what they wanted to do in the first place. He took out his lance and ran it through the dragon’s head. Fortunately lances are longer than 2m.

At this point, he asked the princess to take off her belt. “But we’ve only just met’, she replied. No, sorry, the Golden Legend doesn’t say that, that was a different story.  He asked her to take off her belt and tie it round the dragon’s neck – which she did. At which point (and the Golden Legend really does say this) it lifted up its head and followed her like a little dog. I have two things to point out before we go any further: (1) that is why she looks like she has the dragon on a lead. It is another example of a continuous narrative, with two parts of the story being shown at the same time (i) St George is dealing the dragon a non-fatal blow and (ii) the princess has tied her belt around the dragon’s neck. He has not yet, however, lifted up his head. (2) She is still wearing a belt. From this I assume that any self-respecting princess will always go out with a spare belt. Own up, ladies, I know you’ve all done it.

From thence they headed back to Silene, at which point the inhabitants really did socially distance and ran back home, terrified that they would all die, but somehow the breath was no longer so toxic. They did, nevertheless, scream from their windows, asking George why he was bringing the dragon into their midst. He proclaimed that God had sent him to save them from the dragon, and that if they converted to Christianity, then he would slay it. ‘And on that day, many thousands of people were baptized…’ it says. And the dragon was slain. 

I’ve never been happy with this ending, as it is blatantly blackmail. And also, the poor dragon dies. It was only doing what dragons are supposed to do. Although, of course, it was only ever a symbol in the first place – and we all want good to triumph over evil. So remember: keep 2m away from everyone (but don’t carry your lance around in public as a measure, it might be misconstrued), and remember to wash your hands. And if you want to avoid dragon breath, maybe brush your teeth as well.

Day 49 – Donatello in Lille

Donatello, The Feast of Herod, c. 1435, Palais des Beaux-Arts, Lille.

There must be something about Donatello that means that I keep coming back to him (Picture Of The Day 25 and 35) – it’s probably the simple fact that he was very good. One of the best, in fact. And this particular image – not his most famous work by any means – has been sitting in my mind for a while for all sorts of reasons. One is that I have mentioned Alberti quite a few times, and I might even have said that he was the first person to write down how to ‘do’ single vanishing point perspective. The technique was worked out by Brunelleschi, best known as an architect, around 1415, and first used in paintings by Masaccio in the years 1425 and 1426. However, a relief carved by Donatello in 1417 suggests he’d got a pretty good handle on it already, although the relief is fairly worn now, after centuries outside, and only a little bit of it could be classified as ‘in perspective’. But by the time he carved this masterpiece, there is no doubt that he knew what he was doing. 

It is generally dated to ‘c. 1435’ – which is, coincidentally – and I really think it is a coincidence – the year that Alberti wrote On Painting. Both Alberti and Donatello presumably learnt the technique from Brunelleschi anyway. The other reason it has been in my mind is that this is one of the finest exhibits in the Palais des Beaux-Arts in Lille, which is the next place I am scheduled to travel should we come out of lockdown – and as we’re not due to go until December, I’m hoping it may yet be possible!

When talking about the Resurrection (POTD 25) – one of the reliefs on the South Pulpit in San Lorenzo in Florence – I said that it broke all of the rules – and that is something you can only really do if you know what the rules are. Otherwise you are just doing your own thing.  Donatello really did know the rules, some of which he had effectively written himself. It is a type of sculpture known as rilievo schiacciato (pronounced skee-atch-ee-ah-toh), which means flattened, or squashed relief. It was effectively invented by Donatello himself, although he may have been influenced by some of the passages in low relief by his one-time master Lorenzo Ghiberti in his first set of doors for the Florentine Baptistery. Donatello perfected a technique in which the depth of the carving doubles as an indicator of distance. Anything in the foreground is carved in higher relief, and the further away an object is supposed to be, the lower will be the depth of the carving, until objects in the distance will appear as if scratched into the marble background. The effect is similar to atmospheric perspective, whereby the air, dust and haze in between us and distant objects make them look fainter. There was no precedent for this type of carving at all. Classical relief carving was well known: there were, and still are, Roman Sarcophagi to be seen all over Italy. And by the time this particular sculpture was made Donatello had spent some time in Rome itself, where, in addition to the sarcophagi, relief sculptures could be seen all over the triumphal arches and columns. However, it is only ever carved in what we would think of as high relief. Figures appear like statuettes that have been sliced down the middle and stuck onto a flat background, whereas Donatello’s figures move in and out of space as his chisel moves through the marble like a hot knife through butter. There is hardly any real space here, it is a matter of millimetres deep, what we are looking at is an illusion. And, in accordance with the laws of perspective, it is not just the depth of relief that decreases the further back into the imaginary space you go, but any other measurement too. Simply put, things get smaller.

At the top is a photograph of the whole sculpture, measuring a mere 50 x 71.5 cm, taken relatively recently, after it was cleaned. The next photograph, and the details, were taken before cleaning. I am using them because the translucency of the marble means that, after cleaning, it can be hard to see how delicately it has been carved. The light refracts through surface of the marble, and reflects back out again, creating a wonderful, luminous quality, but confusing the eye. Here, however, the patina allows you to see how remarkable, and how delicate, the detail is. The subject is The Feast of Herod, and Donatello shows it, as so often, as a continuous narrative – more than one part of the story can be seen. Herod had been condemned by John the Baptist for having an affair with his sister-in-law Herodias, and for his pains, John was thrown into prison. During a feast, Herodias’ daughter Salome danced so beautifully that Herod promised her whatever she wanted. Unlike any young girl nowadays, she doesn’t seem to have had a strong opinion of her own (although Oscar Wilde thought differently), so she asked her mother. Herodias was still smarting from the Baptist’s tirades, and told her exactly what to ask for: the head of John the Baptist on a plate. In the centre of the image – indeed, her head is almost exactly in the centre of the panel – we see Salome dancing in quite a frenzy – waving a veil between her raised arms, with her left leg kicked back into the air.

The floor she dances on is marked out with the thinnest of scratches, defining, in perfect perspective, a geometrically patterned tiled floor. Behind her head a pillar supports two arches. To the left of the pillar we see figures standing in conversation in front of a diagonal grid. On the right a flight of stairs goes up diagonally, with a child asleep on the bottom step, and a man in a toga standing and looking to the left. However, he isn’t looking towards Salome. Like the soldiers, standing slightly aghast, and the ragged-looking man who rests on the soldier’s back, his right hand on the soldier’s shoulder, they are ignoring her dance, and looking towards the left of the image. It is as if the dance is a flashback – or as if she is dancing on in triumph, unaware of the consequences. 

On the left we can see what has grabbed the attention of the onlookers. A woman, sitting with her back to us on a bench which runs parallel to the bottom of the image, has shied away in horror. This allows us to see, just to the left of her, a man kneeling down, placing a platter – bearing the head of John the Baptist – onto the edge of the table. The man on the far left – possible Herod himself – places both hands on the table and pushes himself back. The woman next to him – possibly Herodias – puts her hand to her face and looks away. Be careful what you wish for. The other three people at the table appear nonplussed.  In this detail alone there are the most remarkable things: the solidity of the bench, and the fact that we can see the woman’s feet – and Herod’s – underneath it. The ‘wall’ behind them, carved with decorative details at the right end, which, just a little to the left, are cut across by a straight, vertical line. There is a fabric hanging in front of the ‘wall’, which appears to show a circle enclosing a seated woman with a person on either side. The circle itself is supported by two more people. If this weren’t The Feast of Herod I would suggest it was a tapestry showing the Madonna and Child with Angels. And even given its location, it still could be. Whatever it is, the image is repeated twice: it occurs again just to the left. 

So much of this detail is completely unnecessary. The ‘wall’ appears to be at the base of a temple-like building. It supports three fluted columns, which in turn support an entablature, made up of architrave, a plain frieze, and a cornice, all of which is topped by a triangular pediment. Donatello’s studies of Roman ruins have really paid off. The pediment even has relief carvings itself, showing two reclining figures. I’m not sure how Donatello knew that pediments included reclining river gods in the corners, nor why he thought it necessary to include them here. Nor was there any real point in showing two more reliefs at the back wall inside the ‘temple’ – pairs of legs can just be seen emerging from behind the entablature.  And off to the right there is a building at an angle, with one corner towards us. This is an idea he got from a Giotto fresco in Santa Croce in Florence: he would use it again ten years later in Padua. But, like everything else I have just mentioned, it doesn’t need to be there. It doesn’t add to the story, it is simply Donatello showing off, because he can.

It clearly impressed the most important ‘collectors’ in Florence. After Lorenzo ‘the Magnificent’ de’ Medici died in 1492 an inventory was taken of everything in his possession, and one of the items listed was a ‘Panel of marble with many figures in low relief and other things in perspective, that is, of St John, by Donatello’. It has always been assumed that this was the very relief mentioned. It was valued at at 30 florins, and kept in the same room as paintings by Giotto, Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi, as well as two other reliefs – showing the Madonna and Child – by Donatello. This must have been the room where Lorenzo kept his special treasures. It might originally have been owned by Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo il Vecchio, who had come back from exile in 1434 and effortlessly taken over the reins of power just as the relief was being carved. Or maybe it was acquired by one of his sons. Piero ‘the Gouty’ was a lover of fine things – given his medical ailments he couldn’t lead a very active life. He had a small study with a glazed terracotta ceiling made for him by Luca della Robbia – all that remains of that is now in the V&A. This sculpture would have looked good in there. And to be honest, if not there – apart from in a private collection – we really don’t know where this would have gone. 

The fact is, nobody has any idea what this relief is for. You might say that it doesn’t need to be for anything, it is art. As Oscar Wilde once said – in his preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray – ‘All art is quite useless’. He meant that art has no function, it is simply required to be beautiful. That description fits this sculpture perfectly. However, the attitude is fine for the 19th Century, and is indeed the central tenet of the Aesthetic Movement, but this is an object from the 15th Century. Everything was made to go somewhere or to do something – an altarpiece, a private devotional panel, a cupboard door, some wainscoting, an over-door panel, a clothes chest, a tray for sweets, a portrait to remember someone by. All of these are the functions of paintings from the 13th, 14th and 15th Century in the National Gallery, for example. But if this was carved simply to impress, because it looked good, and because it showed off Donatello’s technique – if it was a collector’s item – then this is quite possibly Western Europe’s first Work of Art.

Day 48 – Colour and Design

Angelica Kauffman, Colour and Design, 1778-80, Royal Academy, London.

We’re back with the rainbow, again, after yesterday – but seen from a different point of view today. It is now a week since the Royal Academy officially announced that they would be cancelling their exhibition of the works of Angelica Kauffman, which, of all the shows that have been closed, is the one that has upset me the most. With Artemisia Gentileschi, there is still the vague hope that it might open late, and I am lucky enough to be fairly familiar with her work already. Not so with Angelica Kauffman, whose works I have rarely seen. Unfortunately, given the upheaval to the RA’s schedule, and the need to fit as much in as possible, and given the fact that many of the paintings simply cannot travel (they all have to be chaperoned, and it’s really the chaperones who can’t travel), there will be no time to collect them all together before they have to be sent back. And that’s if the UK and other, lending, countries, come out of lockdown soon. 

Still, the works are still out there in the world, and the exhibitions may yet be rescheduled – we’ll just have to wait another three years, I suppose. That is the average time it takes to programme and organize an exhibition – if one is being optimistic. But it does give me a good excuse to look at more of Kauffman’s work here, having looked at a self portrait a few weeks ago (Picture Of The Day 14). I’ve chosen a work which is in the RA’s permanent collection, and since their refurbishment a year or so ago, is daily available to be seen for free – or rather, will be, when we come out of lockdown. They own it, because it was painted for them. It was one of four works commissioned from Kauffman to decorate the Council Room of the first home of the RA, Somerset House. It shared the space with several other paintings, including five by Benjamin West. Like Kauffman he was not a native Briton, having been born in North America (not yet the ‘United States’) in 1738, and like her, he was a founder member of the Royal Academy in 1768. He would become the second president of the Academy, following on from Joshua Reynolds, in 1792. No worries about ‘outsiders’ back then – I don’t think the RA is now, for that matter. As you may remember (POTD 14), she was Swiss. It is interesting to note that she was paid £100 for her four paintings, whereas he was paid £125 for his five – they were paid the same amount per painting – there was no gender discrimination, it would seem.

Kauffman’s four paintings show the ‘Elements of Art’ as described by Joshua Reynolds in his Discourses on Art. These were first delivered as lectures – at the Royal Academy, of course – and then published in 1788. It’s not that she was toadying to the boss. They were good friends, for one thing. In any case, she would have been commissioned to paint these very subjects, and she would also have been told the size and shape to paint them in, as they had to fit into the paneling of the ceiling. As a group they represent Colour, Design, Invention andComposition, but I am only going to look at the first two of these.

Kauffman, Angelica; Colour; Colouring; Painting; https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/O2834 Credit line: (c) (c) Royal Academy of Arts / Photographer credit: John Hammond /

Some early references to the first call it Colouring – which is a clue that these words are Reynolds’ English versions of the Italian terms disegno and colorito – or ‘drawing’ and ‘colouring’. One of the traditional distinctions between Florentine and Venetian painting during the Renaissance was that they focussed on disegno and colorito respectively – the Florentines defining forms by their outlines, and Venetians by areas of colour. This is, roughly speaking, true, even if it is a vast simplification. Nevertheless, it makes more sense of what we see in Kauffman’s two images. 

Rather than using the rainbow as a symbol of hope, as we have seen previously (POTD 37 & 47) here is used as a source of colour. The personification is shown with her paintbrush resting on the rainbow, which then begs the question: is she painting the rainbow, or extracting colour from it? I think you are free to read it either way. Clearly, it makes no sense practically, as a rainbow does not exist, it is an effect of light, but metaphorically an artist is free to draw on all the colours of the rainbow. This metaphor might be the more logical interpretation, therefore, as the palette which she holds in her left hand has just one small smear of yellowish paint – she certainly doesn’t have all the materials necessary to paint a rainbow. In Italian, both colore and colorito mean ‘colour’. The latter can also mean ‘complexion’, while the former is used for ‘paint’. The word vernice does exist for ‘paint’ or ‘varnish’, but when describing paintings only ‘colore’ is used. Both words are masculine, and yet Kauffman paints Colour as female. OK, she wasn’t Italian – but then she wasn’t English, either. In German, the word is ‘Farbe’, which is feminine. More importantly, of course, so was Angelica Kauffman. Indeed, all four of her personifications in this series are female. This is a statement of intent, as much as anything. It has often been suggested that all four are disguised self portraits – or, at least, that she is using herself as a model. This is very unlikely. For one thing, all four have different hair colouring (easy to achieve, of course), but, for another, they are different ages. Not only that, but, as a woman in the public eye, she had to be wary of her reputation. She would not show herself in the advanced state of deshabille that Colour enjoys.

The rainbow is not the only symbol she uses to express the idea of colour. The figure herself is wearing red, yellow and a small amount of a very subdued blue – the three primaries – just as ‘Painting’ does, if more intensely, in her self portrait (POTD 14). There is also a small group of flowers growing at the bottom right – generic flowers, the Ecologist tells me, not specific ones – chosen, presumably, because flowers grow in all the colours of the rainbow. There is also a creature I have not seen elsewhere in art, even though Vasari does mention it in a lost painting by Uccello. The chameleon is famed for changing its colour according to its environment. Artists too are chameleons, Kauffman says, or rather, their paintings are, as the paintings taken on the exact colours of their subjects. I love the fact that she has painted a chameleon. As I say, you don’t see them very often in paintings – and it does look rather surprised to be there! 

Kauffman, Angelica; Design; https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/O2832 Credit line: (c) (c) Royal Academy of Arts / Photographer credit: John Hammond /

Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that Design is just a little bit cleverer. Of any of the four paintings, this is the one that looks most like Kauffman’s acknowledged self portraits (compare it with POTD 14, for example), and I feel sure she would have been happy to show herself studiously at work. Since Alberti wrote On Painting in 1435, it had been standard artistic practice to start your training by drawing from sculptures. His reasons were quite clear: ‘It would please me more to have you copy a mediocre sculpture than an excellent painting… from sculpture you learn to imitate it and how to recognize and draw the lights’. Not only that, but Angelica has chosen to draw the sculpture of choice for any budding draftsman, the so-called Torso Belvedere. Known in renaissance Italy from the 1430s, it was long believed to be an original Greek sculpture dating to the 1st Century BC. It is signed, “Apollonios, son of Nestor, Athenian”, and gets its name from its present location, the Palazzo Belvedere in the Vatican. However, it is now thought to be a copy from the 1st Century BC or AD of an earlier work – possibly 2nd Century BC. Regardless of its origins, it is classical, muscular, and incomplete, it leaves much to the imagination and spawned numerous drawings and nearly as many suggestions for how it should be reconstructed. You could argue that most of Michelangelo’s later career was spent suggesting reconstructions – the figure of Christ from the Last Judgement being just one example.

So, sitting and drawing from the Torso Belvedere, Kauffman puts herself at the centre of artistic tradition. But also, she acknowledges the art of sculpture, whilst in the process of celebrating drawing. And for that matter, she is celebrating architecture as well, given that there are two classical, fluted columns forming the backdrop. Subtly she is asserting that drawing is essential for painting (the one we are looking at), sculpture (represented by the torso) and architecture (the columns) – thus including all of the visual arts in one image. I can’t help thinking that the Academy was getting real value for money here.

The columns frame her, and the solid, upright structure of the one on the right also acts as a counterpoint to the contorted forms of the torso. But then, she is hardly less contorted herself. Like the torso, one of her knees is lower than the other, the implication for the torso being that one foot is stretched out in front, while the other is tucked in behind – just like hers.  Likewise, one shoulder is brought forward, with the other twisted back. Is she, perhaps, reconstructing the torso with her own body? The height of the shoulders is perhaps not right, but it can’t be far off! Life is imitating art, she says – or rather, for Kauffman, life is art. It’s a densely packed painting.

If drawing from sculpture was the first stage for a budding artist, what would they move on to? Well, after drawing from sculptures you would draw from life, and this is where the gender bias would kick in for Angelica. It was inappropriate for a woman to look at a naked man, so she would not have been able to attend life-drawing classes. As a result, she would not be able to paint grand narrative works (or at least that was the theory – see POTD 16) which were, at that time, considered to be the main aim of art – even though that wasn’t what the English wanted, much to Reynolds’ regret. 

Her exclusion is illustrated rather brilliantly in Zoffany’s group portrait, The Academicians of the Royal Academy, completed in 1772, just six years before Kauffman got the commission to paint the Four Elements of Art. It shows all of the founder members of the four-year-old institution gathered together at a life drawing class. Zoffany takes as his model Raphael’s School of Athens – which shows all of the Philosophers of classical antiquity – and updates it. One model is posed for drawing, another is getting disrobed – even though no one is actually drawing – and Zoffany, palette in hand, sits to paint all this in the bottom left hand corner. They are all there. Just above Zoffany, standing in a heroic, if somewhat flashy pose, his straight right leg almost emerging from Zoffany’s palette, is none other than Benjamin West, who would become the second president. Joshua Reynolds, the first, who was famously deaf – and liked to flaunt the fact, perhaps because he created such wonderful ‘speaking likenesses’ – is further to the right, holding his ear trumpet, dressed in sober black, directly in front of a marble relief. They are all there – except for two. The two women who were founder members, Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser, couldn’t possibly have been there, it would have been improper – so Zoffany includes them as paintings hanging on the wall on the right. Kauffman is on the left and Moser on the right. Moral propriety meant that these two talented women were returned to the passive realm as subjects of art rather than occupying the active realm as makers. At least she got paid at the same rate as West for these two wonderful paintings.

Day 47 – Salisbury Cathedral

Day 47 – Salisbury Cathedral

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

[This is my original version of this post – you may prefer to read the latest, updated – and corrected – version, The End of the Rainbow, from December 2025!]

Sometimes a painting is asking to be talked about. I heard on the radio – yesterday morning I think it was – that the foundation stone of Salisbury Cathedral was laid on 28 April 1220 – 800 years ago last Tuesday. This, in itself, made me think about today’s painting, but then I was reminded of it again yesterday while writing about the Pathetic Fallacy (Picture Of The Day 46). Having said that, it was already in my mind, I suppose. Last week I was 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.

Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows 1831 John Constable 1776-1837 Purchased by Tate with assistance from the National Lottery through the Heritage Lottery Fund, The Manton Foundation and the Art Fund (with a contribution from the Wolfson Foundation) and Tate Members in partnership with Amgueddfa Cymru-National Museum Wales, Colchester and Ipswich Museum Service, National Galleries of Scotland; and Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum 2013 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/T13896

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.

Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows 1831 John Constable 1776-1837 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/T13896

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 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. 

Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows 1831 John Constable 1776-1837 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/T13896

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.

Day 46 – Psyche III

Claude, Landscape with Psyche outside the Palace of Cupid (‘The Enchanted Castle’), 1664, National Gallery, London.

So… Psyche has done the one thing she was supposed not to do, and has tried to find out who her mystery lover really is (if you missed the first parts of the story, head back to Picture Of The Day 43 & 44).  She has learnt that it is none other than Cupid, the God of Love, son of Venus. And whatever her feelings were in the face of this revelation, he was furious that she had gone against his will. Again, I can’t remember exactly what Apuleius says in The Golden Ass, but I’ve always assumed that Cupid would probably take the quickest route available to get away: he just flew straight out of the window. But then, not wanting to lose out, Psyche grabbed hold of his legs, and was dragged out of the window with him. This would then be followed by a rather ungainly and inelegant scene in which he tries to shake her off by flying up and down, backwards and forwards, until she can’t hang on any longer, and finally lets go, only to end up on the ground, outside the castle, all on her own.

Claude, 1604/5? – 1682 Landscape with Psyche outside the Palace of Cupid (‘The Enchanted Castle’) 1664 Oil on canvas, 87.1 x 151.3 cm NG6471 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG6471

And this is exactly where Claude paints her, in what is one of his most dismal paintings – in terms of mood, that is, not quality. Her isolation is emphasized by the fact that she really is entirely on her own, a few animals at some distance, and apart from a couple of tiny yachts on the far side of the bay, the only other people who are visible are two men in a rowing boat just off the coast. She had everything, and now she has nothing. She sits there, with her chin on her hand – the ultimate pose of thought, contemplation and melancholy. Above her looms the vast mass of the Castle, on a rocky promontory that reaches out into the sea.

I used to think that there was no entrance to this castle – which would be perfect for Cupid, as then the only way to get in or out would be by flying – so I was a little disappointed, on zooming in for this detail, to see that there is a grand, wooden door at the base of the rectangular entrance wing. This would appear to be a High Renaissance addition to a medieval castle, which stretches out above the cliffs with battlements on top of round turrets and a circular keep. Architecturally, Claude was quite a magpie.  He headed out into the countryside – the campagna around Rome – to draw ruins and trees, and wandered around the city, looking at buildings ancient and modern, and then went back to his studio to paint entirely imaginary landscapes. The nickname of this painting is The Enchanted Castle – and it is a notable presence, another character in the narrative. It combines elements taken from ancient structures like the Castel Sant’Angelo (classical in origin, but rebuilt across the centuries), and grand palaces inspired by the architecture of Michelangelo. The doors of the palace are framed by four tall bases. These support pilasters which reach to the top of the building, passing through the two upper stories of the building. Any column or pilaster which goes through more than one level is known as a ‘Giant Order’, an architectural feature used by Michelangelo to great effect on the palaces of the Capitoline Hill, and on St Peter’s Basilica, for example. Above the doorway, there is a window with a balcony, and on either side are niches with sculptures. The same units appear on the next story up, and above that there is a massive entablature, reminiscent of the one Michelangelo designed for the Palazzo Farnese (although that doesn’t have the same balustrade and obelisks). 

Claude is hailed as one of France’s great artists, which has always intrigued me, because he wasn’t actually French. He is one of relatively few artists we refer to almost exclusively by their first names: Claude. He did have a family name, Gellée, but that is hardly ever used. He also has a nickname, ‘Le Lorrain’, because he was born and grew up in the Duchy of Lorraine, which didn’t become part of France until 1766, 84 years after Claude died. And even since then it hasn’t always been French, as it was, for a while, a part of Germany. So he wasn’t French to start with, and, in any case, he didn’t spend long in Lorraine. He certainly didn’t paint there. He was born in 1604 or 5, and then headed off to Germany when he was orphaned in 1612. Not long after that he moved to Rome, where he was first employed as a pastry chef (which should make him my favourite artist), only to be taught painting by Agostino Tassi, his employer. He visited Naples, and Nancy, and settled in Rome permanently in 1628. That is where all his work was executed – he was basically an Italian artist. He was also one of the very first to work predominantly in landscape. However, it seems that hills and trees on their own were rarely seen as a sufficiently interesting subject for art, and so most of the time the landscapes are part of a narrative. In this case, the Story of Psyche – although at first glance the story itself doesn’t seem to take up much of the picture surface. Without Psyche looking miserable in the bottom left, this could be any coastline, with any imaginary castle. It is only her presence that tells us that this is Cupid’s castle. 

But that is only how it seems at first glance. After all, her mood, the mood of melancholy, pervades the entire picture – she is miserable and so is the weather. In the words of the poet,

Don’t know why
There’s no sun up in the sky
Stormy Weather
Since my man and I ain’t together…

This is what John Ruskin called the Pathetic Fallacy – the erroneous idea that things in nature share the same emotions as the humans who are experiencing them. Artists are especially guilty of falling into this error, as Ruskin saw it, when painting the weather.  But that is precisely what Claude is doing – indeed, it was one of his great strengths.

Psyche herself may only take up a small amount of the picture surface, but the entire painting takes on her mood. He does this through the use of colour and tone – everything here is muted and grey, no bright colours, no strong contrasts, nothing lively or energetic. Given that Psyche saw Cupid by the light of a lamp, and in the painting it is now relatively light, although not exactly bright, it must be dawn. Or rather, shortly after dawn, as the sun itself can be seen just above the tree to the left of the castle, at the same level as the entablature at top of the entrance wing. It is pale and silvery, as if it lacks the energy – or even the will – to shed any more light upon the scene. Claude was one of the first to show the sun itself in his paintings, and he uses its light to unify his paintings and to tell the story: the light creates the mood.  The part of the story he is telling here is one of disillusionment, of failed enterprise, and of hope thwarted. But this mood also arises from Pysche’s realization that she truly does love Cupid. What can she do about that? It is at this point in the story that she makes the worst decision possible. She decides to ask Venus if she knows where Cupid is…

Day 45 – Virtues, again…

Giotto, Faith, Charity and Hope, c. 1305, Scrovegni Chapel

I must break off from the Story of Psyche, as it is Scrovegni Saturday, and I want to return to the consideration of the various Virtues that we began when we were looking at Verrocchio’s wonderful bozzetto in the V&A on Wednesday (Picture Of The Day 42). Again, I would like to look at the three Theological Virtues, Faith, Charity, and Hope, to see how Giotto has represented them.

I’ve put them in this order, because that is the way they are laid out in the Chapel – although not this close together. All three are painted in grisaille, which translates as ‘greyness’, but refers to paintings which are monochrome – and specifically, black and white. The technique is used for different reasons: here the intention is to make the figures look like sculptures, carved out of some sort of stone – maybe even marble. Each is set into a rectangular niche lined with a grey, veined stone, with a slab of a darker stone – probably meant to be serpentine, a deep olive green – set into the back of the niche. The base of each niche is made of a slab of red marble, probable intended to be Rosso di Verona, a red stone from the hometown of Romeo and Juliet, which was often used for architectural decoration. You will see that there are inscriptions underneath the red ‘sill’, but please forgive me, I don’t have the time to look up what these say – that will have to wait. 

Giotto has imagined the fall of light into each niche as slightly different – that is how careful he was. In Faith, for example, the top of the niche is in shadow, and a shadow is cast onto the back ‘wall’, falling just above where the name is carved: Fides, Latin for faith (hence Fido for dogs). On either side, the inner vertical faces of the niche are just slightly lighter on the right, and lighter still on the left. The ridge just under the inscription (which has been more or less lost here) is far brighter on top – the light is definitely falling from above, as it would be, given the windows in the chapel are higher up. The fall of light in Charity is pretty much the same, but in Hope the left inner face is far darker than the right: this is, presumably, related to the precise position of the windows on the wall above these frescoes. Because her feet are not touching the ‘ground’ you can see more clearly that the light is falling directly onto the pink shelf, and onto the top edge of the grey slab behind it. This use of light and shade helps to define these spaces as potentially real, and the marble slabs as solid – and the skill with which Giotto does it puts him decades ahead of his colleagues.

Certain elements of these fictive sculptures are painted as if they are carved from stone that is a different colour from the white marble used for the majority of the figure. Faith, for example, carries a processional cross which is carved from a flat slab of Rosso di Verona (there’s no doubt about that here, the darker veins are unmistakable). She may be the most statuesque of the figures, stately and secure, but Giotto is gently nudging us to think again. He appears to be suggesting that painting must surely be better than sculpture – for who could carve the thin shaft of that processional cross on the scale of this painting? Or, for that matter, could anyone ever have carved the paper-thin, unfurled scroll she holds in her left hand? It seems unlikely, but he has been able to paint the ‘sculpture’ with consummate ease: one-nil to painting. Notice how the hands and face have a slight flesh tone to them. Is he perhaps suggesting that the sculpture is so well painted that it could almost come to life, like Paulina in The Winter’s Tale?As it happens, Shakespeare tells us that that particular ‘effigy’ was painted by ‘that rare Italian master, Giulio Romano’ – whose work we saw yesterday – and who is the only artist Shakespeare mentions by name. Above Faith,two angels look down from the corners of the niche, in devotion to the cross, and what we must therefore interpret as a religious text – both are items of Faith.

At her feet lie a broken sculpture, and two rectangular slabs. The sculpture represents a pagan idol, the sort of classical sculpture which had already been an inspiration for Nicola Pisano (POTD 8) and would be even more important for the artists of the Renaissance a century later. Although, yet again, is Giotto saying that we don’t need sculptures, given that he can paint them better than other artists could carve them? The two slabs are probably meant to be the tablets of the Law brought down from Mount Sinai by Moses – the Ten Commandments. The implication is that, with Christianity, the old orders have passed away. Paganism has gone for good, and the Law of Moses has been superseded by the Grace of Christ. That is what Faith means.

Charity tramples moneybags underfoot – worldly wealth is not important to her. In this context the rejection of moneybags should, of course, be seen in reference to Reginaldo degli Scrovegni, father of the patron of the Chapel, Enrico, who Dante had seen in the Seventh Circle of Hell among the usurers, with a money bag tied around his neck. 

In her right hand she holds a basket of fruit, flowers and grain – the overabundant, inexhaustible plenty that is the gift of true love – and she holds something up to God. I’m not entirely sure what this is – it could be something like an artichoke, and she could be offering this bounty to God, or receiving it from him. On the other hand, as a sign of love, she could be giving him her heart. It is a fairly common symbol in images of Charity, and certainly what Marcel Proust thought it was:

‘By a fine stroke of the painter’s invention she is tumbling all the treasures of the earth at her feet, but exactly as if she were treading grapes in a wine-press to extract their juice, or, still more, as if she had climbed on a heap of sacks to raise herself higher; and she is holding out her flaming heart to God, or shall we say ‘handing’ it to Him, exactly as a cook might hand up a corkscrew through the skylight of her underground kitchen to some one who had called down to ask her for it from the ground-level above.’

Proust was one of the most visual of authors, and referred to more than 100 artists in A la recherche du temps perdu. Indeed, there is an entire book written about the paintings he mentions. You can read more of the above passage – and get details of the book – in the Public Domain Review.

The quotation comes from a passage in which one of the kitchen maids is compared to ‘Giotto’s Charity’ as Proust calls it. He has a point – she is not entirely unlike a kitchen maid. One of Giotto’s greatest innovations was to make the ordinary divine – he gives holy characters and allegorical figures such as these a sense of reality which was unprecedented. You could argue that all his models were from Tuscan peasant stock, the farmers and labourers he grew up with, were it not for the fact that he wouldn’t have used models in this way. But he creates a solid reality for everyone, giving them both physical, and spiritual, weight. 

Hope is perhaps the exception. A solid figure she may be, but her longing for God – and for the Heavenly Crown, which is held out for her by an angel at the top of the niche – has lifted her off the ground. With this image Giotto appears to have given up on the idea that these Virtues are sculptures. Or maybe he is just seeing how far he can push the conceit – will we still believe this is really a sculpture? Or are we just meant to enjoy the game? Could a sculptor make his work fly? No! But a painter can! Notice, again, that her hands are slightly pinker… particularly the one which is further into the shadow of the ‘niche’. Without any symbol or attribute for her to carry, it is the gesture of these hands which most defines her essential quality, and it is for this reason that they are emphasized, almost like being underlined, in red.

Replica of the Scrovegni Chapel

This photograph allows us to see where the Virtues are in the Chapel, but beware! This is not the Scrovegni Chapel! The clue is the over-harsh lighting, and clunky light fitting, at the top. It is actually a photograph of a replica, on the scale of 1:4, which was part of an exhibition at the Eretz Israel Museum in Tel Aviv in late 2009. The opening up of the Chapel is useful, as we can see the layout of the walls more easily, and so understand the location of the Virtues. They are part of a fictive marble wainscoting, which reaches up to the full height of the door at the West End, underneath the Last Judgement that we saw last week (POTD 38). On either side of the door there are two marbled panels, surrounded by a green frame, which in its turn is framed by more decorative panelling. Along the side walls are the ‘sculptures’ in their niches, each one of which is separated by two more of the decorative panels. Even at this scale, I hope you can see that the nearest one to the Last Judgement on the left is Hope, her yearning gesture and upward movement taking her towards the figure of Christ on the end wall.  She could very easily join the progression of the Blessed just above her who are being guided by the angels into the divine presence. Charity, too, holds her heart – or artichoke – towards the Redeemer. They are on the right hand of Christ, on the side of the Blessed – which can only mean that opposite them, on the side of the Damned, are their equivalent vices. For now, though, they will have to wait.

Day 44 – Psyche II

Giulio Romano, The Story of Psyche, 1526-8, Palazzo Te, Mantua.

The Story So Far… Psyche is more beautiful than Venus, Venus is jealous of Psyche, Cupid was supposed to ruin Psyche’s life but has fallen in love with her, and has had her taken to his castle. Psyche is more than happy but falls out with her sisters when they suggest that her lover might be a monster. But what if they are right? She has never seen him, after all, and she doesn’t know his name. Too quick? Well, before we go any further let’s recap more slowly with one of the great Psyche Cycles – painted by Giulio Romano in the Palazzo Te in Mantua between 1526 and 1528. The name of the palace has nothing to do with tea, by the way – that would be Tè, with an accent. It is named after the area in which it was built, on the edge of the countryside just outside the city walls. It was a lime (or linden) grove, which, in Mantua, in the early 16th Century, would have been called a tejeto.

The Palace was designed inside and out by Giulio Romano for Frederico II, Marquis – later Duke – of Mantua as a suburban villa, i.e. just outside the town. It was a pleasure palace, to get away from the cares of the court, and also, so it seems, a place to get away from the wife and spend more time with the mistress. The architecture is playful and so are the frescoes, ranging from theme-park crazy to downright rude. The frescoes in the Room of Psyche are among the rudest anywhere, but I’m not going to show you those bits – just some of the ceiling, which is rather intricate. Looking up, it is hard work to see these pictures, and even harder to follow the story. Unfortunately that also means that the photographs are not so terribly good. Apologies. Above, you get some idea of the room, and below, some sense of the complexity of the ceiling. 

The start – and end – of the story is told in the canvasses which are set into the rich gold coffering of the ceiling, the final image being in the very central square. The stories are set into the octagons, the other sections showing winds and weather deities doing their thing, or putti fighting and playing.  Other episodes are painted in the lunettes (semi-circular paintings) at the tops of the walls – you can see them in the photo of the room above.  We’ll get to them… one day. For now, we’ll start with the two octagonal scenes you can see at the bottom of the picture.

As I was saying, Psyche was so beautiful that people started worshipping her instead of Venus. Despite this, no husband could be found for her, and her parents were so concerned that they consulted the oracle to see what should be done. The news came that she would be married to a monster, and it would be better for her if she were left exposed on a mountain peak. Fortunately it didn’t end too badly, though, as Cupid fell in love with her, and had the wind Zephyr carry her away to his castle. In these two images we see Psyche’s parents taking her to the Oracle on the left: the poor girl is kneeling in desperation at the bottom right, with Dad’s arm around her shoulder. All of these scenes are quite dark – in palette as well as mood – which serves to make them more mysterious and magical, contrasting with the rich gold of the coffering. In the right octagon, Zephyr is carrying Psyche away over the sea. Indeed, that would appear to be Neptune, God of the Sea, who has appeared, trident in hand, as they go past. At the top, a minor goddess pours down rain from the sky. The two scenes in the octagonal coffers miss out part of the story, though – how did she get from oracle to sky? It seems we need a flashback.

In this section of the ceiling, which is actually to the left of the previous two scenes (i.e. going round 90° clockwise) Venus is pointing out Psyche to Cupid, instructing him to make her fall in love with a monster (which would, of course, fulfil the oracle). You might recognise the image – it is remarkably similar to the version painted by Raphael’s workshop in the Farnesina in Rome which I showed you yesterday (POTD 43). That’s hardly surprising, because Giulio Romano was a member of that workshop. Raphael was busy elsewhere, painting the Pope’s apartments in the Vatican, and dying before the Psyche Cycle could be completed – most of the painting had been left to his assistants – including Giulio – anyway. The workshop completed what we see of the frescoes today after the master’s death. When Giulio was tempted away from Rome by Federico II, he would have taken memories of the Roman frescoes with him – and maybe even a couple of drawings. These two scenes are combined – Venus is pointing to Psyce, who we can see in the right octagon, where she is exposed on the mountaintop. By putting these two scenes together, Giulio creates a real dramatic tension. She is effectively about to be sacrificed: what will happen next? As we know, Cupid falls in love with her and gets Zephyr to save her in the nick of time.

When she arrives at Cupid’s palace, she is treated not like the mere mortal she is, but as a princess – a goddess, even. This section is just round the corner, anticlockwise from the image of her being carried away by Zephyr. It’s a remarkable feat of da sotto in su painting. This means, roughly speaking, ‘from underneath looking up’. We are asked to imagine that Cupid’s castle is effectively upstairs from the Palazzo Te, and we can see it through a hole in the ceiling. We see Psyche seated at the top of a few steps at a table, which looms above us, a circular tablecloth hanging down around its dark underside. A canopy is held up by flying putti, and dark, shadowy waiters appear, bringing platters loaded with fruit and flowers. This is the point we got up to yesterday, really – or rather, just before. After she has been royally – or even, divinely – entertained, Cupid and Psyche meet, by night, and he says that she can stay, on condition that she never tries to find out who he is.  She agrees, as long as her sisters can come over, just the once, so she can reassure them that she is alright. I suspect she also wants to gloat. Which is exactly what was going on in yesterday’s picture (POTD 43). As we saw, this meeting ends in an argument when Psyche’s sisters – who, let’s face it, have heard the predictions of the oracle – suggest that the mystery lover might be the very monster that had been augured. But what was she to do? She had sent them away, but what if they were right?

Inevitably, she decides to check up on him. It is one of the essential features of storytelling that, if someone is told not to do something, that is the one thing they will inevitably do. Just think of Adam and Eve. She has been told never to try and find out who Cupid is, or what he looks like. So what does she do? She takes an oil lamp and creeps to his room. Now, it’s a long time since I last read The Golden Ass, but as I remember it, the Palace turns against her. She pushes on the door – it creeks – she creeps softly across the floorboards – and they creek too. Indeed, however quietly she tries to step, the floorboards creek even more. It is as if the Palace is jealous of their love. She finally gets to the bed, and despite stirring in his sleep because of the noise, he hasn’t woken up. But, as she leans over, and finally catches a glimpse of his wings and realises who he is, the lamp – also jealous – sputters, and two drops of hot oil fall onto his arm. He wakes up, furious, knowing that she now knows who he is, and she knows that he knows that she knows. At this point… oh, I’m really sorry, I need to get going. I’ll continue… another day!

Day 43 – Psyche

Jean-Honoré Fragonard, Psyche showing her Sisters her Gifts from Cupid, 1753, National Gallery, London.

I thought I’d have some presents today… for various reasons. Did you know it is the 75th anniversary of the death of Adolf Hitler? Or that it is the 137th anniversary of the death of Edouard Manet? Neither of these are the reason, obviously. But it is the 100th Birthday of Captain Tom Moore – congratulations, sir, and well done for everything you have achieved. So today – Psyche showing her Sisters her Gifts from Cupid. 

Jean-Honoré Fragonard, 1732 – 1806 Psyche showing her Sisters her Gifts from Cupid 1753 Oil on canvas, 168.3 x 192.4 cm Bought, 1978 NG6445 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG6445

The story of Psyche is a wonderful one, and sufficiently long to be shared over a couple of days… if I can track down good enough images, of course.  It is peppered across Greek and Roman myth, but the version that is best known isn’t myth at all, but part of a late Roman novella, The Golden Ass, written by Apuleius in the second half of the second century AD. It tells of a man, Lucius, who, as the result of a freak magic-related accident, is turned into a donkey (if you think you’ve heard this before, yes, this is probably the origin of the Bottom sub-plot in A Midsummer Night’s Dream). He wanders the world trying to regain human form, and on his journeys hears various stories, which are recounted as part of the novella. The longest and most thoroughly told tale is the story of Cupid and Psyche, which became a particular favourite in the Renaissance. It is illustrated in full by Giulio Romano in the Palazzo Te in Mantua, and Raphael started a cycle in the Farnesina in Rome, although sadly it was never completed. I will come back to both, though, as well as throwing in other interpretations as the mood takes me!

Luca Giordano, Psyche Honoured by the People c.1695-7, Royal Collection Trust.

Psyche was a mere mortal, but as a girl, was said to be more beautiful than Venus herself, the Goddess of Beauty. She was so beautiful, in fact, that people started worshipping her instead of Venus. Gods never like a threat to their status, and Venus was no exception. 

Workshop of Raphael, Venus and Cupid, 1518, Farnesina Palace, Rome.

She sent her son Cupid to make Psyche very unhappy, by making her fall in love with a monster (another feature of the story which is echoed in the Dream, perhaps?), but when he saw her he understood what all the fuss was about. Leaning closer to get a better look, he accidentally pricked himself with one of his own arrows, and fell madly in love with her. Knowing that his mother would have been furious, he knew he had to get her out of the way, so he got his good friend Zephyr, the wind (who we have already seen in Picture Of The Day 8, 37 & 41) to pick her up and carry her off to his castle. Once there, she was brought food by invisible servants, played music by invisible musicians, and showered with gifts from who knows where. He came to her at night, in the dark… and the earth moved. Clearly she was happy to be there, and he told her that she could stay, on condition that she never tried to find out his name or see what he looked like.  This suited Psyche, although she was a bit concerned that her sisters might be worried about where she’d got to, so she persuaded Cupid, much against his better judgement, to get Zephyr to bring them to the castle so they could see that she was alright.

On arrival she shows them all the gifts she has been given – some of these are scattered on the ground: a basket of roses, tipped up for inspection by the sister in red, and in front of that an elaborate golden bowl, with turquoise fabric lying in and around it. There is a pipe and a tambourine – evidence of the magical music, perhaps – and leaning against the frame of Fragonard’s painting is another frame, an oval one, with a blue ribbon tied onto the loops at the back so that it can be hung. We will never know what this is – a mirror, perhaps? Or a painting? Also lying on the ground is a quiver full of arrows – this should be a clue. Psyche is not the sort to go out hunting (unlike Diana and her virgin nymphs), so these must belong to Cupid. If only she had noticed them, and stopped to think what they were doing there!

She seems to have been given a vast amount of fabric. One sister, blonde, who is facing us, holds up a length that is a very pale lemon yellow and white, with a sky blue border, while the redhead with her back to us in shadow clasps what appears to be cloth of gold. The fabric pours across the floor and over the step on which this woman is kneeling. As this woman is in the left foreground, and in shadow against a lighter background, she should really be a repoussoir, encouraging us to look further into the image, but she looks off to her left, and directs our attention away from Psyche, the focus of the story. I can only imagine that Fragonard is implying that these bolts of brocade are spread far across the floor, way beyond the edge of the painting.

Jean-Honoré Fragonard, 1732 – 1806 Psyche showing her Sisters her Gifts from Cupid 1753 Oil on canvas, 168.3 x 192.4 cm Bought, 1978 NG6445 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG6445

Fine fabrics would appear to be the stuff of the sisters’ dreams, they are so well attired themselves. The primrose yellow of the standing blonde woman is one of my favourite colours in any painting – don’t ask me why – but Fragonard makes it ring out by surrounding it with different yellows and turquoises. Despite this, there is no doubt that Psyche is the most important person here. Her brilliant white drapery – it could hardly be called it a robe, as it barely covers her, despite its length and breadth – shines out between the shimmering yellow and the deep red. She is the only person seated, her feet resting on a splendid cylindrical cushion, in turquoise velvet, with gold tassels. Her hair is being coiffed by one of her more attentive sisters, who looks over her shoulder to see a swarm of amoretti  – ‘little loves’ – bringing yet more jewelry and roses. It is almost as if they are embodiments of the rich perfumes emanating from the large, gold censer on the far right. 

Her chair is elaborately carved and gilded, and next to the cherub’s head at the end of the arm is a cushion in delicate pink, with feathery gold embroidery appliqued freely and plentifully as if it were the cherub’s wings. All this appears to be taking place in a fantasy setting – well it is rather fantastic! A stage set, perhaps, or the courtyard of a grand palace, with a terrace that has been strewn with rich materials for a tête-à-tête – en plein air – as it were. Fragonard has himself changed his mind about how it is represented, as there is a ghost-like vase hovering above right of the two standing sisters. This is what is known as a pentimento – or change of mind – which has, through the aging of the paint, become visible again.

What do Psyche’s sisters feel about all the attention she has been getting? Well, flying through the sky is a woman with snakes in her left hand and a flaming torch in her right, looking down at the two standing sisters. This is Eris, the Goddess of Discord – the Goddess of Arguments. I’ve always assumed that she has the snakes to freak people out, and the torch to heat up the arguments. Of course, the sisters were jealous! They wanted to know who he was, this wonderful lover, and what did he look like? Psyche couldn’t answer. As he only came at night, she had never seen him. When they pointed out to her that he could be a monster, she lost the calm that she is so clearly enjoying in this painting, and got into an argument (Eris always gets her way in the end). She then told Zephyr to take them away again. But what should she do next? We’ll find out tomorrow!

Day 42 – Some Virtues

Andrea del Verrocchio, Model for the Funeral Monument for Cardinal Niccolò Forteguerri, c. 1476, Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Not exactly a request today, but I was asked to talk about some Virtues a while back, and this terracotta relief sprang to mind. I have since realised which Virtues had been requested, and why, and I will get back to them soon – but for now, a charming sketch which goes to show what a brilliant artist Andrea del Verrocchio was.   

Niccolò Forteguerri was born in Pistoia, not so terribly far from Florence, and rose through the church to become a Cardinal in 1460. It probably helped that his Uncle was Pius II, Pope from 1458-64. Niccolò was, therefore, his nephew, or, in Italian, nipote, from which, of course, we get the word ‘nepotism’ – jobs for the boys. He died in 1473, and was buried in Rome, in his titular church, Santa Cecilia in Trastevere, but his hometown decided that they wanted to remember him, and held a competition to design a memorial. We know little about the process, apart from the fact that in 1476 Verrocchio was commissioned to execute the monument following the design of a bozzetto – or sketch – which he had presented to the steering committee.  It is generally assumed that this is the very bozzetto that Verrocchio submitted.

(c) Victoria and Albert Museum

Made out of terracotta – which translates literally as ‘cooked earth’ – the relief is both wonderfully realised and beautifully sketchy. It is evocative, rather than precise, but allows you to see the disposition of all of the figures, as well as giving a wonderful sense of character and mood. It is full of vibrant movement and flowing draperies, light and airy, as if the characters were out in the open on a windy day, flying or coming in to land, above a platform on which a man is kneeling. 

We are very familiar with the idea of a sketch as a drawing, but anything that is done quickly, or remains apparently unfinished, can be considered a sketch. It could be an oil painting (remind me to show you one of my favourites!) or, as here, a sculpture. They are sometimes also called modelli – or models – as this is what they are – a small version of something which, when finished, will be far larger. Given the vicissitudes through which all art has past, the survival of a clay model from the 15th century is quite remarkable. Admittedly, it has not come down to us unharmed – there are a few repairs visible at the bottom of the relief  (the man’s praying hands are made from red clay, for example) – but it is still in a wonderful condition.

At the top of the image, Christ appears in a mandorla. The word means ‘almond’, and is used to refer to the almond-shaped ‘glory’ held up by the angels. The stress should be on the first syllable, by the way – MANdorla – as so often with three syllable words in Italian (Medici, Cupola… but not modello, where the stress is on the second syllable). In religious dramas, whenever anyone descended from heaven, or was assumed, they did so in a mandorla which was physically winched up or down, to or from the roof of the church…  Jesus looks down, blessing those below with his right hand, while supporting an open book on his knee with his left: this is the image of Christ Pantocrator, or ruler over all (we’re all too familiar with ‘pan’ as a prefix these days), and is a slightly medieval feature of the monument. However, Verrocchio subverts this ‘medieval’ feel with a touch of proto-baroque humour. Although in other images Christ manages his own Ascension unaided, here four angels hold him aloft – although they do not seem entirely secure. The one at the bottom left may have lost his grip, and has had to adjust his hold, or maybe the one above him wasn’t pulling his own weight, I’m not sure, but they are not entirely in control of the mandorla. It has tipped sideways, as you can see from the winged cherub’s head at the top, which is not directly above its companion at the bottom, but some way to the left. This slight shift, with its sense of movement and asymmetry, can be seen in almost all of Verrocchio’s output, a sense of drama which, as I have suggested, prefigures the Baroque in an unprecedented way. 

Moving to the bottom of the bozzetto it is the Cardinal himself who we see. He is kneeling on a sarcophagus, praying, and looking up to Jesus, either witnessing a vision of Christ, or the real thing – it’s up to you to decide. A woman steps towards him, although she is not fully on the sarcophagus. Under her feet is what could be a small rock, but is meant to be a cloud – this was the standard, accepted ‘sign’ for clouds in sculpture at the time. In her left hand, and close to Forteguerri – almost as if she is handing it to him – is a cross. In her right is a chalice, held above her shoulder. These are both items of Faith, and that is indeed who she is: a personification of Faith. Her movement towards him is swift, her right leg stepping across and in front of her left, her drapery flying out behind – again we have a wonderful sense of movement and of asymmetry. The dress of the figure on the right also billows out behind her. More obviously standing on clouds – she is further from the sarcophagus, after all – it is almost as if she is swooning, the rapid movement inward combined with a lowering of the body as she leans forward. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she looks upwards, her gaze parallel to the Cardinal’s own. Her prayer, like all requests, wants fulfilment – that is what she hopes for. Indeed, she represents the virtue of Hope. Notice how Faith’s chalice, the direction of her gaze, and her cross, form a diagonal leading our attention to Forteguerri, while the angle of his head makes us look towards Jesus: Verrocchio expertly directs our eyes around the surface of the relief. Hope’s trailing left leg, and her gaze, create a diagonal which is continued by the leg of a third Virtue who appears above them.

Given that we already have Faith and Hope, this can only be Charity. Together they are the three Virtues named by St Paul in the thirteenth chapter of his first Epistle to the Corinthians. This is verse 13:

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; 
but the greatest of these is charity.

As they are in the Bible, they are often known as the Theological Virtues. Now more often translated as ‘Love’, Charity, or Caritas, is the boundless love of – or for – God, and is expressed in a number of ways. Love is like a burning fire, which is why she carries a flaming torch in her right hand. The love for one’s children is unqualified, and a baby sits on her left. Charity is often surrounded by three – or more – babies, clambering all over her, and you’d have to be really loving to put up with that. Here she has just one, held safe in the crook of her left arm, the torch held as far away as possible. Unusually, she is winged. Verrocchio seems to be equating her with the angels. She flies above the other two virtues, perhaps in line with Paul’s assertion that she is the greatest.

Niccolò Forteguerri kneels on his sarcophagus awaiting the life to come. Faith offers him the consolation of the Cross, Hope echoes his own yearning for Salvation, and there truly is Love between him and Jesus. These three Virtues gather round him – flock to him, even – and reassure us that his soul will be with Jesus in Heaven. What better way to remember a man of whom the city of Pistoia could be justly proud. And even if we thought he wasn’t that great, maybe this monument could persuade us we were wrong – that is the often the function of memorials, if we’re honest.

Sadly the commission did not proceed smoothly. There was disagreement among the commissioning body in Pistoia, and at one point they tried to replace Verrocchio with Piero del Pollaiuolo. But Verrocchio went straight to the Boss – who at this point was Lorenzo ‘the Magnificent’ de’ Medici – who sorted things out. Nevertheless, the monument hadn’t been completed by the time the sculptor headed to Venice in 1483 to complete a more prestigious commission.  The sculptures were completed by his assistants in Florence, and were finally taken to Pistoia five years later. Some were deemed to be substandard, and were re-worked, meaning that the monument wasn’t erected until 1514, more than 40 years after Forteguerri had died. By this time, the Pistoiesi were probably asking ‘Niccolò who’? And that’s not the end. In the 1750s the monument was moved, the figures altered and re-installed, bunched up and straitjacketed by an unimaginative Rococo frame. The kneeling effigy was replaced with a bust, and although it survives in the local museum, Verrocchio’s original intention is lost. There is ongoing scholarly debate about which bits of the sculpture Verrocchio had anything to do with, and to what extent the life, the energy, the vitality of the bozzetto ever made it into marble. What is certainly clear is that, in the monument as installed, Jesus is secure, and the angels are fully in control. I can’t imagine that the church would have allowed any doubt of that. But how wonderful that we still have this magical bozzetto free to see in the V&A.