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Day 7 – The Annunciation

Day 7 – Piero della Francesca, The Annunciation, c. 1455, San Francesco, Arezzo.

Originally posted on 25 March 2020

Something to look forward to: it’s only NINE MONTHS to Christmas! And while we’re at it, I’d like to wish all you mothers out there a Belated Happy Mothers’ Day! The two are not unconnected. Admittedly, anyone reading this outside the UK will be going, ‘But it’s nowhere near Mothers’ Day’, because elsewhere it is celebrated in May… the month of Venus. Not that they are pagans. But then, the UK is officially a Protestant country, and yet we choose to celebrate Mothers’ Day as close as possible to Lady Day, or the Feast of the Annunciation, which, put like that, sounds rather Catholic. Thanks to endless Nativity Plays, and the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, we associate the Annunciation with Christmas. But it is when the Archangel Gabriel announces to the Virgin Mary that she will become the mother of Jesus, so it must be nine months before Christmas. It’s today!

So to celebrate, I have chosen an Annunciation by that most Renaissance of artists, Piero della Francesca. I’ve had a request for Piero from a rather fantastic author, who also happens to be a mother. This particular story also works well, as we have just looked at two other Archangels (see #POTD 5 & 6 – and keep the requests coming in!)

What makes Piero so ‘Renaissance’? Well, long story short, it is the way in which he grounds this most mystical of events in a rational, human world, imbuing it with order, clarity, and a due sense of proportion. That’s not to say that everything is ‘to scale’. Mary has a great sense of majesty and dignity by dint of her monumental appearance – she is far larger than Gabriel. Of course the bible does not give the heights of either of them. You would think that their appearance is a matter of artistic interpretation, but it is usually determined by tradition.

The aim of the painting is to tell the story, and for this story you need the Archangel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary. After that, anything else is optional. So how do artists know what to choose? Well, that’s where tradition is important. I’ve always thought of images like this a bit like cover versions of a song – the lyrics and melody remain the same, but the rhythms and the backing track are different. And very often, you like the one you knew first the best.

Piero’s ‘backing track’ is a deceptively simple piece of architecture, highly decorated in specific places. Mary stands under a loggia supported by columns. She is in a ‘reserved’ area, her own sacred space, almost as if she is standing in a shrine. The angel steps forward, bowing slightly out of respect, the gesture of his right hand somewhere between greeting and blessing. In his left hand he holds a leaf – which might surprise you. You might have been expecting a lily, the symbol of Mary’s purity and virginity, part of the usual ‘backing track’. However in this instance he is holding what is probably meant to be a palm leaf, usualy held by martyrs to symbolise their victory over death. This might in itself be surprising, given that the Roman Catholic Church believes that Mary is without original sin, and as a result, she never died. So it must refer to the victory over death promised by the incarnation – God becoming man – which the angel is announcing now, as Christ would die to save mankind from its sins, and so triumph over death. This is relevant in this particular painting, as it is part of a cycle, a series telling a rather long and wonderful story, ‘The Legend of the True Cross’ (i.e. the very cross on which Jesus died).

Gabriel stands in front of a door, which has the most intricate and complex decorations – the paler ones include a circle containing three swirling leaf shapes, which, given that Gabriel is announcing the conception of the Son of God, probably refer to the Holy Trinity. The brilliance of the decoration also serves emphasize to the supernatural nature of his of greeting. Mary also stands in front of a highly decorated panel, which is, in all probability, another door. Doors are very common in Annunciations, one of the regular elements of the ‘backing track’. They are usually shut, and refer to the ‘hortus conclusus’, or closed garden mentioned in the Old Testament in the Song of Solomon. Early Christians interpreted this reference as foretelling Mary’s virginity: the garden is fertile, but it has not been entered – the door is shut.

In the top left of the painting we see God the Father, dressed in a traditional blue and red, with long white hair and beard. He is looking down at Mary from the clouds and holding his hands out towards her, as if he has just released the dove which represents the Holy Spirit. But you’ll be hard pressed to find the dove… It is just about visible, but easily mistaken for a small cloud (which would probably have been Piero’s intention). However, it is far less visible than it would have been.

There is more than one way to paint on a wall. All wall paintings are murals, but not all murals are frescoes. A fresco is painted onto fresh – i.e. wet – plaster, and the paint bonds with the plaster as it dries, effectively becoming part of the wall. This is known as ‘buon fresco’, or ‘true fresco’. However, you could also paint once the plaster has dried – a technique called ‘a secco’ (i.e. on the dry plaster). The trouble with this is that the paint doesn’t bond with the plaster – and so is far more liker to wear off. A lot of the Holy Spirit seems to have been painted ‘a secco’. Either that, or he’s flown away.

Piero uses the architecture to structure the painting, but also to give it meaning. Each of the characters has its own space – God the Father up in the sky, Gabriel approaching in front of the wall, and Mary in her dedicated space. Various art historians have probably attributed ‘meaning’ to the window and wall at the top right, but I would be dubious about taking any complex suggestions too seriously. It does include features common to 15^th century Italian houses, though, and ensures we know that the event is taking place on Earth, and somewhere that we recognise – this is our world. The wooden pole in front of the shuttered window would be used to hang out laundry, or to air rugs, for example. It also allows Piero to show off his ability with perspective, light, and shade, all of which are used to create three-dimensional form and space. The light is especially relevant here, as this is the point of the Christian story at which the Light of the World (Jesus) comes into the world. However, in this painting, God is not the major source of light: notice how the column is lit from the right. This helps to make the column look more realistic for the any viewer in front of the fresco itself, as the main window in the chapel is just to the right of this painting (in the second image you can see the window, admittedly at night, behind the Crucifix which hangs above the High Altar of the church). Lighting the column from the right therefore makes it look as if the light on the column is coming from the window in the chapel – so the column appears to be real, and in the same space as us.

It is not just a column, though, it is a metaphor for Mary: it has the same proportions, for one thing. A column has three sections – a base, a shaft and a capital. A capital is the ‘head’, in this case scrolled and leafy, at the top of the column. The size of the capital compared to the full height of the column is exactly the same as the size of Mary’s head compared to her full height. Piero maps this out for us. The column is supporting a beam-like structure called an entablature, which is in two sections, going left to right above Mary’s head, and diagonally backwards towards the second column. This diagonal section of the entablature is in line with God the Father – and especially with his hands. It would appear to mark the direction of travel of the Holy Spirit as it heads towards the Virgin, like a landing strip. It also connects the column to Mary, showing us the similarity of their proportions. But what makes it a metaphor? In the same way that the column supports the building, Mary supports the Church – in its broadest sense – and for that matter the whole of God’s mission, through her acceptance of the responsibilities, joys and sufferings inherent in becoming the Mother of God.

For most other artists this would have been more than enough, but Piero’s brilliance means that there is even more to it. I think the architecture holds yet one more meaning. ‘The Annunciation’ stands out in this fresco cycle as the only story that is not part of ‘The Legend of the True Cross’. However, another part of the narrative is missing: the Crucifixion itself. I honestly can’t remember who came up with this idea, and it might even have been me (but probably not!): the Crucifixion is not in the chapel itself. In the church as it is arranged today it seems to be represented by the far earlier painting hanging above the High Altar, a placement that surely, in some way, reflects the situation when Piero was working. In the narrative ‘The Annunciation’ leads up to this, of course (admittedly from the other end of Christ’s story), but it also performs another function. The bible tells us that Jesus was crucified alongside two thieves, and often all three are shown in a row, with Jesus in the centre. Not so here, you might think. But look at the second illustration again. To the right of the Crucifixion, the fresco shows the ‘Dream of Constantine’. The Emperor himself lies in a cylindrical tent with a conical roof, supported by a vertical pole. The pole takes an equivalent position to the column in the Annunciation. In the same way, the base of the roof of the tent, and the overlapping entablatures in the other fresco are also equivalent, and are placed at the same height in both frescoes – about 3/5 of the way up the painting. Seen this way, the compositions of both frescoes are based on the cross. ‘The Annunciation’ and ‘The Dream of Constantine’ sketch out the positions of the two thieves on either side of Christ. It may be nine months to Christmas, but we’re a lot closer to Easter.

Day 6 – Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber

Day 6 – Juan Sánchez Cotán, Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber, ca. 1602, San Diego Museum of Art, California.

Originally posted on 24 March 2020

If I were to give these musings a title each day, today’s would be ‘The Vengeance of the Vegetables, or, In Search of Celeriac’, and it is a response to the various suggestions I have received for ‘Best Cabbage in Art’, or for that matter, the strangest manifestations of cabbages, together with a request for some beautiful celeriac. As a result, today we have #PicturesOfTheDay’, to do the subject justice, and fto draw a line under it. So don’t worry if you have never liked cabbage, this will be the last purely vegetable based choice for the foreseeable future. Thoughts, suggestions, and questions on vegetable matters are always welcome, of course, as are requests for non-vegetable inspired art.

The search for a celeriac has opened my mind to the way my mind works. My first thought was, ‘Ah yes, Cotán, that wonderful, if slightly obscure Spanish Still Life painter’ – and the painting I thought of was today’s main image, ‘Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber’. And yes, you’re right, there is no celeriac. It was, however, suggested by more than one person as a nomination for ‘Best Cabbage’, and it is certainly very high on my list. But why did I think it might have a celeriac? First of all, to anyone who knows Cotán’s work, this must be the first painting that comes to mind. Once seen, how could you not remember it? It is so weirdly beautiful, oddly sparse, and mesmerically modern for a work that was painted about 420 years ago. And I suspect that that is what makes it so memorable – the apparent simplicity of it all, combined with the unusual intellectual complexity. Just imagine going to your larder (does anyone still have a larder?), opening the cupboard door, and seeing a quince and a cabbage hanging there, swinging slightly – you would be hypnotised, wouldn’t you? Not only that, but the melon has had some slices cut out of it, some have been eaten, but one has been placed in the cupboard, projecting slightly, in conversation with a cucumber. The latter projects further out, casting a shadow below the shelf, and pushing into our space, as if it wants to be grabbed and eaten. Reading from left to right, and from top to bottom, the alternation of fruit-vegetable-fruit-vegetable is also mesmeric, and traces out a parabola, almost as if Cotán has tracked the fall of an object in time. And although the quince’s leaf is in front of the cabbage’s string, the forms also seem to emerge gradually from the cupboard.

What is it that makes a work iconic? I know, a much-overused word these days, but I mean it in terms of – well, you know what I mean. What connects the Mona Lisa, the Sunflowers, Whistler’s Mother and American Gothic? They all fit in that category of rather surprisingly famous paintings. It’s not always the beauty. I think it’s the initial impact of the image, which is bold and easy enough to understand at first glance, and so burns itself onto your retina. At second glance you already have the affirmation of recognition, and you congratulate yourself as you know you’ve seen it before, because the simplicity of its presentation is already in your memory. Already you start to notice the slightly quirky nature of the image, and by the third glance you are wondering ‘Why is she smiling? Or is she? Where is that vase? Why is she in profile, parallel to the wall, when we’re out her? What is the pitchfork for, and why are they standing guard outside their house?’ If you’ve seen those images you should know what I mean. Being parallel to the picture plane seems to have a lot to do with it.

Why does Cotán have a quince and a cucumber hanging in his cupboard? And why are they socially isolated? The objects in his paintings rarely touch. There’s no real mystery here, as foodstuffs were suspended in cupboards to help prevent them from rotting, and that’s also why they are kept apart. A useful lesson to be learnt from this, I suspect, but please don’t try it with the string. It is this measured suspension in space, combined with the detailed, naturalistic depiction of the forms, that makes it almost unreal (which is why I would use the term ‘naturalistic’ rather than ‘realistic’ – the same applies to much of the work of, say, Jan van Eyck).

It’s a great painting, but no celeriac. A quick survey made me realise I had been thinking about the second painting, ‘Still Life with Game, Vegetables and Fruit’, also from 1602, which is in the Prado in Madrid.

Yes, I know, it’s not a celeriac, and it’s not even celery, but the possibility in my memory that it might be must have been why I thought about it. As Jacqueline Cockburn pointed out (and she really knows about Spanish art – look her up on http://www.artandcultureandalucia.com), it’s a cardoon, and is still used in Spanish cooking. What is a cardoon, you ask? Well, it’s an artichoke thistle, or ‘Cynara cardunculus’ (that should be in italics, but FB doesn’t do italics), a member of the family Asteraceae (it’s at times like this I’m glad I’m socially distancing with a plant ecologist). It’s another glorious painting, and just as magical as the last.

It has been suggested that the sparseness of Cotán’s paintings relates to his life as a Carthusian monk: unlike some Spanish Still Life paintings, there is no excess. (I must tell you about the Carthusians some time – they would be doing very well right now, as their entire life consisted of social distancing within a community. But that’s another story).

It’s also a great painting, but still no celeriac. One of the things I realised was that I didn’t actually know what celeriac is. Now I do. It’s ‘Apium graveolens var. rapaceum’, or, in other words, a variety of celery in which the stem between the lowest leaves and roots is swollen and edible. Again, thanks to the Plant Ecologist. So I now know what it is, but I can’t find one in Old Master Painting. However, I have a have found a beautiful example by a New Master Painter (female). As Grizelda Pollock pointed out many years ago, ‘Old Mistress’ has connotations which are unhelpful. So follow this link:

Celery Root

Sally Jacobs is a rather wonderful botanical illustrator whose work has an intense, hyper-realistic and slightly surreal feel to it. Her site doesn’t want me to download the images without permission (fair enough) so I’m just going to send you her way, and if you really like the celeriac you can but a print of it (no, this is not product placement – I’ve never spoken to her!)

So much for celeriac. There remain two images of cabbages that I cannot let go.

Thanks are due to Judith Aldersey-Williams for mentioning the Miraculous Cabbages of Ascoli Piceno – despite at least six visits to this most beautiful and least visited of Italian towns, I had never heard of them. And thanks, also, to Natasha Broke who found the story for me. The fourth image is ‘The Miracle of the Garden’, painted by Augusto Mussini, who, after he got into a fight with another artist about over a third artist (female), ran away. He ended up seeking hospitality in a Capuchin Monastery, only to end up as a friar himself. It is part of a series of works from the early 20th Century depicting the life of San Serafino of Montegranaro, which is in the Church of the Capuchins in Ascoli Piceno. I’m sorry to say I’ve never been in. Or rather, I’m happy to say I’ve never been in, as it’s a good excuse to go back. This is how Natasha explained what is going on:

‘The story goes that when San Serafino was working as a porter at a monastery he gave away all the vegetables growing in the garden to the poor and got into terrible trouble with the Abbot. The next day the garden was again full of vegetables, although in the picture we mostly see cabbages. They are not as beautifully rendered as those in your earlier post, but we hold them, San Serafino and Ascoli in great affection which transcends the talent or otherwise of the artist’.

There is a lot I like about this painting, and I’d love to see it in the flesh to see how it works. I’m especially intrigued by the way in which the wing of the angelic gardener in the bottom right projects over the frame and into our space – a baroque game played by the likes of Bernini. It appears to be a carved gilt-wood frame, and I can’t work out from this photograph how Mussini did it, but I love how it connects us to the world of the miracle.

And finally, possibly the maddest picture I’ve ever seen, posted by Ruth French: thank you again!

Apparently there are several versions of this painting, ‘The Legend of the Baker of Eeklo’, variously attributed to Cornelis van Dalem, or Jan van Wechelen, or both, or their circle. This image comes from the Christie’s website – they sold it in 2014 for £30,000 – and Ruth found the following explanation on Bonham’s:

‘According to legend, when townfolk of Eeklo in Flanders had trouble with their heads, they went to the village bakery. There they would be diagnosed by a doctor, whose assistant would lop off their heads and place cabbages on their necks to stem the bleeding. The heads would then be kneaded and rolled, rubbed with a curative cream, baked in the oven and ultimately replaced.’

I have absolutely nothing to say about that. Well, not true – it makes me think of St Eligius (but that’s another story). It also reminds me of the fantastic Irish close harmony trio The Nualas, and their song ‘Curly Kay,’ aka ‘Girl with a Cabbage for a Head’ – google ‘Nualas Curly Kay’ and you’ll find it! I’d post a link, but for some reason YouTube won’t load on my laptop.So – that’s it for the vegetables. I hope I leave you well nourished. Don’t lose you’re your heads, and enjoy the rest of the day. And remember: Cotán’s vegetables are socially distancing. Be more Cotán.

Day 5 – St Michael Triumphs over the Devil

Day 5 – Bartolomé Bermejo, St Michael Triumphs over the Devil, 1468, National Gallery, London

Originally posted on 23 March 2020

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

The connection might at first sight seem obvious – a Superhero has come to the rescue, after all, but that’s not what I was thinking about. Nevertheless, it bears consideration. The Superhero in this case is the Archangel Michael, whose various responsibilities include weighing the souls at the Last Judgement, and defeating the Devil: he is in command of God’s army in the Book of Revelation, making sure all the rebellious angels are vanquished. Rather than the ‘S’ of Superman, Michael has the Heavenly Jerusalem reflected in his golden breastplate. Even if gold would not in any way be effective as armour, it is pure and unchanging (it doesn’t tarnish) – just like God, so it is a symbol of his divine authority. It also reflects beautifully, allowing Bermejo to show off his brilliance as a painter – just look at the way the red of the lining of the cloak is reflected in his calves!

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

What does he need saving from? Well, the Devil, naturally, which is fashioned here out of everything most unpleasant. It always reminds me of one of the monsters made by Sid Philips, the psychopath neighbour in Toy Story. It has at least four eyes – two in its face and two on its nipples. They are red, and with the black pupils they echo the poppies, which are symbols of death. It also has two mouths. The one in its stomach has a snake for a tongue. Lizard mouths form the elbow joints, and the rest is a combination of bat wings, claws, spikes and scales, everything generally unpleasant. And yet, to my eyes, it remains faintly absurd, even comical. There is no doubt to me that he will be defeated. Michael holds his rock crystal shield in his left hand, and raises his right over his head ready to strike, and, I suspect, once his arm has swung round, the head will be sliced straight off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 4 – Tobias and the Angel

Day 4 – Workshop of Verrocchio, Tobias and the Angel, about 1470-5, National Gallery, London.

Originally posted on 22 March 2020

Day 4 and I’m building up a number of ideas, thanks to your queries, requests and enthusiasms. Thanks for the various nominations for ‘Best Cabbage in Art’ – I’ll get back to those, I suspect, keep them coming, and I’m still looking out for a celeriac and some gratuitously naked men (though not in the same painting). I’m always happy to do ‘requests’, so do keep them coming! Today, however, rather than gratuitously naked men (to balance up all those objectified women), I’m going to think about men’s legs, or at least, red tights, partly because of the enthusiasm voiced previously for the fish in today’s painting, ‘Tobias and the Angel’ by the Workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio (which means, it looks like Verrocchio, but somehow it’s not quite in his style – although that is notoriously difficult to pin down as he had so many brilliant assistants: more of that later).

So why the red tights? The fact is, red tights were THE must-have fashion item for men in the late 15^th and early 16^th Century in Europe, which gives us a sense of the status of the young man on the right of the painting: he’s pretty well off, and would be recognised as such by any viewer in 15^th century Florence, who would have presumed he was the son of a successful businessman. He’s off on a walk with a man wearing a rather fine, and large, pair of wings. I put it that way, just to point out that when we look at paintings, we make assumptions without realising it. You’ve read the title of the painting after all, so you know it’s an angel – and even if you hadn’t read the title you would have assumed it was an angel, because men don’t usually wander around wearing wings. The title also tells us the young man is Tobias – but you could only know that from the painting if you know the story that this is illustrating. So, don’t read the label: you should always look at a painting first, and only read the label later. Let’s look at the details, and work out the assumptions we are making.

I have assumed they are both male, but most people nowadays would probably say they were very feminine. However angels, in the Catholic Church at least, are only ever male, as they effectively part of the upper echelons of the priesthood (he is wearing something akin to ecclesiastical robes). And only men wore tights, and showed off that much leg. I’ve assumed they are walking – because we can see clearly that they are. Verrocchio (who probably designed the image, even if he didn’t paint it all) has gone so far as to show us how to walk – the angel puts his left leg in front of his right, and Tobias puts his right leg in front of his left, it’s that simple. The little dog is doing the same. If you hadn’t noticed the dog, that’s because, like the couple in the background of Bacon’s ‘Cookmaid’ yesterday (#POTD 3), the dog was painted over the background, and has faded – it is now slightly see-through.

This is not a ghost dog (although this is one of two suggestions I’d have for the theme of ‘Ghost Dogs in Art’). The angel is leading the way: they are walking from right to left, and the angel is in the lead, while Tobias holds onto his arm. Each of them is holding something – the angel has a small, circular container in his right hand, while Tobias holds two things. Tightly curled in his left hand is a scroll, which, if you look at the detail, has the word ‘Ricordo’ written on it. And looped round his forefinger is a string, both ends of which are tied to a fish.

At least, I assume it’s a fish: it could of course be a curiously fish-shaped handbag, in the same way that the man on the left might be wearing a backpack in the shape of wings. But as that seems anachronistic for the 15^th century, it is safe to assume that one is an angel, and the other is a fish. Even though it has been slit along the bottom, and is dripping blood, it seems very much alive and wriggling, its scales glistening with moisture and the string pulling on its flesh. It’s so well painted, in fact, with such close and almost scientific attention to the fall of light on the scales, that some art historians have suggested it might have been painted by Verrocchio’s most famous assistant: Leonardo da Vinci. I’m not sure that I agree, but it is a great fish.

There are many other things we could observe – the way Tobias’s cloak echoes the angel’s wings, for example, or the way the cloak flies out, suggesting that they are walking at great speed (or, more likely, into a wind). But these must wait. What do these observations tell us? Or rather, how are they explained? The painting illustrates the Book of Tobit, which is either in the Bible or in the Apocrypha, depending on which denomination of Christianity you listen to. It tells of Tobit, a good Jewish man who – long story short – became blind. He could not support his family, so sends his son Tobias to collect a debt from distant family members in a far off land. The only problem is that Tobias has never made such a journey before, and so Tobit suggests that he find someone to go with him. On heading out into the town he meets a man called Azarias, who claims to be a distant family member, and says that he’d be happy to accompany him. Dad agrees with this arrangement (even though he’s never heard of a family member called Azarias), and gives them the IOU from the debtor to take with them – that is, he gives them the record, or ‘Ricordo’, of the debt that is owed – Tobias has it rolled up in his left hand. They set off, accompanied by the pet dog, and walk for miles, get thirsty, get hot, and get sweaty, so they head down to a river to drink and bathe. At this point Tobias is attacked by an enormous fish, so huge it threatens to eat him whole. Somehow, at Azarias’s suggestion, they manage to kill it, whereupon they roast it and eat it, taking care to preserve some of its vital organs ‘for later’. I’m assuming that’s what is in the small, circular container, which looks a little bit like a pillbox.

Eventually they arrive at their destination, and the relatives are overjoyed to meet them, partly because they are feeling guilty about the outstanding debt, but also because they have a daughter of a marriageable age who would be just right for Tobias. The fact that she has been married six times before, and each time has murdered her husband on her wedding night doesn’t strike them as problematic. Azarias is especially unconcerned. He suggests they sacrifice one of the vital organs, which has the required effect, and the demon that is possessing the bride is driven out and imprisoned in Egypt. The couple then go to bed and sleep. No, honestly, that’s what it says. They sleep. But they do wake up the following morning overjoyed that they are both still alive. Nevertheless, Tobias cuts short the wedding celebrations so he can get back to Dad. He, and Azarias, and the little dog, head off home. Tobit is happy to see them, and even happier when, at Azarias’s suggestion, Tobias makes the remaining vital organ into a fish paste and applies it to Dad’s eyes. On washing them clean his sight is restored – a miracle! It’s almost, Tobit says while thanking Azarias, as if God has been with them all along the way. At which point, Azarias tells him he’s right, God has indeed been with them all a long the way. He then reveals himself to be none other than the Archangel Raphael, before flying off to heaven, leaving Tobit, Tobias – and, in a wonderful painting by Rembrandt, the little dog – cowering in amazement.

So, everything in the painting is explained by the story. Or rather, everything helps us to know which story is being illustrated, because, as you’ve probably noticed, the artist has made at least two ‘deliberate mistakes’. First of all, if someone walked up to you with an enormous pair of wings and claimed to be a member of your family, wouldn’t you notice? We don’t stop and say ‘a man with wings’ – we skip that stage and go straight to ‘angel’ – so why didn’t Tobias? Well, it’s like Superman (and no, I’m not referring to Tobias’s flying cloak…). Why does NO ONE in Gotham City know that Clark Kent is Superman? He’s only removed his glasses and whipped off his trousers, after all. In the story, though, we need to know they are the same – Clark Kent is Superman in the same way that Azarias is the Archangel Gabriel. We need to know he’s an angel, or we wouldn’t know which story is being represented – and we must assume that Tobias simply cannot see the wings. Next problem: the fish! It’s a lovely fish, but it’s tiny – there’s no way it could eat Tobias alive. But then, if it were big enough to eat him, there would be no space for anything else in the painting. It’s a symbolic fish, and it tells us that this is Tobias. Why do we need to know? Well, without Tobias, this is just an angel. With any other boy, he would be a guardian angel, but with Tobias, this is Raphael. Ernst Gombrich pointed out years ago that these symbols are like Russian dolls, nested inside each other. We know this is Raphael because that is Tobias, and we know that is Tobias, because he has a fish. And a dog. Why the dog? Because it’s in the story – and it’s only mentioned twice: once as they set out and once when they return. It’s a wonderful piece of storytelling, and if you haven’t read the original, you should. Here’s a link to the Revised Standard Version:

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Tobit+1u0026amp;version=RSV

But why is Raphael important? The question itself is relevant, because the label on the painting says ‘Tobias and the Angel’ – but, as so often, this is deceptive, because really this is a painting of Raphael, Tobias is only there to identify him. In the same light we wouldn’t say ‘The Lily and the Angel’, or ‘The Scales and the Angel’, we’d say ‘Gabriel’ or ‘Michael’. Raphael claims at the end of the book to be one of the seven named archangels who sit around the throne of God without, annoyingly, naming the other six. We only regularly see two in Western European art – Gabriel and Michael – and Raphael is the third most commonly represented (the others can be seen from time to time, but that’s another story). Because he cured Tobit’s blindness, he was associated with healing, and because he accompanied Tobias on his journey he also was invoked by businessmen whose sons and heirs were making their first business trip – and by the lads themselves. It is for precisely this reason that Tobias is dressed as a young and fashionable Florentine youth. Check out those red tights! One particular painting underlines this connection with the following verse painted at the bottom:

Raphael medicinalis
Mecum sis perpetualis
Et sicut fuisti cum Tobia
Semper mecum sis in via

‘Raphael the healer, be with me always, and as you travelled with Tobias, be with me always on my journey’

We could all do with him now, really.

Day 3 – Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables and Fruit

Day 3 – Sir Nathaniel Bacon, Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables and Fruit, probably 1620s, Tate Britain, London.

Originally posted on 21 March 2020

So what, I hear you ask, is the best cabbage in art (see #POTD 1)? Well, one of you asked, so thank you Sarah! I have two nominations, but I’m going to cut to the chase and give the award to Sir Nathaniel Bacon, for his ‘Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables and Fruit’ @Tate #Britain, probably painted in the first half of the 1620s. I admire these plants for their sheer size, and for the loving attention to detail with which Bacon has painted them, for their subtle variations of colour and tone, with a soft sheen on the inner, lighter, suppler leaves, and the clarity of the ribs giving architectural support to the darker, firmer – if a little frayed – outer ones. They may well have been grown by Sir Nathaniel himself: he came from a family of gardening aristocrats, the most famous of whom was his uncle, statesman and philosopher Sir Francis Bacon, whose essay ‘Of Gardens’, written in 1625, was one of the first on the subject.

There are three of these behemoth brassicas, each of which seems to have a life and character of its own. The one on the left seems to be eyeing up the Cookmaid, almost licking its leaves, puckering up like Audrey II in ‘The Little Shop of Horrors’, preparing to devour her. Indeed, one of its leaves, framed by a fence in the background, reaches past the end of the wall like the extended hand of Michelangelo’s God the Father on the Sistine Ceiling, about to give life to the Cookmaid’s melon. And yes, she is inordinately proud of her melons. Despite his name, Bacon has painted an entirely vegetarian image, but even so there is a lot of flesh on display. This is a painting of burgeoning fecundity, richness and plenty, with rampant root vegetables, tumescent squash, and bulging pumpkins.

In the background we can just pick out the kitchen garden, growing an entire army of enormous cabbages. There is also a couple in conversation – it could even be towards them that the stray leaf is pointing. Bacon painted them after the background, and they have worn a little thin, so it’s hard to see what is going on. I really can’t work out what the woman is holding, but the man has a basket on his back containing the most enormous carrots. I suspect he has approached her because he wants to give her one.

Looked at in this way you could divide the whole painting into male and female. There is nothing scientific about this division, it should be said, but that’s how the objects appear, how they are grouped in the painting. On the left, the richly-coloured and feminine flowers and fruits, with the Cookmaid as ‘Best in Show’, face up to the man-spreading, muscular vegetables on the right, with each side displayed to perfection against the background of a wall. The space between them opens up to the garden, and keeps the two sides frustratingly apart, a leaf nestling cherries and plums on a basket of beans being the only point of communication.

It is a display vegetable abundance, yes, but also of artistic skill. Bacon is showing off his ability to depict different colours, shapes and textures – just look at those beans, bursting with vitality and goodness, not to mention the bloom of the plums, and the intricacy of the basket itself. He was a remarkable, but unusual, artist, a self-taught aristocrat, as we learn from the inscription on his funeral monument in Suffolk:

“Look Traveller, this is the monument of Nathaniel Bacon, A Knight of the Bath, whom, when experience and observation had made him most knowledgeable in the history of plants, astonishingly Nature alone taught him through his experiments with the brush to conquer Nature by Art. You have seen enough. Farewell.”

And the moral is…? I hate to think. But you’ll be hard pressed to find a display like this in your local supermarket now. Perhaps we should all get gardening in case it goes on longer than we think.

p.s. If you haven’t ‘seen enough’, you should read this fascinating blog post from The Gardens’ Trust about Sir Nathaniel, his family, his plants and his paintings:

Sir Nathaniel Bacon, his kitchen garden and his cookmaid

Day 2 – Pan and Syrinx

Day 2 – Boucher, Pan and Syrinx, 1759, National Gallery, London.

Originally posted on 20 March 2020

Day 2, and my thoughts turned to pandemics – don’t ask me why. The term comes from the Greek words ‘pan’ and ‘demos’, meaning ‘all’ and ‘people’. This, in turn, made me think of Pan, the Greek god of nature, fields, hills and groves, of shepherds and the flocks, of growth, and fertility and therefore not unconnected to sex and sexuality. He’s half man and half goat, and let’s face it, who doesn’t occasionally want someone who’s a bit of an animal? The origin of his name, is, as so often, lost in the mists of time, but oddly it’s not entirely unconnected with the English word ‘pasture’. However, almost certainly it has nothing to do with the notion of ‘all’ – although some folk etymologies, even in ancient times, suggested that it did.

Today’s picture, like yesterday’s (#POTD 1) was inspired by Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’. This time it is Pan who has fallen in love with a nymph. Syrinx, like Callisto (painted by Titian in one of the Poesie), was a follower of the chaste goddess Diana. Terrified of Pan, she fled, and sought shelter with the river nymphs, who obligingly turned her into a clump of reeds. Pan’s frustrated sighs caused these reeds to vibrate, and the sound was surprisingly beautiful – so he cut them down and made the first set of panpipes.

Boucher’s painting is an image of typical Rococo naughtiness, with ample dimpled and flushing flesh willingly displayed. One cupid flies up to the right with an arrow and a flaming torch (in the words of the poet, ‘Come on baby, light my fire…’), while a second seems to grab Pan to pull him on – or hold him back. Pan is already clutching at the reeds, although Syrinx is anything but transformed – he seems frustrated, because he can’t get what he wants. Maybe that’s because Syrinx simply isn’t available, seeing how she seeks solace in the arms of a river Nymph. The latter is identified by the waterweeds in her hair, and by the jug of eternally flowing water on which she leans – the source of her own personal stream. The story really doesn’t call for two naked women, and there’s no real reason why they should be so closely clinging, apart from Syrinx’s need for protection.

This is the point at which I’d like to know more, but as yet I have not found an expert on ‘Lesbianism in the Art of François Boucher’. This reads like the title of an academic paper, and, if all else fails, I am going to have to write it myself. However, I do know that 1759, the date the image was painted, falls at an interesting time in the history of lesbianism. The year before, the Marquis de Croismire had involved himself in the affair of Marguerite Delamarre, an unwilling nun. The Marquis tried to use his position in society to liberate her from the convent. Shortly after this, Denis Diderot came up with a ruse to try and trick the Marquis to act once more, and started writing letters from a fictional nun, Suzanne, who, like the real-life Marguerite, was desperate to get out of the convent in which she had effectively been imprisoned. These letters developed ian epistolary novel La Religieuse, initially and private and personal affair which was eventually published posthumously in 1792. It covers many subjects, not least of which was corruption among religious institutions – and notably, the perverse sexual practices (i.e. lesbianism) that the other nuns were forcing upon the unwilling Suzanne, who needed someone – perhaps the Marquis de Croismire? – to rescue her. The assumption, of course, was that the nuns had only turned to each other as they had no men to hand – oh, the arrogance of straight men!

Meanwhile in Vienna in 1760, the year after Boucher’s painting, the eldest son of Empress Maria Theresa, the soon to be Emperor Joseph II, was married to the beautiful, young Isabella of Parma, who promptly fell in love with Joseph’s sister Maria Christina. A passionate correspondence ensued, but the young girls were separated and, after her death, Maria Christina’s letters were destroyed, so only half of the correspondence survives. That half is delightful, touching, and, ultimately, moving.

Is there any connection between Diderot’s novel, the affair of Isabella and Maria Christina and Boucher’s painting? Was there something in the water around 1760? Apart, that is, from Syrinx… I’d love to know! Perhaps more importantly, how relevant are paintings like this today? It might be worthwhile pointing out that the name ‘Syrinx’ is the origin of our word ‘syringe’: do remember that when they manage to develop a vaccine. And Pan? As god of the wide-open spaces, he spent much of his time relaxing with the sheep, wandering through the fields calmly playing his pipes. But if he awoke suddenly from his midday nap he would shout out, causing the sheep to run away with a sudden fear that he had inspired. The Greeks called it ‘panikos’. His name is the origin of our word ‘panic’. Remember him when you can’t find any toilet paper.

Day 1 – The Rape of Europa

Day 1 – Titian, The Rape of Europa, 1562, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston.

Originally posted on 19 March, 2020

In these extraordinary times, I’m going to attempt to write about a painting every day – but where to start? Having made a pilgrimage on foot to the National Gallery on Tuesday to catch the wonderful Titian exhibition just after it opened and immediately before it closed again, I am choosing the Rape of Europa from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.

The painting is one of six Poesie which Titian made for the man who would become King Phillip II of Spain. They must rank among Titian’s greatest achievements. Not only do they show his phenomenal technique, his astonishing ability to manipulate paint and to form worlds out of colour, but they also demonstrate his brilliance as a storyteller. Drawing on classical mythology, and mainly the Metamorphoses of Ovid, he enters into a common Renaissance debate about the arts: which is better, poetry or painting? Although drawing much of his imagery from Ovid’s text, these are not illustrations. He adapts the stories, reworks them, finding the perfect way to spin his yarn on canvas. He retells the tales with brushstrokes rather than words.

Why this one, of the six? Well, although I have been to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum at least three times, I can’t in all honesty say I stopped to look at this painting – there are so many other wonders there, and at the time I was either in my early stages of studying art history, and knew nothing, or was obsessed with the Ferrarese paintings in the collection. I’ve come to know it better through talking about the Poesie – particularly when the National Gallery acquired, with the National Galleries of Scotland, the two Diana paintings – and while teaching courses on the art of the 16^th Century. I also love the fact that Velazquez knew it in the Royal Collection in Spain, and quoted it in the background of one of his own works. However, before Tuesday, I couldn’t swear that I had seen the original before, so in that respect, it is new to me.

In this work we see how, in his endless and unquenchable lust, in order to get his hands on the beautiful nymph Europa, Jupiter has transformed himself into a bull. He persuaded Mercury to drive a herd of cows down to the beach, and frolicked among them, flirting with Europa, who happened to be there with her companions. She was gradually entranced by his winning ways, and, as she clambered upon his back, he sidled from shore to sea, going from the shallows through the waves, without her realising what deep water he was getting her into. Her companions – and the unwitting herd – can be seen in the distance, helpless on the shoreline.

It’s a problematic story – it is after all a story of rape. Is she entirely unwilling? In this instance it isn’t all that clear, although in other encounters Ovid is explicit about the dread and terror Jupiter’s victims experience. Like Jupiter, Titian seduces us. His means: rich colours and lushly applied brushstrokes, underplaying the horror with a touch of the absurd. I’d never noticed before how cupid rides his fish in much the same bizarre and awkward way that Europa rides the bull, one arm clinging on, waving (not drowning), a leg flying free.

The other fish was a revelation, a new favourite, and I’d like to nominate it as the Best Fish in Art, a category of which I was previously unaware (although I do have two suggestions for the Best Cabbage). Its scales are evoked with flicks of white and blue paint, making it glimmer at the bottom of the painting, as if is merging with the sea, appearing and disappearing, painted with similar brushstrokes and tones to the sea itself, part of the watery world over which Europa is now conveyed.

Eventually she will get her feet back on dry land – on the continent of Europe, which took her name. And eventually we will be able to see these paintings again, brought together for the first time, to be seen as Titian himself never did, all in one room. I am a least glad that these paintings, long separated, must be enjoying some quiet time together, but I am looking forward to seeing them all again when we have got to the other side.