A new life for The Death of Cleopatra

Edmonia Lewis, The Death of Cleopatra, 1876, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, D.C.

Greetings from Sunny Sidmouth, where I’m enjoying a brief stint playing the title role in Yes, Prime Minister. It’s a short run, but by the time it ends I will probably have been in post almost as long as Liz Truss. I’ll be back online by Monday, 22 July when I will give the second talk in my scattered series dedicated to Tate Britain’s thorough introduction to Women Artists in Britain, 1520-1920, Now You See Us. The talk is entitled Victorian Splendour, and will start with the gradually introduced restrictions which were imposed by the Royal Academy on submissions to their annual exhibition. They turn out to be rather important, and can help us to understand where our views on what constitutes ‘Art’ come from. This will lead us into the wealth and riches of both painting and sculpture produced by women in the 19th Century. The third and final talk, From photography to something more modern will follow on Monday, 5 August at 6pm, and will look at the new techniques, new approaches, and new means of access to the world of art which were available to women from the end of the Victoria era into the early 20th Century. Today, as my head is still caught up in the world of politics, I am looking back to a post from four years ago, looking at a remarkable American artist whose work is included in Now You See Us because she spent the last years of her life in Britain. I haven’t edited it at all: when I say ‘today’, it was 8 June, 2020.

Today I’m finding it hard to say who or what had the most unusual history – the artist or their art, the subject or the sculpture – and given the fame of Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt that’s really saying something.  But Edmonia Lewis was a remarkable woman, and, if anything, her history is further shrouded by the mists of time, and by whims of the imagination, than that of her famous subject. So let’s start with the sculpture. Cleopatra is seated on her throne, her left arm hanging down, her right hand resting on her thigh, her head tilted to one side, for all the world as if she has just nodded off. But as we know from the title, carved on the base of the sculpture, this is the sleep of death. Rarely has it been portrayed so calmly.

Intricately carved, you may yet be struggling to focus on some of the details: the sculpture is badly worn, the result of an unconventional history. Cleopatra wears an approximation to the headgear of Egyptian pharaohs, a combination of the nemes – the striped head cloth, with its two lappets hanging down behind the ears (familiar to us today from the mask of Tutankhamun) – with a form of pinnacle, perhaps derived from the hedjet – the white crown of Upper Egypt. The stylised leaf decoration on the back of the throne creates a foil to the crisply-carved folds of the dress, making the figure stand out from its background. The half-length sleeves are caught up twice into bunches, and the dress is gathered at a high waist, so that there is a counterpoint between the freely-hanging, more deeply carved drapery and broader areas where the cloth clings to the underlying anatomy. One breast is defined by fabric and folds, the other revealed. Her right hand, apparently relaxed, still holds the asp that killed her.

The queen wears two necklaces, both beaded, and the lower also has a pendant, possibly representing a bucranium– the skull of an ox – although, given the lack of detail, this is not certain. The full skirt flares out behind her hips, and hangs over the arm of the throne, which is carved along the sides with mock hieroglyphs.

The two heads on the arms of the throne, also wearing the nemes, represent the twin sons of Cleopatra and Mark Anthony. Whether the ring she wears on the fourth finger of her left hand represents her relationship with him, or is merely decorative, is not clear. She wears wonderfully inventive sandals, the large loops revealing her delicately carved toes, the smallest of which is slightly lifted. The skirt of the dress hangs down from her knees, wrapping round her left shin, with the hem to revealing her feet. From there, it trails down to the right, falling over the edge of the sculpture. A rose has dropped onto the foot of the throne, and lies there, resting on the dress, the fallen bloom symbolic of the subject’s death. 

On one side, as we have seen, the arm of the throne is covered by drapery. The other is decorated with a leaping griffin holding a leaf in its front paw, and surrounded by other, stylised leaves. From this angle, the tail of the asp can be seen lying across Cleopatra’s right leg.

The Death of Cleopatra was first exhibited at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadephia in 1876, but it had been shipped from Rome. Edmonia Lewis had settled there a decade before, having travelled from Boston via London and Paris. However, it is only the middle of her life that can be documented with any certainty. She was probably born in 1844 in the State of New York, to an Afro-Haitian father and a mother of mixed heritage, African American and Chippewa: as an adult Lewis would claim an affinity with Hiawatha. Both parents had died by the time she was nine, when she was brought up by her maternal aunts. As she said of her own childhood,

Until I was twelve years old I led this wandering life, fishing and swimming … and making moccasins. I was then sent to school for three years… but was declared to be wild – they could do nothing with me.

Apart from this it is hard to pin down her childhood. Like so many artists she became the master of her own history, and like Andy Warhol or Tracey Emin, was arguably her own greatest creation, drawing on different parts of her heritage according to the public she was addressing. She was good at marketing, it would seem, even if not financially secure. Her half-brother had made enough money in the Gold Rush, though, to send her to Oberlin College, which accepted both female and black students. Nevertheless, as part of a tiny minority she was subject to continual racism, and forced to leave after unfounded accusations that she had poisoned two fellow students and stolen from the College itself. She moved to Boston (again, supported financially by her brother), where the sculptor Edward Beckett acted as a mentor and helped her to set up her own studio. Her work was supported by a number of prominent abolitionists and advocates of Native American rights, of whom she modelled portrait medallions in clay and plaster, later carved in marble: one example is illustrated here. Her bust of Colonel Robert Shaw, a white officer who had led a company of African-American infantrymen during the Civil War, was enormously successful. She sold numerous copies, these sales paying for her trip to Europe.

Edmonia Lewis, Wendell Phillips, 1871, NPG, Washington D.C.

In Rome, she was befriended by American sculptor Harriet Hosman, who, like Lewis, was one of very few women to carve marble. On the whole, sculptors would pay stonemasons to carve their works, having first modelled them in clay or plaster. Figures as eminent as Canova would do this (Picture Of The Day 68) but Lewis could rarely afford to pay anyone, so did most of the carving herself. Nevertheless, the connection with Canova was real: when in Rome, she did as he did – and rented his former studio.

The Death of Cleopatra is said to have taken her four years, but by the time it was completed she couldn’t afford to ship it to the States. She travelled back alone, and sold smaller works to pay for it to be delivered. It was the hit sculpture of the Centennial Exhibition, although not universally popular. Traditionally Cleopatra had been seen as very much alive – decorous, alluring, and tantalising with that oh-so-dangerous asp. But definitely not dead. Curiously, there is a precedent – Artemisia Gentileschi painted Cleopatra post-bite, her lips already blue, but I doubt that Lewis would have known that. No slight on her – nobody really knew who Artemisia Gentileschi was in the 19th Century: they were only just rediscovering Caravaggio. 

In this sculpture there is an undoubted sense that Cleopatra, as a strong African woman, had a mastery over her own fate, and Edmonia Lewis, who is also known to have claimed her own biography, was in a position to show her doing so. The material was also ideal: it allowed Lewis to depict a strong African woman, while also giving her license to portray her white – not as white, but carved in white marble – which might have made the image more acceptable to some of the audience, as would the more-or-less fully clad figure. Most artists had portrayed the voluptuous Queen in a more advanced state of undress – including Artemisia, who showed her lying on her bed completely naked more than once, dead and alive. In this case, it really was the fact that she was already dead that some critics didn’t like. One, an artist himself, William J. Clark Jr., thought that “the effects of death are represented with such skill as to be absolutely repellent—and it is a question whether a statue of the ghastly characteristics of this one does not overstep the bounds of legitimate art.” Ironically, this was a form of praise: what Lewis was attempting to do, she had done too well.

Despite its popularity, the sculpture did not sell. Nor did it sell when subsequently exhibited at the Chicago Industrial Interstate Expo, but Lewis could not afford to ship it back to Rome. Somehow it ended up as a feature in a Chicago saloon, until it was bought from there by a shady character named ‘Blind John’ Condon, a racehorse owner and gambler, who used it as the gravestone for a favourite horse – also called Cleopatra – by side of a Chicago race track. The race track became a golf course, then a Navy munitions site, and finally a postal depot. The sculpture was covered with graffiti, until well-meaning boy scouts painted it white. Although rescued in the 1980s, it wasn’t until the 1990s that it ended up at the Smithsonian, where it was cleaned up as much as was possible. However, after decades in the open air, there is no hope of restoring its original finish.

Henry Rocher, Edmonia Lewis, c. 1870, NPG, Washington, D.C.

And Edmonia Lewis? She was successful, for a while, and could employ as many as six assistants. But then she disappeared from view for the last two decades of her life. It was only recently that it was discovered that she died in London in 1907 – she had been living in Hammersmith, and was buried in St Mary’s Catholic Cemetery, Kensal Green. She had disappeared from view, and sadly so had many of her sculptures – but there are just enough, in the Smithsonian, and the Met, to keep her name alive.

[Since I first wrote this post four years ago I have learnt that there are several sculptures by Lewis in the UK – not only the Bust of Christ which is exhibited in Now You See Us, and will feature in Monday’s talk, but also a portrait of Edward Wadsworth Longfellow at my new local, The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. And there are more – do let me know if you find one!]

225 – Necessity is the Mother of Inventiom

Angelica Kauffman, Invention, 1778-80. Royal Academy of Arts, London.

Rather brilliantly, Tate Britain’s encyclopedic survey of Women Artists in Britain, 1520-1920, opens with Angelica Kauffman’s Invention. It was one of the four Elements of Art which she was commissioned to paint for Somerset House, where they were installed in the ceiling of the Royal Academy’s new Council Chamber in time for its opening in 1780. Invention was one of the many reasons that it was said that women couldn’t become artists, as it was one of the many qualities that men said women lacked. Indeed, it was probably the chief quality, as the merely practical ability to copy things which already existed – whether portraits or living human beings – was granted them. And that is why I think it is a brilliant opening to the exhibition. It also means that the first of my talks, Up to the Academy, will be framed by Kauffman’s work, as she was, famously, one of the two women who were founder members of the Academy in question. The other, Mary Moser, is far better represented than I was expecting, just one of the many reasons to go. This first talk will be on Monday, 1 July at 6pm, and it will be followed by Victorian Splendour and From photography to something more modern on 22 July and 5 August respectively, scattered as the result of an unexpected theatrical engagement, and a long-planned holiday. If you want to book for all three, I have, against my better judgement, re-instated the tixoom bundle which will give you a reduction on the overall cost of the tickets (available via those links). I will cross my fingers until 5 August, hoping that nothing else gets in the way!

As I said above, Angelica Kauffman’s painting Invention is one of a series of four, and if you would like more background for the commission, I wrote about two of the others way back in May 2020 (see Day 48 – Colour and Design). The series was dedicated to the Elements of Painting, as defined by the first President of the Royal Academy, Sir Joshua Reynolds. The other three are Colour, Design, and Composition. While ‘colour’ and ‘composition’ are standard terms, the difference between ‘composition’ and ‘design’ might not be obvious. Sir Joshua was aware of historic debates among European artists and theoreticians, and chose a direct translation from the Italian ‘disegno’ to give us ‘design’, even if ‘drawing’ would be a more logical choice given its standard use in English. But we’re not thinking about any of these today. Instead, we will focus on Invention, that quality which, as I have said, women were said not to possess. How do you come up with the ideas that make a great work of art? And for that matter, how do you represent that concept? This is how Kauffman chose to personify it.

Invention wears a white dress and a butterscotch-coloured cloak, the former matching the lighter colours of her pale complexion, while the latter blends with her golden hair. She sits in a landscape on a rock, which has undefined vegetation growing around it. Her right knee is raised with the shin vertical, and the ball of the foot planted firmly on the ground, while her left knee is lower, the foot trailing off to our right. A dark blue globe lies on the upper surface of the sloping rock and rests against Invention’s knee. Her right hand, draped with the butterscotch cloak, rests on the globe. Her left arm is raised, the hand upturned, as if towards the heavens. She gazes upwards, past what, at first glance, might appear to be a peculiar form of headdress. On the far right there are distant, blue mountains, with a river, or lake curling around their base – not unlike the mountains of Switzerland, where Kauffman was born. On the other side of the painting, in there middle ground, there are two tree trunks. They cross each other (they grow on opposing, steep diagonals) and close off the composition to the left.

Invention’s right hand is resting on what can be seen to be a celestial globe, with five stars marked quite clearly in white. There are two between her thumb and forefinger and three in a row lower down and to the left. Her index finger points to the globe, and could be pointing to the lowest of these three stars. Below it, and a little to the right, there is a sixth star in the shadows. It’s not a constellation that I recognise, but I have never considered myself to be an astronomer (and yes, before you suggest it, there are hints of Orion). The headdress – if that is indeed what it is – is in the form of two wings, both white, and with well-defined plumage, although it is not clear whether this is part of Invention’s anatomy, or something she is wearing. The clouds are slightly darker behind the head, allowing the face to stand out clearly. Some of the billowing forms between the wings may relate to a pentimento – a change of ideas about the length and form of the hair.

Whatever the meaning of the various elements portrayed, the painting is, surely, incredibly inventive in itself. But what could it all mean? It really helps if we turn to a book published originally in 1593, the Iconologia by Cesare Ripa, in which various ‘abstract’ qualities, whether virtues or vices, arts or sciences, moods and even cities were described as visual, allegorical figures. The work became truly successful – and useful for artists – ten years after its original publication when a new edition was brought out which included woodcuts, thus giving visual form to some of the many concepts described. Many other editions followed, including an English translation, published in 1719. I have chosen this version as a result of its availability: it was digitised in 2009 by the Warburg Institute, and is available online. Below is the title page – I hope you can read it, but don’t worry if it’s not clear – followed by the description of Invention, which I have transcribed for the sake of clarity.

FIG. 168 Inventione: INVENTION.
  This Mistress of Arts appears in a white Robe, whereon is written, 
NON ALIUNDE; two little Wings on her Head; in one Hand, the 
image of Nature, a Cuff on the other, with the Motto, AD OPERAM.
  Youth denotes many Spirits in the Brain, where Invention is form’d; the white Robe, the Pureness of it, not making Use of other Mens Labor, as the Motto shews. The Wings, Elevation of Intellect; naked Arms, her being ever in Action, the Life of Invention. The Image of Nature shews her Invention.

To clarify, NON ALIUNDE translates as ‘not from elsewhere’, while AD OPERAM means ‘to work’, as in ‘for the purpose of…’ But how does the illustration from the English edition compare to Kauffman’s painting?

The white dress is more overtly depicted in the painting, a natural result of the medium, even if Kauffman does not append the motto. However, the most obvious similarity between the two are the ‘two little Wings on her Head’, showing ‘Elevation of Intellect’. The ‘image of Nature’ is completely different, though. The woodcut is hard to read, but it is meant to be an image of the Diana of Ephesus, reaching out her arms, just as Invention does. In its original form it is an image of fertility, with many breasts (see below). This was presumably chosen as an illustration of the fecundity of nature, from which we can draw inspiration, which in itself will lead to invention. Kauffman instead chooses a celestial globe, a view of the heavens, which would seem to speak of divine inspiration as much as drawing on the natural world. Unlike both the woodcut and the description, Kauffman’s Invention only has one arm naked – and there is no ‘cuff’, or second motto. The woodcut illustrates two columns, which are not mentioned in the text, and, like Kauffman’s image, has distant mountains on the far right. Kauffman’s choice of two trees (rather than columns) would seem to make sense, and could imply that the background, as much as the object held, might be seen to illustrate ‘The Image of Nature’.

There is, of course, a contradiction at the very heart of Kauffman’s painting, but it is one that is embedded in Ripa’s own work: NON ALIUNDE – ‘not from elsewhere’. Clearly, anyone drawing on Ripa’s idea is taking something from elsewhere, so it is not inventive. Does it even make any sense, therefore, to include this painting at the beginning of Now You See Us? You could argue that Kauffman was not being at all inventive – but then, when commissioned to paint Invention, what else could you do? I would argue, as the title of this post suggests, that necessity was the mother of Invention: where else would you turn, other than a readily available source of almost any personification you might be asked to paint?  

However, not only was she using someone else’s idea, but she was relying on the work of a man. I state it like this because it would really agitate some writers on art made by women. I remember reading a social media post some time ago which berated Tate Britain for stating, on one of the gallery labels, that the work of Marlow Moss, an artist working in Britain in the first half of the 20th Century, was influenced by that of Piet Mondrian. Why should the work of this notable, but neglected woman be directed back towards that of a far more famous man? Could her work not be seen in its own right? To be honest, I can’t remember the exact phrasing used. However, what this particular (and now well-known) commentator had not noticed – or was deliberately ignoring – was that in the same room it was also stated that Ben Nicholson’s work was influenced by that of Piet Mondrian. So, my question would be, should only men be influenced by other men? And does this imply that women have to rely on their own ideas, or are they allowed to take inspiration from other women? Or, and this would be my suggestion, is it maybe that both men and women are part of an artistic community which is a community quite simply because it does have ideas in common? After all, it wasn’t just Angelica Kauffman who relied on the Iconologia of Cesare Ripa. Artemisia Gentileschi’s Allegory of Painting (also in Now You See Us) is drawn from it – but then, as she was also a woman, maybe that’s not such a good example. However, Vermeer’s Art of Painting uses Ripa’s Clio (the muse of history), while his Allegory of Faith draws on more than one of Ripa’s suggested qualities. And then, there is also this painting, which I saw by chance in the Accademia when I was in Venice a few weeks ago:

Pierantonio Novelli’s Il Disegno, Il Colore, e l’Invenzione (or Drawing, Colour, and Invention) is dated 1768-69, ten years before Kauffman’s four Elements of Art, and (coincidentally) exactly the date when the Royal Academy was founded. But then, it’s a very academic idea. If we compare Novelli’s Invention to the version by Kauffman, something should become quite clear.

Saying that Kauffman relied on the ideas of others does not, in any way, belittle her achievement, or make her less of an artist. It shows that she was part of an artistic community, and operated within that community in the same ways that her male contemporaries did. Indeed, one of the definitions which helps us decide what constitutes a work of art is that it is aware of its status as an art object. In other words, it acknowledges the work of other artists. I’m fairly sure that this is another feature of Kauffman’s image. The pose of Invention is not unlike many of Michelangelo’s seated figures, and is ultimately related to the Torso Belvedere, which features in Kauffman’s Design (again I would direct you to Day 48 – Colour and Design). The two trees on the left are also relevant, I think, given that they remind me of those growing in the background of Titian’s Death of St Peter Martyr, which was widely copied and quoted before its destruction by fire in 1867.

I think we should be more specific about the extent to which Kauffman is reliant on Ripa. Her image of Invention is not the same as Novelli’s, which, like the woodcut above – and every other illustration from different editions of the Iconologia I have seen – shows the ‘Image of Nature’ as the Diana of Ephesus. Kauffman is not copying ideas mechanically, and, for whatever reason, she chose a celestial globe instead of the Diana. She also set Invention within an entirely natural setting, rather than including any architectonic elements. In some ways, therefore, she was actually more inventive than Novelli. She was also, undoubtedly, part of an artistic community – indeed, she was part of several. For these reasons, and more, the painting really is a perfect introduction to Now You See Us.

Revisiting Velázquez and Juan de Pareja

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

The more I think about the Walker Art Gallery’s display National Treasures: Velázquez in Liverpool the more I am impressed. In terms of the way it is curated, it is undoubtedly one of the best exhibitions I have seen this year. I am currently putting together the presentation for my talk about it, which will be this Monday, 17 June at 6pm, and I keep noticing more and more connections between the exhibits: each has its own specific role to play, and is linked carefully to everything around it. I will spend a lot of time looking at the masterpiece that is The Rokeby Venus, before considering the works drawn from the museum’s own collection with which it is exhibited. Not only do they help us to see the painting in a refreshing new light, but they do not get in the way of a traditional interpretation.

Two days later, on Wednesday 19 June at 1pm, you can join me in person, or online, at the Wallace Collection for a free talk entitled Getting carried away with Michelangelo and Ganymede – there are more details on those links. The talk will also be recorded, so you can always ‘catch up’ afterwards if you have booked one of the free tickets. There’s nothing the following week, but the week after, on Monday 1 July, I will give the first of my talks relating to Tate Britain’s encyclopedic Now You See Us: Women Artists in Britain 1520-1920. Entitled Up to the Academy, it will consider works from the 16th, 17th and 18th Centuries.

After that, I’m afraid I don’t know quite what is happening. Something has come up which means that I might have to reschedule the other two talks about this exhibition, but until things are settled (which I was hoping would be yesterday, but it’s looking like it won’t be until next week) I don’t want to do anything too drastic. For the time being I have suspended ticket sales for the other two talks, and for the bundle of all three. If you have booked any of these, I am sorry, but please don’t worry: I will contact you as soon as I know what I’m doing, and let you know what the situation is. And apologies, of course, in advance, for any inconvenience…

In the meantime – because I’m having one of ‘those’ weeks – I thought it would be a good idea to look at a rather wonderful portrait which I originally used as an illustration for an even earlier post back in June 2020. I had written about about Juan de Pareja’s own painting of The Flight into Egypt (See Picture Of The Day 85), but I wanted to look at Velázquez’ portrait of Pereja in its own right, simply because it is rather wonderful – and also because it gave me a good opportunity to talk about both artist and sitter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was born in Antequera, not so far from Málaga, in 1606, just three years before the Moors were expelled. His mother, Zulema, was mixed race, and in part of African descent, while his father (after whom Juan was named) was a white Spaniard. Pareja came to Madrid in the early 1630s, probably entering Velázquez’ service soon after the latter returned from his first visit to Italy in January 1631. I say he entered ‘his service’, but it’s not that simple. Pareja was Velázquez’ slave, Velázquez ‘owned’ him, an idea which I still find both astonishing and appalling.

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

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

Back in 2020 I finished the post with the sentence ‘I hope to look at another of his paintings tomorrow’ – and indeed I did (see POTD 89 – The Baptism of Christ). More significantly, in 2023 the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York staged an exhibition of his work, Juan de Pareja, Afro-Hispanic Painter, with this portrait as the centre piece. I only wish I could have gone. Still, all the paintings are out there in the world somewhere, and who knows, there may yet be more to be identified.

Still not ‘ladylike’…

Day 16 – Giulia Lama, Saturn devouring his Child, c. 1720-23, Private Collection (Sold at Christie’s, 2011).

Greetings from Venice! I’m here In Search of Giulia Lama, researching for my eponymous talk this Monday 10 June at 6pm. What better opportunity to revisit one of my early posts from lockdown 1: it dates from 3 April 2020 and was Picture Of The Day 16. As I remember it, lockdown started on Day 5 of the blog, and so today’s repost comes from the first two weeks of that remarkable time. It is the first talk in a summer dedicated to women – even if that’s not entirely clear from the title of the following talk, Velázquez in Liverpool, which will be on Monday 17 June. It will effectively be the fourth in my series A stroll around the Walker, and will celebrate the Liverpool gallery’s superb display of the National Gallery’s Rokeby Venus, one of twelve masterpieces which have been sent on holiday around the United Kingdom as part of the London-based collection’s 200th anniversary. It’s probably not immediately clear why this talk focuses on women as artists but, as I said last week, if you click on either link you can find an explanation: it’s a brilliantly clever and timely exhibition. There will be no talk the following Monday, but then on 1, 8 and 15 July I will take a proper look at Tate Britain’s vital Now You See Us, an exhibition of Women Artists in Britain, 1520-1920 (to quote the subtitle). If you click on either of those links, you can book for all three of the talks at a reduced rate. But if you are only free for one or two of them, I will explore the exhibition as follows: 1. Up to the Academy (16th-18th centuries, 1 July); 2. Victorian Splendour (the 19th century, 8 July); and 3. From photography to something more modern (looking at new media, and new means of expression, 15 July).

In addition to my Monday talks I will also be giving a talk at the Wallace Collection on Wednesday, 19 June at 1pm, entitled Getting carried away with Michelangelo and Ganymede. It is absolutely free and it would be lovely to see you there. You can either attend in person – in which case you just need to turn up on the day – or, if you’re not in or near London, you can watch online then, or over the next couple of weeks, in which case you’d have to book a (free) ticket for the Zoom webinar (and then, the recording) via the links. And finally (for now) if you missed my talk on Tate Modern’s Expressionists, I will be repeating it for ARTscapades at 6pm next Thursday, 13 June.

But for now, back to the remarkable Giulia Lama – the more I look at her, the more I learn, and the more I am enjoying her work. I have edited this post a little more than I would usually for various reasons, but am leaving the naïve wonder about our ignorance of the women who were practicing artists – so much has changed in the last four years! Apart from anything else, you will see that I repeat the received notion that women were encouraged to paint flowers. By the late 18th Century, many did, it is true (and there is a whole room in Now You See Us given over to the genre), but as far as I can see there is no evidence at all to suggest that this was common for women before then. There are a few notable exceptions from later in the 17th Century, of course (e.g. Rachel Ruysch) but it was by no means prevalent, and the field was still dominated by men. Nevertheless, this is what I said back in 2020:

Why do we talk about women artists so rarely? Apparently it wasn’t always the case. According to Grizelda Pollock, one of the earliest and most authoritative feminist art historians, they were regularly included in dictionaries of art and artists until the beginning of the 20th Century, at which point they were all but written out.  This year [2020], with Artemisia at the National Gallery [which was postponed, but then had to close early anyway, both thanks to the pandemic] and Angelica at the Royal Academy [which, for the same reason, had to wait until 2024], let’s hope they are being written back in, and not just as token representatives, but as vital and inventive artists.

The fact is, there always were fewer women who could make a career in the arts – they were not given the training. It helped if their father was an artist, as in the case of Angelica Kauffman (#POTD 14), especially if his studio was very busy – or he didn’t have any sons to help him. But they couldn’t get apprenticeships with another artist, as that would mean living with a man who was not a member of the family, and at the age of 11 or 12 – or any age, quite frankly, for a woman – that was simply not appropriate. When academies were founded, starting in the second half of the 16th Century, women weren’t admitted, because women didn’t get an education anyway. The few women who did succeed usually had unusual fathers – i.e. fathers who were artists (as above), or who believed that their daughters should be educated. Another possibility was that the girls were initially ‘amateurs’, practicing the usual accomplishments any young lady should have – music, and some ability with a little delicate decoration – until they turned out to be outstandingly good at it and so broke through to the ‘mainstream’ [you could argue that this was the case with Sofonisba Anguissola].

In any case, it was thought that women lacked the necessary intellect to understand something like perspective and didn’t have the necessary education to know about classical mythology, so they would never be able to paint great narratives. Women weren’t supposed to paint portraits of men, in case the men assaulted them, and landscapes weren’t a great idea because, out in the countryside, they might be attacked by brigands. So they were left with Still Life, because, on the whole, a still life won’t bite back. The most distasteful thought was that they might attend a life class. Drawing and painting the male nude became the foundation of artistic training, because without a thorough understanding of male anatomy – or at least surface anatomy – an artist would never be able to paint a battle scene, or a martyrdom, those uplifting stories which were the apogee of art. It would be so inappropriate for a woman to look at a naked man, let alone draw him. Ladies were supposed to avert their gaze, and not stare at anything.

So, that’s what we’re left with – pretty flowers, ladies having tea (#POTD 15), or the artist herself indecisive between painting and music (#POTD 14). I have yet to cover the pretty flowers [but would eventually: see 126 – Mary Moser]. It’s all pretty girly really, lets face it. Just like today’s painting… 

Sadly we don’t know a huge amount about this image, and the attribution to Giulia Lama isn’t universally accepted. However, I think few people doubt it now, particularly as her painting is getting better known. We also know relatively little about Giulia Lama herself. She was born in the Parish of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice, the daughter of an artist (it helps). One of her great works is in the church there, a Madonna and Child with Saints on an impressively grand scale [I saw it again yesterday, and will talk about it on Monday]. Her style is remarkably close to that of one the greatest but underrated artists of 18th Century Venice, Giambattista Piazzetta, whose works are the smoky colour of bitter toffee apples, if such a thing exists. His fame was eclipsed by that of Tiepolo, whose candyfloss colours are ideally suited to those of a sweet tooth – I love them both. 

Why was Lama’s style so similar to Piazzetta’s? At this point a discussion arises: was Lama a student of Piazzetta’s, or a colleague? Opinion is tending towards the latter: she was undoubtedly trained first by her father, and then may well have continued her studies alongside Piazzetta in the school run by artist Antonio Molinari – which could make her the first woman to attend any sort of art school.

Today’s painting could almost be a manifesto overthrowing all the reasons why women couldn’t become artists. It’s a classical story, shows a male nude, and has fantastic foreshortening (basically perspective applied to a single object). And it is anything but ladylike – or, for that matter, for a classical narrative, anything but uplifting. It’s a man eating his own child! It is also a story that proves that we don’t learn from history. Saturn made it to the position of Top God after his mother, Gaia (the Earth), got understandably upset because his father (Ouranos, the air) kept imprisoning their children. Eventually she’d had enough, and so gave Saturn (her son – also known as Chronos) a very sharp knife, and encouraged him to castrate his own father (Ouranos), which he did. The severed genitalia fell into the sea, which was therefore made fertile, and the result was Aphrodite – her name means ‘born from the foam’. The Romans called her Venus, or course. This story helps to explain her appearance in Botticelli’s famous painting (#POTD 8) – but in the process stops it looking quite so charming.

Knowing how easily a god could be overthrown, Saturn didn’t want to take risks, and so ate each of his own offspring as they were born. Eventually his consort, Ops (Rhea, to the Greeks), lost patience with this, and handed him a stone, pretending it was the latest baby. The new-born was smuggled to Crete, where it grew up to be Jupiter. As an adult, Jupiter returned, forced Saturn to regurgitate his siblings, and they all got together and overthrew Dad. And you thought Eastenders was bad.

Precisely why Lama chose to paint this subject – or who commissioned her to do so, and why – we may never know. A contemporary account says that many churches wanted her to paint them an altarpiece, so highly was she respected. As well as the one I’ve mentioned in Santa Maria Formosa there is another in San Vidal, just over the Academia Bridge [which will also feature on Monday]. But that doesn’t explain this painting. Maybe she painted it simply because she could. She certainly seems to have been the first female artist to have studied the male nude – and she did so often: I’ve included two of her drawings below, and they are superb. She uses black and white chalk in one and red and white in the other, the light and shade giving the body a sculptural feel, with short, stabbing strokes of the chalk, over broader areas of shading. They show a remarkable ability to articulate the limbs and arrange the body in complex ways, but with the slight exaggeration that creates movement and drama, the essence of all great Baroque art.

The same qualities can be seen in the painting, the limbs of Saturn creating diagonals across the surface, and into the depth of the painting – the power of this foreshortening is unimaginable without the awkward and contorted postures seen in her life drawings.

The legs continue the shallow diagonal of Saturn’s grasping left forearm, while the body of the child, softer, lighter and therefore more succulent than that of his swarthy father, is parallel to the muscular upper arm. It marks the diagonal from bottom right to top left, whilst also creating depth for the composition. All this is set in bright sunlight, making the figures stand out clearly from the dark rock in the background, and creating the deep dark shadows that define Saturn’s muscularity. It’s not pretty, and it really isn’t ladylike. In many ways, it isn’t even very nice. But it is brilliant – an astonishing bit of painting and a fantastic work of art.

224 – Two sides of the same…

Michelangelo, Tityus, 1532. Royal Collection Trust/HM King Charles III. RCIN 912771 r. & v.

The phrase is, of course, ‘two sides of the same coin’, but today I’m looking at a piece of paper. However, ‘two sides of the same piece of paper’ isn’t a figure of speech… The sheet in question is included in the British Museum’s current exhibition, Michelangelo: the last decades, which will be the subject of my talk this Monday, 3 June at 6pm, and I wanted to take the opportunity to tell you how brilliantly I think the exhibition has been curated and designed. This particular sheet of paper, and the way in which it has been displayed, will, I hope, demonstrate the fact. The following day I will be heading off to Venice, In search of Giulia Lama – a forgotten late-baroque master. As well as being the title of my next talk, on Monday 10 June, it is also what I am planning to do: I am physically going in search of her work. A number of her paintings have recently been conserved, with funding from the charity Save Venice, and they are currently on view in an exhibition called Eye to Eye with Giulia Lama – which sadly comes to an end the day before my talk (I couldn’t get there any earlier). As the paintings are usually metres above eye level, and not in the most accessible churches, I can’t wait to see them up close. While I’m in Venice I will also be on the look out for anything else she painted. I already know where to look, to be honest, having encountered a number of her works scattered across La Serenissima during previous visits, and will let you know what I find – and what I think – on 10 June. I will then continue into the summer looking at Lama’s British equivalents – women working from the 16th to the early 20th Centuries as seen (now) in Tate Britain’s Now You See Us. I think it is such an important survey that I want to break it down into three talks, thus doing at least some justice to the artists who are represented. However, I will introduce that series with a talk which might initially seem to go against the grain, Velázquez in Liverpool. You’ll have to check out the description on Tixoom (via that link) to work out why it is completely in line with the rest of the season. The Now You See Us talks will go online soon: keep an eye on the diary. But for now – let’s look at that paper.

It is, of course, one of Michelangelo’s most exquisite drawings, and one of several made for the young nobleman Tommaso de’ Cavalieri. I will talk about these drawings in depth, while also thinking about the relationship between the two men, at the Wallace Collection on 19 June (follow that link for more information). As it happens, I have already written about one of the other drawings (see 170 – Drawing to an end), but wanted to post something new today precisely because there is something on the other side.

The story of Tityus is included in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The giant had attempted to rape Latona, the mother of twin gods Apollo and Diana. As punishment he was chained to a rock, and his liver was gnawed out by a vulture. The organ – seen as the seat of lust – grew back every night, and the punishment was repeated every day… for all of eternity. While we cannot be entirely clear why Michelangelo’s chose this subject, it seems likely that he wanted to warn the young Tommaso about the dangers of lust.

Any of you who have an eye for the birds might have noticed that the vulture looks more like an eagle – but this was a deliberate choice rather than ornithological incompetence. Another drawing for the young nobleman shows the Abduction of Ganymede, the most beautiful of boys, who was carried away by Jupiter in the guise of an eagle. By making Tityus’ vulture look more aquiline Michelangelo must have intended to link the two stories – the drawings were clearly intended as a pair. However, the meaning of the Ganymede is by no means so clear (as I will explain on 19 June).

Lying on his right side, with his left leg bent and the other extended, Tityus appears like an impotent version of Michelangelo’s Adam. His right arm is extended and tied to the rock, which means that he cannot support his own weight to raise his body from the ground, as Adam does – but then, the vulture looming over him would prevent this anyway, trapping the right hand which Adam raises towards God. This comparison might not be coincidental: as well as giving Tommaso avuncular guidance in moral concerns, Michelangelo might also have wanted to encourage artistic debate, both in terms of formal elements – the similarities and differences in the composition – and also of meaning. As a result of the Fall, Adam introduced sin into the world, and so the possibility of transgression and the need for punishment, as illustrated in the image of Tityus. Both were malefactors, even if their stories were derived from different traditions. By drawing on one of his most famous images, Michelangelo was perhaps putting himself forward not only as a moral advisor, but also as an artistic role model, while also provoking the comparison of different works of art, one of the accomplishments any cultured young person should develop.

Vasari tells us something different: that Michelangelo had produced the drawings to teach Tommaso how to draw. The technique is indeed exquisite, some of the master’s most refined work. While hair and feathers are sketched in with short, curling, expressive lines, the modelling of the flesh is handled with great softness and delicacy, defining tonal variations with small touches of the chalk which look almost like stippling. The outlines of the forms are secured with longer, bolder, taut strokes, which occasionally show signs of repetition, honing the precise form, as they do on the right bicep. The rock and the background are picked out faintly with long, parallel strokes, as is the curious, anthropomorphic tree to the right. The high quality of the work tells us that it was a presentation drawing, made as a work of art in its own right, rather than preparatory for something else – but that didn’t stop Michelangelo’s ever inventive and restless mind from sketching another idea on the back.

There are two figures on the other side of the paper. The one further up is traced from the recumbent body of Tityus, one leg bent, the other stretched, the torso sloping down toward the short edge of the paper, with the lower arm extended. Coming through the paper at the top you should just about be able to make out the dark, ominous form of the vulture’s wings – but no trace of them has been repeated here. The upper arm of the figure, hidden behind the vulture’s neck on the other side, is here more active, and some apparently abstract, geometric lines have been sketched in around the figure’s feet. All of this makes more sense if we rotate the paper by 90° and compare it to another drawing which was also executed around 1532, this one in the collection of the British Museum.

Apart from the fact that the figure has been reversed – possibly the result of another tracing – the compositions are remarkably similar, and clearly represent the Resurrection. The lines drawn around the feet in the sketchier version (on the back of the Tityus) can be seen as representing the sarcophagus from which Christ triumphantly rises, with the higher foot resting on the edge of the lid, which has been pushed back away from it. The other figure on the initial sheet is also identified as a sketch of the Risen Christ, although the way the hands are raised above the head and brought together on either side of the head, which turns to our left, makes it reminiscent of the fresco of God separating Light from Darkness, which, like the Creation of Adam, was also frescoed on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The dramatic, active pose of Christ in the second drawing – surely a development of the first – might remind you of another image from the Sistine Chapel – but not one from the ceiling. With the right hand raised, the left crossing the body, and the beardless face looking down to our right, this particular drawing would appear to be one of the stages in the development of the central figure of Jesus in the Last Judgement on the altar wall. The commission for this fresco was precisely the reason why Michelangelo returned to Rome, where he would live for the last three decades of his life. Now, it would clearly not be possible to fit the whole of the Sistine Chapel into the British Museum, but the curators – together with the designers and what must be a brilliant team of digital editors – do have a projection of the Last Judgement which pans across the painted surface and zooms in on details which are relevant to the various drawings which are exhibited nearby – making the connection between the preparatory drawings and the completed fresco clear and easy to understand. Here is a photograph I took of the two drawings I have shown you – the ‘back’ of the first and the ‘front’ of the second (verso and recto if you want the technical terms) – and just look what you can see in between.

The curation and design of this exhibition helps you to see the development of Michelangelo’s ideas with such ease and clarity. You don’t have to flick from one page to another, or turn around to see objects on different walls while holding images in you head, or for that matter, head to Rome and back (not that that’s a bad idea…) in order to understand what’s going on. And it was this that made me realise – in the first room of the exhibition – that it would be one of the really good ones: brilliantly conceived, beautifully presented and showing works of the highest order. I do hope you can get to see it, and whether you can or not, I do hope you can join me on Monday. I can also recommend the catalogue by Sarah Vowles and Grant Lewis – highly readable and with a similar clarity of thought and design. They also point out – which I haven’t so far – that with a sketch for the Risen Christ on the back of the Tityus, not only did Tommaso de’ Cavalieri get a warning against sin, but also the possibility of redemption. Two sides of the same coin.

223 – FLY

Yoko Ono, FLY, 1996. Richmond, Virginia.

As I post this I’m on my way home, having talked to a group of Tate sponsors – a well-established firm of lawyers – about the exhibition Yoko Ono: Music of the Mind. I will repeat this talk for a potentially more discerning group (you) this Monday 27 June at 6pm. Having said that, they were great audience, and, from what they said, minds (and maybe even hearts) were opened. Much fascinating conversation ensued, albeit with the inevitable legal exactitude which requires that the precise meaning of each term be made clear. So, to practice my precision, I will focus today on just one word. Next week I will talk about Michelangelo (the first of at least three talks I will be giving about the Renaissance giant this year), and will introduce the British Museum’s beautiful and elegant exhibition Michelangelo: the last decades. The rest of June (on Mondays at least) will be given over to women – starting with a forgotten late-baroque master, Giulia Lama, and continuing with the British artists from 1520-1920 who can be seen at Tate Britain – more about them soon (it should be in the diary by Monday). But now for that word: FLY.

Those of you familiar with my posts will now be wondering what I can possibly say about this image. What I would usually do with a painting or sculpture is, quite simply, to look at it and write about what I see, exploring the full content of the image by picking out relevant details and considering each one in depth. But what details could I possibly select from this photograph? It is a billboard, somewhere in or around Richmond, Virginia, with a single word in bold capital letters – and a short word at that: FLY. What could there be to say? First of all, I would ask you to think to yourself, ‘What was the first thing I thought when I saw this word?’ What does it mean? And not only what does it mean generally, but what does it mean specifically to you, personally? And how many different meanings could the one word FLY possibly have? Well, quite a few, as it happens. First of all, is this a noun or a verb? Or for that matter, could it be an adjective? Well yes, it could. If you want many of the possibly uses of the word you could do worse than look at the entry on the Merriam-Webster Dictionary website.

Of course, in terms of meaning, context is everything, and so to understand this billboard it would really help to remember that it is a work by Yoko Ono: it would be worthwhile using her output as the context. Her first use of the word, as far as I can see (but trust me, this is by no means an exhaustive survey) dates back to 1963. It is a work called FLY PIECE which was published the following year (1964) in her book Grapefruit. Here is the work, together with the cover of the book.

Again, it is a work of apparently utter simplicity – the title (FLY PIECE), the word ‘Fly.’ (with a full stop) and the date, ‘1963 summer’. Grapefruit included over 200 of what are known as her ‘instruction pieces’, which are suggestions for works of art which she, or someone else (including you), might make. Ono was at the very forefront of conceptual art (which I will talk about more fully on Monday), and these instructions include suggestions for paintings and actions which may or may not be made or performed – but whether they are or not, the ideas – the concepts – now exist. The work is out there in the world, even if it is only in peoples’ minds and imaginations. As far as this particular work is concerned, though, if this is an ‘instruction’, that would imply that ‘Fly’ is a verb, something to do. We are being invited to fly. You can imagine for yourselves how you might achieve that. One of the suggested possibilities came the year after the original concept, the year in which it was published. Here is the announcement of an event which took place in Japan on 25 April 1964.

In between the Japanese symbols you may be able to pick out the numbers ‘4’ and ‘25’ – 25 April – and the time, ‘8. P.M.’ The title of the event is clearly printed in English: ‘FLY’. The only photograph I can find of this Japanese performance is almost illegible, but in England it was repeated more than once – both at the Jeanetta Cochrane Theatre in London, and then at Bluecoat in Liverpool, in 1967. This is a photograph from the latter.

Members of the audience were invited to come up onto the stage, climb as far up the ladders as they liked, and then leap off – to experience, however briefly, the freedom of flight. Yoko Ono’s work has always been open – open to interpretation, open to collaboration – and incomplete. It is waiting to be completed by the active participation of the audience, of the viewer, of you. A few months after the original performance in Japan, FLY PIECE was followed by the Yoko Ono Farewell Concert. August 1964 marked the end of a two-year extended visit to Japan (the country of her birth), and this performance was, as the title suggested, her Farewell before she headed back to New York. The Concert included one of her most important works, CUT PIECE. The script – or score – of the concert was published two years later, in 1966, and, as you can see, CUT PIECE was preceded by another version of FLY which is worthwhile considering.

In this case it was a piece of card handed around the audience which bore the same instruction – the same invitation – to FLY. To let yourself go, I suppose, to free yourself from whatever is holding you back. Thirty-two years later, the billboard must have had the same intention. You could even argue that it is the same work, with a billboard better able to communicate to a wide audience than a single, relatively small card. However, the tone shifts – along with the meaning of the word – in 1968. In that year she published Thirteen Film Scores by Yoko Ono, London ’68, which included the score for Fly (Film No. 13).

The words are quite simple, although you have to question how, as a filmmaker, you could make a fly follow instructions. But why publish a score (I’ll talk about her use of the term on Monday) rather than just making the film? Well, Ono had prefaced an earlier collection of film scores – published as part of Grapefruit – with the following explanation – or suggestion: ‘These scores were printed and made available to whoever was interested at the time or thereafter in making their own version of the films, since these films, by their nature, became a reality only when they were repeated and realized by other film-makers.’ As it happens Fly (Film No. 13) was made a few years later (1970-71) by Yoko Ono herself, in collaboration with John Lennon. They both directed, with Lennon also acting as cameraman. He also played guitar on the soundtrack (which was released later in 1971 as one of the tracks on the album, Fly). The film lasts 25 minutes, and is being continuously screened as part of Yoko Ono: Music of the Mind at Tate Modern. Here is a still as a taster.

Suddenly the concept of flying free becomes less… acceptable, maybe even gross, particularly given that the score was not followed to the letter. For one thing, there were a multitude of flies, apparently credited as ‘supplied by New York city’, crawling over the supine, passive, and naked body of actor Virginia Lust. This might, perhaps, come as something of a surprise. However, it would be worthwhile remembering that flies have featured in art for centuries. Here, for example, are two paintings from the National Gallery, together with relevant details. The first is a Portrait of a Woman of the Hofer Family (about 1470) by an unknown Swabian artist, the second, Carlo Crivelli’s St Catherine of Alexandria (probably about 1491-4)) – a panel from one of the pilasters of a dismembered altarpiece.

In both paintings the fly could be seen as a memento mori – a reminder of death – and so also of the transience of life. This is not only because flies themselves do not live so terribly long, but also because they are often associated with dead meat. With St Catherine this would serve as a reminder to be good Christians, so that after death – which is inevitable – the viewer would rejoice in an eternity in paradise. The equivalent meaning could also be true for the unknown member of the Hofer family (who was presumably supposed to be a good Christian), but it could also be a reminder that, although the subject of the portrait is long gone, her memory lives on. This would make the painting an embodiment of the popular Renaissance motto ars longa vita brevis – which can be translated as ‘life is short, but art will endure’. The suggestion that the fly might be related to artistic rather than moral or religious values gains support if you stop and wonder where the fly is actually standing. Has it really alighted on the woman’s headdress, for example, or on the architectural surround of St Catherine’s niche? Or, in each case, is it actually supposed to be standing on the surface of the painting itself? The idea that the artists are trying to suggest that a real fly has landed on top of their paintings is perhaps more relevant for the Crivelli, where the fly is apparently larger than St Catherine’s thumb. Either it is out of proportion, or it is not part of the same visual world. In both cases, though, the fly can be seen as a form of trompe l’oeil.

I’m not trying to suggest that there was any similar trickery in Ono and Lennon’s film: the flies were definitely there. I’m just pointing out that flies have a long history in art, and so the film does have a connection with the Western European tradition. The sense of transience is undoubtedly important. Earlier films by Yoko Ono slowed down simple actions to make us aware of the passage of time, and therefore of the transience of human existence. The stillness of the model in Fly also gives us a sense that time has slowed down for her – even if it hasn’t for the ever-active flies. The wording of the original score is also important, though: the fly was supposed to ‘fly out the window’. It finds its freedom. As I’ve said, Lennon played guitar on the film’s soundtrack. However, the vocals were supplied by Ono. While doing this, she imagined herself as the fly – indeed, she has suggested that both human and insect were effectively self portraits. In Cut Piece she sat passively while allowing members of the audience (mainly male, at the time) to take what they wanted, cutting away sections of her clothing with a pair of scissors left in front of her. This, together with the passivity of the female form in Fly, can be read as a critique of the role that ‘society’ (for which read, ‘mainly men’) required of women. So should we read the flies as the men, crawling all over her? Inevitably, it’s not as simple as that, as the fly eventually soars free – or at least it is supposed to, according to the score. Also, as it happens, she was not entirely against flies. The following is a page from the self-published exhibition catalogue for her irreverently entitled Museum of Modern [F]art – a solo show which (surprise, surprise) was not staged at the (almost) eponymous New York institution in 1971 – even if actions, and photographs, for the exhibition do appear to have taken place there.

To make things easier, here is a transcription of the central section of the script:

flies were put in a glass container the same volume as yoko’s body the same perfume as the one yoko uses was put in the glass container the container was then placed in the exact center of the museum the lid was opened the flies were released photographer who has been invited over from england specially for the task is now going around the city to see how far the flies flew the flies are distinguishable by the odour which is equivalent to yokos join us in the search observation & flight 12/71

Whether or not this actually happened is irrelevant: she has created the situation, told you the story, and now it exists in your mind, whether it happened or not. The words in the left and right columns are also important. In capital letters, but without gaps, is the repeated phrase,

FLY LOOK FOR IT ALL WORDS ARE VERBS MESSAGE IS THE MUSIC

So – we are being invited to look for the fly. However, if ‘all words are verbs’, we are also being invited to fly and look for it. We are being provoked into action, into ‘doing’ – and so we are encouraged to take flight, to be free. Across the bottom of the invitation is the repeated assertion,

JOHN IS A LOVELY FLY JOHN IS A LOVELY FLY JOHN IS A LOVELY FLY

It seems unlikely that she associated her husband with carrion. However, he was undoubtedly a free spirit – just like a fly.

I have one last image for you, which not only adds to our understanding of the billboard (I hope), but also, like the title of the above exhibition, reminds us that Yoko Ono does have a sense of humour. It is her Poem No. 86 – which was published with the announcement of the birth of her first child, back in 1963. The Instructions for Poem No. 86 are quite simple. What does she wish for her child? A long life, happiness, and success, presumably. But how does she put that? How do you encourage people to reach their full potential, to achieve the most, and to reach the heights? If you are being optimistic (and Ono is nothing if not optimistic) what do you suggest they do? Here’s wishing you may do the same.

A Second Storm

Gabriele Münter, Portrait of Anna Roslund, 1917. New Walk Museum and Art Gallery, Leicester.

I’m looking forward to talking about the Expressionists exhibition at Tate Modern this Monday, 20 May at 6pm, but as I’m currently in Delft with Artemisia I’m going to re-post something I wrote for Making Modernism, the Royal Academy’s 2022 exhibition focussing on four women who were themselves Expressionists. Two of them feature in the current show – Gabriele Münter and Marianne von Werefkin – and both are superbly represented. A couple of paintings are the same, but on they whole the exhibition features works I have never seen before, including several I really wanted to see as a result of the RA show, together with paintings by Kandinksy, Marc and Macke, the last of whom I am especially enjoying. The following week I will look at another redoubtable woman, Yoko Ono, also on show at Tate Modern, and then (although it’s not on sale yet) Michelangelo: The Last Decades, introducing the recently-opened exhibition at the British Museum which must be the must-see show for the summer. Beautifully selected and curated, it is also designed with great clarity and a wonderful understanding. Keep your eye on the diary for that.

There are still places for some of the last of this season’s In Person Tours:
Monday 17 June at 11:00am: NG05 – Siena in the Fifteenth Century
Tuesday 18 June at 2:30pm: NG07 – Perugino and Raphael (afternoon)
The day after, on 19 June at 1pm, I will be lecturing at the Wallace Collection. The talk is free, and you can either attend in person, or online, but I would love it if you could come and pack out the room: I would finally get to see you all! Entitled Getting Carried Away with Michelangelo and Ganymede it will explore the relationship between Michelangelo and the young nobleman Tommaso de’ Cavalieri, and will look at the refined drawings, heartfelt letters and complex poems which passed between the two. If you’re coming in person you can just turn up on the day, but for online viewing you should book a ticket via the blue links above. It will also be recorded, apparently, and available to view for the following week or so.

Meanwhile, today I want to look at the ‘Poster Woman’ of Making Modernism, Anna Roslund, as painted by Gabriele Münter. I would say ‘Poster Girl’, but shortly before I wrote this post back in November 2022 I had had my wrist slapped for my careless use of language…

Munter, Gabriele; Anna Roslund (1891-1941); Leicester Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/anna-roslund-18911941-80902

I’m afraid I can tell you relatively little about Anna Roslund herself, but we get a strong sense of her character just by looking at this portrait. Apart from anything else, how many women have you ever seen smoking a pipe? I know there are some famous examples in history, but I can’t for the life of me remember who they are. ‘Women smoking’ is something one didn’t used to see ‘back in the day’ (i.e. a long, long time ago), and ‘women smoking a pipe’ make up an even smaller sub-group.  This bold gesture is combined with an open pose, left arm resting on the arm of the chair, with her head resting on her left hand. The right arm is tucked in, holding the pipe to the mouth. Add to that the strong, bold colours of the outfit, royal blue and black, heightened by the bright red of the pom-pom (?) in front of her chest, and you have a strong sense of individuality, the image of self-confidence.

Anna Roslund has the clearest, light-blue, piercing eyes, and a stylish haircut, apparently bobbed with a fringe (although we can’t see what it’s like behind), which makes me think more of the 1920s than 1917. She is clearly a serious, thoughtful woman, her head tilted to one side and her eyes gazing into the middle distance some way above our left shoulders. Like Rodin’s Thinker, with his chin on his fist, or Dalí’s Narcissus, who we saw a while back, his chin on his knee, the head leaning on the hand adds to the sense of contemplation, albeit in a different way. Each finger is clearly demarcated (although the little finger is oddly truncated – I don’t know whether that was an anatomical fact, or an artistic abbreviation), and there is a clear space through to the light background. Presumably, given the curtain, this is a view through a window, with broad, light brushstrokes of white and pink over a darker ground, giving an idea of a light, but cloudy sky. The curtain itself, in a deep turquoise, is angled parallel to the tilt of the head, and completes the ‘virtual’ pyramid which gives this composition – and Anna Roslund – stability, and strength of presence. Another note of stability is the horizontal of the arm, marked strongly by the contrast between the upper edge of the blue sleeve and the light background (and notice how the thumb and fingers echo shapes of the arm and head).

Roslund is clearly comfortable in this chair, and I love the way in which the curve of her right shoulder, clad in blue and enhanced by a subtle black outline, echoes the curve of the left arm of the chair – it is as if she is a completion of the chair on that side. The chair itself, with the yellow arm given texture and form by the darker brushstrokes, is painted in a similar technique and colour to Van Gogh’s more famous example, a symbolic self portrait (having said that, now that I have posted the pictures the chair looks more violet than it did in the file on my laptop!). Indeed, Münter was an admirer of the Dutchman’s work, even naming her home in the country ‘The Yellow House’, as a nod to his home in Arles.

The arms of the chair curve round and in before flaring out again, as if hugging the sitter. The right arm (seen on our left) is more brightly illuminated, and, as a result, appears to be a different colour (but with colour, everything is relative – see above). The left arm (on our right) reminds me of the roads you see in some Dutch landscape paintings, which start in the bottom corner of the painting, and lead you into the middle ground, as if the artist is expecting you to go on a journey with him (I don’t think there was a woman who painted landscapes in the Dutch Golden Age). I think the same is true here: Münter is using these arms, particular the one on our right, to lead our eye into the painting – and also, as the corners of the pyramidal composition.

I’m not an expert on women’s dress (nor on men’s, for that matter), but the blue top appears to continue as an open overskirt, framing the sleeker black skirt. Either that, or she is sitting on a blue cushion of the same hue as her blouse. Whatever it is, this blue, and the uncovered section of the seat of the chair, both form triangles pointing up towards Roslund’s face. Her left leg is crossed over her right – again, a confidence in her body language which we might not think of as ‘lady-like’ for the first half of the 20th Century.  The black outlines to the blue blouse might relate to the clothing itself, or they may be the result of Münter’s interest in Bavarian folk art, particular reverse glass painting (painted on one side of the glass, to be seen from the other), which often had rich, jewel-like colours separated by black outlines, a cloisonné effect not unlike stained glass windows.

Munter, Gabriele; Anna Roslund (1891-1941); Leicester Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/anna-roslund-18911941-80902

So who was this remarkable, stylish, self-confident, thoughtful woman? Well, a musician and author at the forefront of the Danish Avant Garde, but that is as far as I can get, I’m afraid. Münter met her while living in Copenhagen during the First World War. However, I can tell you that Anna Roslund had a sister called Nell, who was an artist, and who married a man called Herwath Walden in 1912. And it is this that made the portrait a key image for Making Modernism, one theme of which is the nature of artistic communities and the resulting dissemination of ideas. From 1910 Walden published a weekly journal dedicated to modern art (monthly from 1914-1924). It was called Der Sturm – ‘The Storm’ – the title expressing Walden’s conviction that that was how modern art was going to take Germany. His focus was on Cubism and Futurism (he effectively introduced these movements to the German public) and also on the burgeoning German Expressionist movement. In 1912, the year in which he and Nell Roslund married, they opened an art gallery in Berlin under the same name. Both Gabriele Münter and Marianne Werefkin, stars of Expressionists at Tate Modern, were exhibited regularly. Münter’s introduction to today’s sitter came via her gallerist, effectively. It might even have been this connection that took her to Copenhagen.

One question remains: if these artists were so successful when they were alive, why is their work so little known today? One reason, for the British at least – apart from the fact that the men they were associated with took all the limelight – is that there is very little of their work in public collections. This portrait is one of the few which was borrowed for Making Modernism from a British institution. It forms part of Leicester’s notable collection of German Expressionism, one of the rich seams of great art which, when you find them, are a surprising, but rewarding, feature of our regional museums. The same is true of Expressionists: one reason for Tate Modern’s thematic hang when it opened back in the year 2000 was that the first three decades of the 20th century are notoriously underrepresented, and in a chronological hang the first few rooms would be sparse indeed: just one early Kandinsky, and a scattering of Picassos. This current exhibition provides an ideal opportunity to get to know some truly great, truly influential artists – and to re-balance the view that it was the men who were coming up with all the ideas.

222 – Potentially singing

Carel Fabritius, The Goldfinch, 1654. Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Some paintings are so simple they seem obvious, while others simply defy explanation. I feel certain that today’s painting falls somewhere between the two: a painting of a bird that has somehow become an international celebrity, with an expression as inscrutable as the Mona Lisa, or, closer to home, The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Indeed, the subjects of these two Dutch paintings glance over their shoulders to look at each other from the opposite sides of the room. Or at least, they did ten years ago when I last saw them together, and I presume they still do: I’ll find out within days. However, despite the fame of the avian protagonist, the artist responsible remains relatively unknown. But then, he did die tragically young. I want to celebrate him this week, on Monday 6 May at 6pm, when I will talk about Carel Fabritius and the Art of Delft – making it clear that it is Not Just The Goldfinch. I’ve realised that there won’t be a huge amount of ‘Delft’, to be honest, as Fabritius’ works, however few, are so interesting that I will spend most of the time with them. While we’re about it I can recommend Laura Cumming’s Thunderclap most highly. It is a personal memoir about growing up with art, and its value for our lives, framed by encounters with the Dutch master’s paintings.

The week after Not Just The Goldfinch I will be in Delft – but the following Monday, 20 May, I will talk about Tate Modern’s powerful, colourful exhibition Expressionists. This will be followed (27 May) by another Tate exhibition, looking at the tireless, totally committed, and sadly misunderstood Yoko Ono. I’ve also set up the next set of In Person Tours of the National Gallery, which will be the last ones before a summer break:
Monday 17 June at 11:00am: NG05 – Siena in the Fifteenth Century
Monday 17 June at 2:30pm: NG06 – Piero and the Court of Urbino
Tuesday 18 June at 11:00am: NG07 – Perugino and Raphael (morning)
Tuesday 18 June at 2:30pm: NG07 – Perugino and Raphael (afternoon)

If you missed The Last Caravaggio I will repeat it next week, on Thursday 9 May at 6pm, for ARTscapades. And if you’re not free then, unlike me they have the personnel to post a recording online – so you can catch up with it within the following fortnight or so. Any other events will eventually get posted on the diary – although admittedly I have been known to forget things (as indeed I did for next week’s talk). But now: The Goldfinch.

A description of this painting could be so simple: a bird stands on a semi-circular perch – the upper one of two – its body facing to our right, while its head is turned to look over its shoulder, almost as if it is turning to look at us. The two perches curve around a grey box, which is supported by two similarly grey brackets against a cream coloured wall. The bird is evidently captive: a ring is threaded around the top perch, with one end of a chain attached to it. The other end secures the goldfinch. The chain hangs behind the lower perch, and loops down between the two brackets. The red colouration of the bird’s face, and the golden flash on its wing, tell us it is a goldfinch.

Each separate colour of the plumage is applied with distinct brushstrokes, which are carefully, and on the whole thinly, applied. The exception is perhaps in the yellow of the wings, which seems to have been built up more thickly, an effect known as impasto. Elsewhere the thin strokes do not entirely cover the layers of paint which had been applied earlier, leaving gaps which help us to build up a history of their application. Somehow this technique adds to the feathery texture. At times the strokes were applied ‘wet on wet’ – and the brush has picked up the earlier paints to create streaks of colour – a ‘feathering’ of different paints particularly clear in the buttery brown brushstroke just under the top of the black section of wing, which continues down to the shadow created by the raised yellow feathers. The way in which the paint has been applied suggests that the brush was stroked and dabbed onto the painting to fill in areas of colour with the required subtlety and delicacy – although there is never any attempt to pretend that this is not a painting. On this small scale it looks remarkably painterly. We see the materials involved and the manner of their application, unlike the work of a slightly older artist, also a student of Rembrandt, Gerrit Dou, who is known as a fijnschilder – a ‘fine painter’. His works barely hint at being paintings, their making disguised in a bravura display of what we would now see, anachronistically, as photographic: a highly detailed naturalism. Not that Fabritius shies away from illusion. Look at the thin, gently undulating lines on the perch, strokes with tiny brushes that span the gap between the ring and the goldfinch’s tail, which show the light glinting off the perch. Above and to the left of the ring three small strokes likewise glint off the joint of a hinge: the grey box has a lid which is attached to the wall, and could be lifted up – presumably by the goldfinch itself, looking for food, or maybe water. The Dutch title for this painting is Het puttertje. De put means ‘the well’, and de putter ‘the water drawer’ – someone who draws water from a well. The last syllable, ‘-je’ is a diminutive – ‘the little water drawer’. In the Dutch Republic, goldfinches were trained to pull up water from a bowl in tiny thimble-like buckets. Maybe it’s the protestant work ethic.

What is the point of this detail, you might ask? There is no more information than in the last one – less, if anything, as we can see neither the perch nor the chain. But we can see the background – and there is a lot of it, compared to the size of the Goldfinch. Fabritius was a master of painting walls, creating the texture of the rough plaster with scumbled layers of closely matched paints. He was also a master of negative space: he does not focus in on his subject, as others might, framing them tightly and pushing them forward. Nor does he proclaim the goldfinch’s importance by placing it top centre of the visual field. It is some way down the painting, and off to the right – which only serves to make it seem more real. This is the full width of the top of the painting – which shows you how much space there is to make the goldfinch stand out, to convey its diminutive size, and also, perhaps, its vulnerability. If you look carefully around the edges – at the top, left and right – there seems to be a narrow border which has been painted over. This is part of the original setting of the painting, but I’m afraid I don’t have the space to go into that today: I’ll have to leave it until Monday. It is particularly relevant to Delft! The light comes from the top left, from over our left shoulders – you can see that from the bird’s shadow, below it and to the right.

The direction of the light is confirmed by the shadows of the perches, the upper one cast on the grey box, the lower one onto the wall. And while the shadow to the right of the box may seem to contradict this – the angle goes up to the right – this is the result of the scalloping of the bracket, curving from thin to thick as it goes up. Notice how both perches look as if they curve up from the wall on either side. I have little doubt that they were, in fact, horizontal – this is just a clue that we are looking up. The goldfinch is perched above our heads. To the right of the lower perch, a small area of paint has flaked away, revealing grey plaster underneath. To the right of this there is a clear vertical line which is another remnant of the original setting – which must, as we have just seen, have been high up. However painterly the style – look, for example, at the single, vertical stroke at the top of the right bracket, disguising the brown layer beneath, but barely hiding it – the chain itself is exquisitely delicate, every single link traced onto the surface, with those at the top left glinting in the light, as does the ring which allows the goldfinch a limited freedom of movement, flying back and forth in a prescribed arc, with barely enough space to flap.

There is yet more space at the bottom of the painting, again allowing the subject to be seen and understood. Space can be a luxury, and here it adds status: in the middle of this pictorial void is something that deserves to be seen. At the bottom (which is closer to our eyeline, if we are looking up at the painting) is the signature, carefully inscribed in capital letters on top of areas of re-worked paint as if it were drawn on the rough surface of the wall itself. It was 1654, the year in which Fabritius would die at the age of 32.

As I suggested above, his few remaining paintings (thirteen are generally accepted) reveal that Fabritius had a truly original sense of composition. The painting is by no means symmetrical: we have already seen how the goldfinch is on the right. However, the box and the perches are placed exactly symmetrically on the central vertical axis, while the top perch skims the central horizontal: underneath the apparent freedom is a rigid geometry. The bottom of the chain hangs to the right of centre though, implying the movement of the bird, which just happens to stand with its body lined up along the diagonal from top right to bottom left: nature organised by art, a celebration of illusion. There is also a sense of trickery. The shadow of the bird, and of the two perches, assure us that the light comes from the top left. And yet, the shape of the brackets, and the positioning of the bird, make the shadow of the box look as if the light is coming from the bottom left – but this is just Fabritius playing with our expectations, I think: the shadow is entirely logical, even if it is unexpected.

What does this all add up to? Art historians have struggled to interpret the painting: what does it mean? Or is this the wrong question? Does it mean anything at all? Or is it pure observation? And if so, why was it painted? Why this particular subject? None of the answers are entirely satisfactory, and we fall, as I said at the beginning, between unnervingly simple, and enigmatically sublime. One thing, though, is certain. If you have ever felt sorry for the goldfinch, trapped in its limited world, don’t worry – because there is no goldfinch. There is only paint. We can see how the paint was applied. We can see the layers, and the way the colours blend. We are also told, in a tract of painting that is – not coincidentally, I’m sure – exactly the same width as the distance between the outside edges of the brackets, the name of the man who painted this, and when he did it. So we can have no doubt that this was made. It is a fabrication. Fabritius was a man who made things. And yet, we believe in the goldfinch. One of the things that this painting is about – and there could be many – is the magic of art, and our willing suspension of disbelief that turns a mixture of oil and dirt into a delicate creature, living and breathing – and potentially, even, singing – just above our heads.

221 – Caravaggio: the witness witnessed

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, 1606-07 or 1609-10. Galleria Borghese, Rome.

I was very lucky to be able to get into the National Gallery before opening time last week, and had the unequalled opportunity to see The Last Caravaggio on my own. In terms of the National Gallery’s ‘small and perfectly formed’ Room 46 exhibitions, this is undoubtedly the smallest – there are two paintings, two books and a letter. Of course, it is a ‘must’ for any lover of Caravaggio’s work, but by 10:30 a small queue had formed. At eleven it had stretched across the landing, and by 12 it continued downstairs and across the Annenberg Court – just so that you know. The exhibition is free, but they can only fit 39 people into the room. I will talk about The Last Caravaggio on Monday, 29 April at 6pm, looking at both of the paintings in the exhibition in detail, explaining the significance of the books and letter, and putting it all into the context of Caravaggio’s life as a whole. The following week, on 6 May, I want to think about another artist who died even younger than Caravaggio, and whose early death has denied him the fame he undoubtedly deserves – even though his masterpiece is, in itself, one of the celebrities of the art world. The talk will explore Carel Fabritius and the Art of Delft – making it clear that this is Not Just The Goldfinch. Thereafter, I will introduce two exhibitions at Tate Modern, which look at the Expressionists (20 May) and Yoko Ono (27 May). As ever, keep your eye on the diary for more information.

I have discussed the story of David and Goliath before, when I looked at Bernini’s sculpture (see 132 – Giant, or Giant Slayer?). In that post I used Caravaggio’s painting as a comparative illustration: both are in the same collection in Rome, although they are in different rooms. I also discussed the story at length when talking about the Pesellino painting, The Story of David and Goliath, as part of the National Gallery’s recent exhibition. But, long story short (as if you didn’t know it), David was a shepherd boy who took up the giant Goliath’s challenge of one-to-one combat to resolve the war between the Israelites and the Philistines. With God on his side, David triumphed, using nothing but a slingshot and a stone, which hit the Giant’s forehead and knocked him dead. The boy didn’t even have a sword – so he took Goliath’s, severed the head, and returned to King Saul in Triumph – the subject of a second painting by Pesellino. Caravaggio depicts a moment just after the climax of the story, with David looking down at the severed head, the sword still in his hand.

Caravaggio’s early works were richly coloured, using widely ranging palettes and a detailed depiction of form and texture. As his all-too-brief career progressed, the palette simplified, the colour drained out and the darkness crept in. There is no implication in the biblical narrative that this story would have happened at night, nor would it make any sense: battles almost inevitably happened during the light of day. How else could you see who you were fighting, or know where to aim? It is so dark here though, that it cannot be anything other than night, which of course adds to the drama of the depiction. However, there is just the vaguest hint that David is not exactly ‘outside’. The top left corner of the painting is cut off by a diagonal that can be read as the dark, olive green flap of a tent, and another piece of fabric hangs almost vertically down the right side of the painting. A strong light shines from the left, almost on a horizontal: the boy’s face is in shadow on our right, the line between light and dark being as vertical as possible given the forms of the facial features. There must be a bright lantern hanging by the ‘door’ of this tent. We can see the taut tendons in the neck, and the clavicles at the top of his sternum, tense as a result of the extended left arm, which is raised and strongly foreshortened: the direction of the light means that the arm is brilliantly illuminated along its full length.

This arm thrusts the severed head towards us, blood pouring down below it, but not in an overly shocking way – it is too dark to cause much concern. Caravaggio brilliantly captures the moment of surprise as the apparently invincible giant realises that he will be defeated by an innocent child, this fleeting thought captured on his face by the sudden, unexpected death, so recent that the eyes are still crystal clear. It is as if he is still alive, still thinking and feeling, the brow crumpled in thought. The small, bloody wound in his forehead caused by the shepherd boy’s stone is hidden by the shadow from a lock of hair. The right eyelid droops, the eye unfocussed and clearly no longer seeing, even if the lively glint in the left eye contradicts our understanding of the situation. The mouth is open – the last breath was a gasp – the lower lip glistens and the peg-like teeth catch the light.

David is dressed unusually – he seems to have taken his left arm out of the sleeve of his shirt and tucked it in into the belt of his tan-coloured britches. Maybe that is some of the sleeve hanging down in front. The rest of the shirt – if that is what it is – is worn over his shadowed right shoulder. The right arm is all but hidden in the profound darkness. He still holds the sword, the point lowered and out of the picture, its angle being parallel to the thrust of the arm – on the surface of the painting, at least, although not in the imagined depth of the space.

The position in which the sword is held is hard to explain, pressed as it is against his thigh, putting pressure on the britches, and inflecting the lines of the folds. The angle of the sword, and its position, right next to the groin, has led to lurid speculation – especially as the britches are not fully fastened: we can see the shirt where it has been tucked in. Almost inevitably with Caravaggio, these speculations are related to the artist’s own sexuality, something I have no particular interest in, if I’m honest, but we might come back to it. However, the sword includes a detail which might give us a better lead concerning Caravaggio’s line of thought. It is inscribed with the letters ‘H.AS O S’, usually interpreted as an abbreviation of Humilitas Occidit Superbiam – meaning ‘humility kills pride’. This is a quotation from one of St Augustine’s commentaries on the Psalms, and the relevant the full passage can be translated thus:

David is as a figure of Christ, just as Goliath is as a figure of the devil. And because David laid Goliath low, Christ is the one who has slain the devil. But what does it mean that Christ is the one who has slain the devil? Humility has slain pride. Since I cite the example of Christ, my brothers, humility is commended to us par excellence. For he has made a path for us through humility. Since through pride we had retreated from God, we were not able to return to him except through humility, and we did not have anyone to hold before ourselves for our imitation.

We will certainly come back to this!

The darkness visible through the shirt tells us that this is certainly a late painting: look at the wonderful freedom with which it is painted. A number of long, rapid, loosely-painted brushstrokes flow diagonally from the shadowed shoulder across the otherwise naked torso. The shirt is thin, judging by the amount it has wrinkled, and yet it does not appear to be translucent. We don’t see the light flesh tones of the chest or stomach through it, but the darkness. The white paint was applied directly onto a dark ground. This technique was first fully explored by Tintoretto in the 16th century, and is a great time saver for artists painting nocturnal scenes. Rather than working your way down from light to shadow as you would have to on a white background, here you work your way from darkness up to the light. However, the shadowed edges of forms do not need to be painted at all, as we fill them in with our imagination. Here, the shadows caused by the wrinkling of the fine cotton are an absence of overpaint, rather than an application of a darker hue. But then the dark ground seeps through the flesh tones as well. The outline of David’s back – to our right of his body – is defined by what appears to be light reflecting onto the torso at the edge of the shadowed rib cage. But this is artistic license – there is nothing in the painting to explain what the light could be reflecting from. The thinness and transparency of the white paint is a common feature of the late work – a development which reaches unprecedented extremes in The Last Caravaggio – all of which suggests the usual date given for the execution of this painting: about 1610, the year of the artist’s death at the age of 38. However, the Galleria Borghese, in whose collection the painting has resided for over 400 years, now suggests the date given at the top: 1606-07 or 1609-10. To understand why this might be the case, we should question the assumptions we have made about who is looking at whom. But just to point out the difference between a ‘mature’ painting and a ‘late’ one (though how can it be ‘late’ at the age of 38?), here is an earlier version of the same subject in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, which they date to ‘around 1600/01’.

So much is similar between the two paintings. Both are nocturnal, with a bright light coming horizontally from the left. The sword is held in David’s right hand, with the head in his left, thrust towards us by the strongly foreshortened arm. The costume is also the same: tan coloured britches and a white shirt tucked in at the waist, hanging over one shoulder, with an arm withdrawn. The head looks surprised, the mouth gapes, and blood pours down in the shadows below the severed neck. Stylistically though they are rather different. In the earlier work the forms are fuller, and more clearly defined. Although it was also painted on a dark ground, the darkness is not nearly so visible through the flesh, or, for that matter, the shirt. In this painting it is more obvious that one of the arms has been taken out from its sleeve – the cuff is clearly visible tied just above David’s right hip. However, in this earlier painting it is the right arm which is bare, which makes more sense: he holds the sword in his right hand, the same hand that would have swung the sling. Freeing this arm from the clothing would have allowed him greater freedom of movement, a greater swing. In the later painting the unclothed left arm associates this freedom of movement with the head, thus bringing the relationship between victor and victim closer. There are a least three other notable differences, quite aside from the format of the painting (landscape in Vienna and portrait in Rome). First is the position of the sword, held nonchalantly over David’s shoulder. This may be a relaxed pose, but it still allows him to swing the blade again. A second difference is in his state of dress: the britches are more obviously gaping. This might be a reference to the biblical account. Saul was worried about the young boy’s ability to defend himself, ‘And Saul armed David with his armour’ (1 Samuel 17:38). However, David had never worn armour – he hadn’t ‘proved’ it, meaning that it was not tried and tested – ‘And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these; for I have not proved them. And David put them off’ (1 Samuel 17:39). He ‘put off’ the armour – but the bible doesn’t suggest that he ‘put off’ all of his clothes – as the sculptures of Donatello and Michelangelo might suggest. In Caravaggio’s paintings David wears down to earth clothing, over which armour could have been worn. The sloppy garb of the young boy might simply result from the removal of ill-fitting armour, and could even suggest a lack of concern about his appearance in the face of God’s enemy. A final difference between the two paintings is the direction in which the boy is looking. In the earlier version his gaze is directed towards our right, into the shadows, and his expression is contained and in control – potentially proud, perhaps, and, I would say, on the verge of a smile.

The expression of the Galleria Borghese David is strikingly different – and unlike that of any other David that I know. His head is tilted, and the raking light casts most of the face into deep shadow. Rather than the potentially proud and imminently smiling figure, here his look is downcast, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed. There is a sense of deep regret – even sorrow – at what he has had to do. He even seems sad for the death of Goliath. Why should this be? It might help to look again at the face of the giant, and compare it with a portrait of Caravaggio himself, by Ottavio Leoni, which is now in the Biblioteca Marucelliana in Florence.

Although usually dated around 1621, eleven years after Caravaggio died, no one has ever doubted the authenticity of this chalk drawing, presumably copied from an earlier sketch.  It reveals an interesting aspect to the painting: Goliath is a self portrait – suggesting that Caravaggio saw himself as a slain giant. In terms of the subject generally, St Augustine’s interpretation of the story – in Christian terms – that it represents the triumph of Christ over the devil, (or, if we take it more generally, of good over evil), was one which was understood through the ages. But how does this apply to the famous painter? If his is the slain pride, someone must have humility, and that would also be the artist himself, presumably. He could be saying that he has – finally – found the humility to overcome his own pride.

The painting entered the Borghese collection as early as 1613, and records suggest that it was in Naples in 1610. An early biography implies that it was painted for Cardinal Scipio Borghese in 1606, though… However, given the existence of two other Davids by Caravaggio – the one above, in Vienna, and an earlier work in the Prado, in which David crouches over the prostrate body of the giant – it is not entirely clear which, if any, of the paintings the sources refer too: there could have been others which are now lost. However, 1606 was a significant date. It was the year in which Caravaggio murdered Ranuccio Tomassoni, and fled from Rome. After this there was a price on his head, quite literally: a reward for killing him, which in this painting David seem to have done. On leaving Rome his first lengthy stop was in Naples. His guilt at the murder, and his worry that it had potentially ended his own life, could be expressed in the downcast glance of the shepherd boy. From the moment he fled Caravaggio sought pardon from the Pope, Paul V: born Camillo Borghese, he was the uncle of Cardinal Scipio. If not painted during his first stay in Naples, from 1606-07, he might have painted it on his return from 1609-10 – hence the dates the Galleria Borghese gives for the painting. Throughout his flight he continued to ask the Pope for forgiveness, which would allow him to return to Rome. This painting was, in all probability, his way of asserting the fact that he had learnt his lesson: humility had finally conquered his own pride. However, there is another possibility.

It has been suggested that this painting is actually a double self portrait. If Goliath looks older than the man we see in the Leoni portrait, the idea would be that David is a younger version of the same person. This would be poetically beautiful, as we would be seeing the young Caravaggio looking with regret at his future self, although I can’t convince myself that this really is him a second time. However, what I have no doubt about is that one of the witnesses of the Martyrdom of St Lucy – The Last Caravaggio – seen on the right, below, is none other than Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.

However wild and unruly his life, he was a profoundly religious man, and regularly portrayed himself as a witness to the miracles he painted. There are a number of suggestions for the identity of the model for the young David. These include one of Caravaggio’s assistants, a contemporary artist, or the the artists’ ‘obsession of the day’ who did not requite his love (hence the sense of being ‘slain’). And, as I mentioned above, it has also been suggested that it is the young Caravaggio himself. But whoever it was, it is clear the man who portrayed himself so often as a witness is here being witnessed, and that what is seen causes sorrow. He died two months short of his 39th birthday, and as we always do, we inevitably end up wondering what he would he have gone on to do had he lived. Given the development of his work up to this point, it seems hard to avoid the conclusion that all that was left for him was darkness.

220 – At the end of the day

Frederic Leighton, The Garden of the Hesperides, c.1892. Lady Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight.

After some delay I will be very happy to talk about Frederic Leighton and Flaming June at last – this Monday, 22 April at 6pm. This is a superb opportunity to focus on a painting which is widely recognised as the masterpiece of a former President of the Royal Academy, especially as its usual home, in Puerto Rico, is not exactly on everyone’s doorstep. The following week, 29 April, I will look at The Last Caravaggio, putting the National Gallery’s two-painting exhibition into the context of the artist’s life as a whole. On 6 May I will look at one of Delft’s leading artists, Carel Fabritius – making it clear that his work was Not Just The Goldfinch. This will be followed by Expressionists (20 May) and Yoko Ono (29 May), which will both be introductions to exhibitions at Tate Modern: keep your eye on the diary, as they will go on sale as soon as I can get myself together. The May In Person Tours are selling fast, but there are still a few tickets left for each:
Wednesday, 8 May at 11:00am NG04 – Florence: The Next Generation
Wednesday, 8 May at 2:30pm NG05 – Siena in the Fifteenth Century
Thursday, 9 May at 11:00am NG06 – Piero and the Court of Urbino (morning)
Thursday, 9 May at 2:30pm NG06 – Piero and the Court of Urbino (afternoon)

But for now, rather than Flaming June, I would like to talk about a different painting by Frederic Leighton.

When I started writing this post a few weeks back I was sitting more or less directly underneath it, as I was in the café of the Lady Lever Art Gallery. I was sitting there because (a) I wanted to have another look at the painting, (b) they do great scones, and (c) they have WiFi, and at the time I didn’t, which is why Monday’s talk was postponed. The Garden of the Hesperides was first exhibited at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in 1892 – which is what gives it the date ‘c. 1892’. However, it is neither signed, nor dated, so we don’t know exactly when it was finished: it could have been completed the previous year, given that many artists built up their annual submissions to the Summer Exhibition gradually, in between shows. Indeed, it might even have been started before the 1891 exhibition. Leighton’s paintings, like those of many artists of the time, function as a sort of ‘stylistic chain’, with ideas developing from one painting to the next. In each case he would make choices to resolve the problems arising from the chosen subject, and the alternative solutions to these compositional concerns often inspired subsequent works. The importance of The Garden of the Hesperides for the development of Flaming June is the reason I chose to write about it today – even before I realised that it was just around the corner at the Lady Lever: it’s only a quarter of an hour’s stroll, so even closer than the Walker.

Before we go any further, it would be good to clarify who the Hesperides were – but it’s really not that simple. If you want all of the suggestions about them (at least, I assume they are all there) you could do worse than look at the Wikipedia page, but the Encyclopedia Britannica entry is undoubtedly clearer – if less detailed. Suffice it to say that the many and varied classical sources suggest there were anywhere between three and seven of them (although a chest designed by Edward Burne-Jones in the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery only includes two), and they were blessed with a large number of possible names. Leighton settles on three, which was the ‘original’ number, and the most commonly accepted. Hesperos means ‘west’, with Hesperus as one of the names for the evening star, which is seen in the west, and associated with the setting sun. As a result it was often assumed that the Hesperides lived on an island to the ‘west’ of the known world, just off the coast of Spain. I’ll feed in more information about them as we explore the painting.

If we were talking about a renaissance work of art we would call this a tondo, a circular painting. It is displayed in the original frame designed by Leighton himself. The three Hesperides are sitting in the shade of a tree, which has a massive and gnarled trunk growing from bottom left to top right, the branches forming a canopy across the top of the tondo. The main role of the Hesperides was to tend their garden and guard this tree with its golden apples. The fruits were highly prized, and feature in a number of myths: The Judgement of Paris, Hippomenes and Atalanta and the 11th Labour of Hercules to name but three. The tree was a gift from Gaia, goddess of the Earth, to Hera on the occasion of her marriage to the ‘King’ of the Gods, Zeus. If you’re more familiar with the Roman names, that would be the wedding of Juno and Jupiter.

The three women sit – or sprawl – in relaxed poses, their heads lolling to one side, their eyelids drooping. It is sunset, after all (look at the orange glow on the horizon), and they appear to be in a state of eternal drowsiness. I spent a long time trying to find a good, high-resolution image of this painting to pick out some details, but they all seemed to be slightly out of focus. Finally I realised that they are out of focus. However crisp the intricate folds of the central light orange dress might appear, the faces are all slightly blurred, and that was Leighton’s intent: this is a painting of drowsiness. If I’m honest, they all look just how I feel when I’m nodding off to sleep in an armchair after a rather good lunch. We see different aspects of the three maidens: on the left, in profile; in the centre, facing towards us; and on the right, at an angle. They all rest on the trunk of the tree alongside another, unmissable presence: the serpent Ladon, who helps them keep guard, and who, I would suggest, is the only one lively enough to do so.

The Hesperides were described by Hesiod as being ‘clear voiced’, while Euripides called them ‘minstrel maids’ – apparently they delighted in song. The nymph on the left is indeed strumming at a lyre, her lips parted, as if she is singing. Her brilliantly coloured dress would suggest that she is Erytheia – ‘the red one’. She leans back against the trunk of the tree, with her torso at the same angle, and her head tilted back. Her profile stands out clearly against the pale, evening sky, and the sharply defined line of the sea on the horizon almost cuts into her throat as she sings. Her right arm, shadowed and relaxed as it nonchalantly plucks at the strings of the lyre, stands out against the brilliantly lit trees growing by the sandy beach at the water’s edge. She sits on a red cloth only a shade deeper than the deep orange (rather than red, if I look again) of her dress. This is precisely the exploration of close shades of similar colours which interests Leighton in Flaming June. This nymph also has similar, exaggerated bodily proportions to those seen in the later painting. Compare the length of her torso, from shoulder to hip, as she leans against the trunk, to her thigh, from hip to knee. The latter is enormously elongated, adding to the sense of drawn out drowsiness. This lengthened thigh becomes one of the central features of Flaming June. The lower leg – from knee to foot – is relatively short by comparison. The angle of her right leg reveals the sole of her right foot, while the left foot, propped up on the flexed toes, shows the only tension in her body. In my mind this is an echo of the right foot of the right hand angel in Michelangelo’s Manchester Madonna – but I could easily be wrong.

The central figure wears a light orange robe – I suppose it could be described as ‘peach’, or a light ‘salmon’. This may be Leighton’s representation of Hesperia, whose name means ‘sunset glow’. Her figure epitomises the contrast between crisp focus – seen in the clear definition of the legs beneath the skirts, and the multitude of rippling folds in the thin drapery which surrounds them – and the lassitudinous blur of the face, lolling to one side in the shade of the tree. Seen closer, this detail reveals that none of the three nymphs are actually resting against the bark itself: they are using the serpent Ladon’s long sinuous flank as their pillow. The loops and curves of his form are not easy to trace, but there is just a hint of the metallic sheen of the scales to the left of the tree at the top of this detail, and lower down it curves behind the heads of the three Hesperides. Ladon also encircles Hesperia, wrapping around her shins and across her waist, where the light touch of her right hand tells us that this is in no way stressful – it could even be comforting. The thinner form of the creature leaves the detail on the right, almost as if leading on from Hesperia’s gesture. The nymph’s right knee is tightly bent, the left knee less so – a posture which goes back to the Torso Belvedere, which was much favoured by Michelangelo. A variation of this composition, with the foot of the fully flexed leg tucked under the more open knee, is also adopted by Flaming June: we will look at its origins in more depth on Monday. Also derived from Michelangelo is the ruching of the fabric around an element which binds the form. Here Ladon causes the bunching of the fabric, whereas in the paintings and sculptures of Michelangelo it is often a belt or ribbon.

If we are following the most ‘popular’ sources, the name of the third nymph should be Aigle, but as this means ‘dazzling light’ I can’t see that this was necessarily Leighton’s intention. This painting adopts a palette which was one of his favourites in the 1890s, exploring the ways in which colours are affected by the light. Here the olive green of the robe is inflected by the warm glow of sunset. It could be catching light reflected from Hesperia’s dress, or it could be a shot silk, with warp and weft made of green and orange threads. While the back of her head lies on Ladon’s flank, this third nymph also leans on her sister’s arm. She holds a dish on her lap, and lazily fingers its contents – but it is hard to tell what they are: a pot-pourri of sweet smelling petals, perhaps?

This is a truly sensuous painting, with references to all the senses. Sight is primary: we are looking at the painting after all, but we also hear the sound of the lyre. Whatever is in this bowl, it is being touched, and if it is not also sweet-smelling in itself, we will see later that a beguiling scent is essential to the meaning of the painting. But how about taste? We will get to the ‘golden apples’ on the tree later, but to our right of ‘Aigle’ is a ceramic jar, which may contain wine. Behind it are pink flowers, which again allow the possibility of fragrance. However, in this detail, it is really Ladon who stands out, his head bold against the glistening sea. His role, as I have said, was to help the Hesperides guard the golden apples, and he certainly seems to be the most alert of those present. In one version of the myth of Hercules, his 11th labour involved stealing one of the golden apples – he slayed Ladon and took the apple from under the noses of the nymphs. In another version, while Hercules held up the sky for Atlas, Atlas was able to get into the garden easily: he was commonly believed to be the father of the Hesperides.

Looking back to the three nymphs I can’t help but admire Leighton’s composition and colour. He has painted three women who are similar enough to be sisters, but in three different poses, all of which are relaxed and sensuous, using a harmonious palette which speaks of the dusk, and of the sun setting over nature. I am also intrigued by the way he varies the focus on the figures, and creates different depths of form, almost like a sculptor. If you imagine the three women as if they were carvings against a painted backdrop, Hesperia is in the highest relief and her dress in the sharpest detail. Erytheia and Aigle would be carved in a lower relief, with Erytheia perhaps the flattest of all. It strikes me that this is precisely how Michelangelo worked in the Taddei Tondo – which was acquired by the RA in 1829, and so would have been well-known to Leighton. The most ‘finished’ part of the carving is the most important – the baby Jesus, who is in the deepest relief at the centre of the sculpture – a tondo. Even though it is a painting, the same is true of the Manchester Madonna (which was acquired by the National Gallery in 1870, and so easily accessible). The Madonna herself is in the centre in ‘high relief’, with the angels flanking her further back – much as Hesperia is flanked by Erytheia and Aigle. Leighton’s admiration of Michelangelo’s work is widely acknowledged, and is revealed by contemporary photographs of his studio, in which he displayed black and white photographs of the Italian master’s sculptures (I’ll try and hunt some out for Monday). But there is, of course, more to this painting than just the three clear-voiced maidens.

At the top we see the canopy of the tree spreading below the curving frame. The broad, scaly flanks of the serpent loop around the massive trunk, with a last loop and the tip of the tail hanging from one of the slimmer branches on the left. Against the pale sky, which is streaked with clouds coloured a mid-blue in the dull light of dusk, we can see one branch thickly laden with fruit, and there is another, brighter, and clearer, in the foreground at the top right.

If we hadn’t noticed before we can see here that Leighton has accepted the relatively modern interpretation of the ‘Golden Apples’ of the Hesperides which suggests that they were, in fact, oranges. This is clear not only from the shape and colour of the fruits, but also from the leaves, typical of the long, pointed forms of citruses generally. This identification is also true for the garland which circles the frame, made up of bound branches of fruits, leaves and flowers: as ever I am grateful to the Ecologist, who has confirmed that they are accurate depictions of orange blossoms. In the corners of the frame are stylised shells, set against a waving pattern – together these features must surely refer to the island setting of the garden and its surrounding sea.

The bottom of the painting also reveals a watery setting – although this must be an inland freshwater pond. Two egrets perch in an oleander bush, one resting, the other alert, with one wing raised, and its neck arched as it scans the water for fish. The still, flat surface of the pond is dark and mysterious, but reveals reflections of the draperies of the Hesperides, interrupted by a few petals of one of the blossoms which are floating just to the right of centre. Aigle’s green drapery falls over a rock which projects out over the water casting a deep shadow. I can’t help seeing an echo of Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks here – the drop at the front of the renaissance painting is rarely commented on, but have another look. This might just be my renaissance ‘heritage’ being over-active, but given the references to Michelangelo, it is not impossible. The Virgin of the Rocks was bought by the Gallery in 1880 and so it is more than likely that Leighton would have known it, particularly given his interest in the art of the time.  

In terms of the impact of the painting, the detail at the bottom left is one of the most important. Egrets may be an increasingly common feature of the British landscape, but back in 1892 they would have struck an exotic note. Admittedly, it would probably have been read as ‘oriental’, even if the Hesperides were inhabitants of the occident, towards the setting sun – but it would certainly have served to locate the image as being ‘other’. The implications of the oleander might also be unfamiliar – but, within certain circles, it was a notable feature of the artistic culture of the late 19th Century. Among other references, in 1881 Oscar Wilde opened his poem By the Arno with the lines,

The oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning light.

In 1865 Matthew Arnold, a friend of Leighton’s, had written Thyrsis, a Monody, which Wilde could well have known: the setting is the same. The poem deals with the premature death and burial of a young poet – a friend of the author’s – in the Arno valley:

(For there thine earth forgetting eyelids keep
The morningless and unawakening sleep
Under the flowery oleanders pale)

The connection between overpowering scents, sleep and death, might change our thoughts about this remarkably sensuous, even decadent painting. The air is heavy with languorous music, the taste of rich wine and somniferous odours: a beautiful and compelling decadence. This aspect of the work is explored more fully in the catalogue of the Leighton House Museum’s 2016-17 exhibition Flaming June: The Making of an Icon, which cites the two poems I have mentioned above – and more. Along with the miniature display currently at the museum, and the Royal Academy’s larger (but still modest) exhibition, the catalogue will be an essential source for my talk on Monday. At the end of the day, though, the most important thing is the painting: Flaming June. Don’t miss this opportunity to see it.