Super Bowl Bets Extend to Museums!

In true art-history-nerd fashion, I did not realize that the Super Bowl was next Sunday (February 7th) until I read this art news article from today.

It's common for people to place bets on the outcome of Super Bowl games, and it looks like art museum directors are no exception! The directors of the Indianapolis Museum of Art and New Orleans Museum of Art have agreed to wager items from their collection in order to support their hometeams. If the New Orleans Saints win, then the Indianapolis Museum of Art will send Turner's The Fifth Plague of Egypt (1800, shown above) to be displayed in the New Orleans Museum of Art for three months. In turn, if the Indianapolis Colts win the Superbowl, then the New Orleans Museum of Art will send Lorrain's Ideal View of Tivoli (1644, shown below) to be displayed in the Indianapolis Museum of Art for three months.

It appears that the bet was instigated and encouraged by Tyler Green, whose writes the Modern Art Notes blog. You can see Green's Super Bowl post here.

I honestly have no opinion as to which team is going to win the Super Bowl. But if I had to root for one, I guess it would be the New Orleans Saints - purely because I think the Turner is an interesting painting and it should have a chance to travel for temporary exhibition!

Is anyone else rooting for one painting to travel over another?

Bacchus/Dionysus in Classical Art

I was recently asked a question something like, "If you had to choose a favorite god or goddess from ancient Greek/Roman mythology, who would it be?" I quickly answered Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine. It's not because I'm into bacchanalian parties (I don't even drink!) or Dionysiac cults, but Bacchus just seems like he'd be a really entertaining friend. I bet that guy can be funny-on-command.

Anyhow, I started to think of all of the depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in art. Since my speciality is in 17th century art, it's not surprising that I first thought of art created in the Renaissance/Baroque periods: Michelangelo's Bacchus (1497), Caravaggio's Bacchus (c. 1596), Caravaggio's Sick Bacchus (c. 1593), Velazquez' The Triumph of Bacchus (c. 1629; see detail above), and Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne (1520-22). While researching for this post, I also came across a fun depiction of a hefty Bacchus (1638-40) by Rubens. I think it might be my new favorite Bacchus painting, partially because the god's face and girth remind me of a physics teacher from my old high school.

But what about ancient art? What about depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus by the Greeks and Romans themselves? I had a hard time thinking of many examples, which is partially because it's outside my realm of expertise. I did think of three examples, though. Praxiteles' Hermes and the Infant Dionysus (marble copy after an original of 340 BC, shown right) would have been fun to see in its pre-damaged state, since Hermes was originally dangling a bunch of grapes to tease the infant god of the vine. I also thought of the Dionysiac Mystery Frieze (Villa of the Mysteries, Pompeii, Italy, ca. 60-50 BC) and figure from the Parthenon which might be Dionysus (ca. 438-432 BC). These depictions are are a little disappointing though, since they are both damaged. (P.S. Can anyone identify the head with the bulging eyeballs on the left of the Dionysiac wall? I can't figure it out.)

With only those few examples in mind, I began a quest to familiarize myself with depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in classical art. I ended up finding a couple of fun examples that I thought I'd share:

Dionysus (2nd century AD; Roman copy after Hellenistic model, Louvre, Paris)

Dionysus (460 BCE; Louvre, Paris)
This is thought to be one of the earliest depictions of Dionysus as a young man (see here)

Exekias, Dionysus in a Ship, Sailing among Dolphins (Attic black-figure kylix; ca. 530 BC; Vulci)
I actually remember seeing this vase in a course on ancient Greek art. It's a good example of how early Christians picked up on the reclining figure of Dionysus and reused that imagery in the figure of Jonah (see bottom scene from the ceiling painting in the Catacomb of Saints Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, Italy, early 4th century)

Bacchus, (3rd century, Roman mosaic, El Jem Museum, Tunisia)

The Birth of Dionysus (ca. 405-385 BC, Greek, National Archeological Museum in Taranto, Italy)
According to mythology, Dionysus was born out of Zeus' thigh. I love this vase painting - check out Dionysus' cute lil' postnatal wreath!

There are a lot more depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus than the few I've shown here. Do you have a favorite depiction of the god of wine? If you had to pick a favorite god or goddess from classical mythology, who would it be?

Sympathy for Renoir

Anyone who reads this blog regularly can attest to my distaste for Renoir - particularly Renoir's later works. (Case in point: I used the word "hideous" to describe a Renoir painting in this post and in a comment for this post.)

I'm not the only person who dislikes Renoir. In fact, people have critiqued his work for decades. Impressionist painter Mary Cassatt wrote in 1913 that Renoir was painting horrific pictures "of enormously fat red women with very small heads."¹ Even Renoir once admitted, "I had gone as far as I could with Impressionism, and I realized I could neither paint nor draw."² I couldn't agree more.

Although Renoir's later paintings have gotten a bad reputation, a new traveling exhibition called "Renoir in the 20th Century" strives to place the painter in a more positive light. You can read more about this exhibition (and further critiques of Renoir's style) in a recent Smithsonian article.

Personally, I have no desire to see this show. My opinion of Renoir is pretty much solidified at this point, and I wouldn't want to waste my time. However, I must admit that the Smithsonian article has changed my perception of Renoir. I didn't realize that the artist suffered from extreme rheumatoid arthritis in his later life. Due to this disease, the artist painted while under constant pain. He later suffered from paralysis in his right shoulder, which forced the artist to paint with his left hand (see image above).

So, although I don't find any aesthetic appeal in Renoir's later works, I do have much more sympathy for the artist. I guess in a way, I can now relate to Renoir on a very small level. Any discomfort that I feel when seeing his art was also painfully experienced by Renoir when his paintings were created.

1 Richard Covington, "Renoir Rebels Again" in Smithsonian 40, no. 11 (January 2010): 67.

2 Ibid.

New Gardner Museum Addition

I just read here about recently unveiled plans for a new addition to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum. I'm really surprised about this new modern wing, especially since Isabella Stewart Gardner's will requires that the museum cannot be altered from how she originally designed and curated the collection display. In fact, in order to get approval for this new modern addition, the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court had to approve a deviation from the will last year.

But why meddle with Gardner's aesthetic vision? I think that shows great disrespect for the person who amassed this collection in the first place. Gardner stipulated that if her collection/museum ever deviated from her aesthetic vision, then her whole collection would immediately be transferred to the ownership of Harvard University. (Until recently, the museum staff has followed these instructions insofar as to hang empty frames when masterpieces were stolen off of the wall in 1990.) If Isabella knew about the new changes taking place in her museum, I'm sure she'd sent the collection to Harvard posthaste.

What do other people think? Am I being irrational? Do you think the museum is justified in their plans for expansion? Maybe I'm just a historical purist - I hate to see things change just to accommodate modernity.

Forgers, Copyists, and Authenticity/Authority

I remember being surprised to learn that the Ghent Altarpiece (1432) that exists today is not entirely a product of the fifteenth century.¹ One of the panels in the altarpiece ("The Just Judges") was stolen in the 1930s, and was repainted by the copyist Jef Vanderveken in 1945 (see left).

I think it's telling that none of my art history books mention anything about Vanderveken or this copied panel. And when I traveled to Ghent to see this altarpiece in 2003, I don't remember seeing any information about any other artist than van Eyck. I think there's a reason for this "cover-up": the altarpiece doesn't appear to be a product of pristine history and genius with the knowledge that not everything is "authentic" (i.e. by van Eyck's hand). And I would argue that by extension, to undermine the genius of van Eyck's work would also undermine the genius and authoritative voice of the art historical discipline.

This connection between authenticity and the authoritative voice is interesting. One of the most prominent places to encounter an authoritative (and institutional) voice is within the museum setting. Pieces of art are displayed within the museum, and an unspoken authoritative voice tells museum visitors, "This is important and authentic by the mere fact that it's on display." And museum visitors do not question that implied statement (at least, they're not encouraged to do so!).

But what happens when a work of art in a museum collection is determined to not be authentic? This change in status (i.e. artistic genius) reflects poorly on the museum because it loses a measure of authority. (Museums don't want to admit that they make mistakes, too!)

I'm particularly reminded of the forger Han van Meegeren, who duped the art world into thinking it had discovered several paintings by Vermeer (among a few other artists). Van Meegeren's forgeries are now scattered throughout the world in many prominent collections, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery (Washington, DC). However, from what I can tell, these paintings are not on permanent display at most of these museums. Instead, the forgeries are shuttled down to the depths of storage, to hide the blemish of mistake and allow the museum to still "speak" authoritatively.

Furthermore, whenever Van Meegeren paintings are on display for temporary exhibition, it appears that they are almost always labeled with "Imitator of Vermeer" or "After Johannes Vermeer." Even though Van Meegeren was exposed and we know who made the forgeries, museums don't give him any credit for his work! It's as if the museum world still wants to try and tap into the genius of Vermeer by association, even though we know that the paintings are fakes. Bah!

Do you know of any other instances where a question of authenticity has undermined the authority of a museum/art appraiser/work of art/art history textbook?

1 In fact, the Ghent altarpiece was not entirely a product of Jan van Eyck "hand." It appears that the Ghent altarpiece was begun by the painter Hubert van Eyck, Jan's brother. See my post on the topic here.

Rembrandt Discovered in Bathroom Cabinet

Lately there have been some connections between bathrooms and the discoveries of great/important art. Yep - I'm not kidding. Remember the couple that discovered a Raphael copy in their apartment? They found the copy after they decided to build a new bathroom in their home. And now, once again, the bathroom comes into play for another discovery:

The History Blog posted today about a Rembrandt etching that was discovered in the back of a bathroom cabinet (see above). Father O'Connell, president of the Catholic University of America (Washington, DC) found this etching in the bathroom of his office - he was looking for paper towels and ended up discovering a much older (and non-utilitarian) piece of paper. No one is sure how the etching ended up in the cabinet.

The etching was appraised and authenticated as a Rembrandt last year. This week, Catholic University of America opened a new exhibition which features this new discovery. The exhibition will be open until the May 24th.

This story sounds so bizarre - who would shove a Rembrandt in a bathroom cabinet? All I can say is, I'm positive that there's nothing that significant in my bathroom.

Loggia dei Lanzi and Subjugation

Several years ago, I sat in the Loggia dei Lanzi (Florence) and sketched some details of the statues found there. If I had thought hard about it, I might have noticed that several of the sculptures there share an interesting commonality. See if you can find the common theme:

Giambologna, Rape of a Sabine, 1581-83

Cellini, Perseus, 1545-54
(I recently wrote a post about Perseus here.)

Pio Fedi, Rape of Polyxana, 1866

Do you notice anything? All of these sculptures have subject matter which emphasizes the subjugation of women or "man's longed-for control over woman."¹ I've been reading an article this week by feminist Yael Even who reveals this common theme in the loggia space. It's quite fascinating. The most interesting thing to me, though, is that another sculpture used to be located here. Donatello's Judith and Holofernes (1456-57, shown right) was the first sculpture placed in the Piazza della Signoria (where the Loggia dei Lanzi is located). However, over time, Donatello's sculpture was shuffled around different sections of the loggia and elsewhere. In 1980, the sculpture was eventually moved (concealed?) to the inside of the Palazzo Vecchio. Yael Even points out that the difficulty with placing this sculpture has to do with the subject matter - instead of emphasizing the subjugation of women, Donatello's sculpture depicts a woman killing a man.¹

When looking at all the depictions of female subjugation in the loggia, it's no wonder that this sculpture sat uneasily (literally!) with the Florentines. After all, wouldn't it make a (male) viewer uncomfortable to know that women can retaliate?

I really recommend that you read Even's article.

1 Yael Even, "The Loggia dei Lanzi: A Showcase of Female Subjugation," in Woman's Art Journal 12, no. 1 (1991): 10.

2 Ibid.

Things Spotted by Students

One of the things I absolutely love about teaching is that students point out details in art that I have never noticed previously. Thanks to my students, I constantly find new discoveries in works of art that have long been familiar to me.

A couple of years ago, a student pointed out a detail in the Greek kouros statue from the Metropolian Museum of Art (ca. 600 BC, Archaic period, shown right). If you click on this image, you can see a small band that goes around the neck of this statue. I never, ever noticed that necklace until a student pointed it out.

So, what's the significance of the necklace? To be honest, I don't know. It reminds me of the torcs that was worn by ancient Gauls (see the Dying Gaul (ca. 230-220 BC)), but I don't know if there is a direct connection to the kouros. Really, I can hardly find any discussion on the kouros necklace, except for a few things like this short passage in an old archaeology journal: "The Metropolitan Kouros is the only example in sculpture with a neckband in relief, and is further unique in having it tied in front - examples in vase paintings always have the neckband tied in the back." ¹

If anyone knows of any information on this neckband, please let me know! I'm sure that my past student has long-forgotten that he pointed out that necklace to me, but it has piqued my curiosity for a long time.

Yesterday, a student pointed out another detail that I have never noticed before. The class was looking at a reproduction of Pontormo's Deposition (c. 1528, see left), and a student asked if we knew any information about the man who is on the right side of the painting (he is wearing a dark hat and staring out at the viewer). Until she said something, I never had even noticed that man before! In class I speculated that it might be a portrait of the artist, and I learned today that others have suggested the same thing (see similar speculations here and here). Some people think that the artist depicting himself as Joseph of Arimathea, and that makes sense to me.

I'm so glad that students point out new things to me. It's fun to continually observe and discover new things, even as a teacher. I guess that my eye is trained to look at specific things in Western masterpieces, and sometimes I overlook small details without realizing it. Thanks for giving me a fresh perspective, class. I like to learn and find new things, too.

1 Stephen B. Luce, "Archaeological News and Discussions," in Amerian Journal of Archaeology 48, no. 3 (1944): 283.

The "LOST" Supper

Aside from the basic composition, I can't find enough art historical references to justify a full-fledged comparison between this photo and da Vinci's Last Supper. But I think some art history/pop culture savants might like to engage in some discussion, so I've posted a little about the photo on a "LOST" blog that I share with friends (see here). Feel free to take a gander.

Thanks for sending me this photo, Todd! It made my day. And if anyone does find some strong connections between the "LOST Supper" and da Vinci's Last Supper, please comment. I'd love to know your ideas.

Banksy + Degas = Simon Cowell

If someone asked me to guess American Idol judge Simon Cowell's taste in art, I probably would have named something sensible, marketable, and creative - maybe some work by an abstract expressionist painter like Morris Louis. But my guess would have been way off.

Cowell, who reportedly is a secret art collector, is known to be a fan of the Impressionist painter Degas and the graffiti artist Banksy (yikes - what a combination!). I just read here that for Christmas this year, Cowell received a commissioned work by Banksy - and the painting is a remake of Degas' The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (c. 1874, shown above). Apparently, in this Bansky commission, Cowell has been painted in the scene as the ballet master.

Gulp. I like Degas, but I really question how this Banksy commission turned out. It sounds rather horrific.

So what kind of critique did Cowell give his Christmas present? According to sources, the judge looked at the painting and immediately called it "hilarious." What a news flash - I guess Simon Cowell has a sense of humor! And in true Cowell fashion, this is an expensive sense of humor: this "hilarious" painting is estimated to cost $800,000. That's a lot of money for a joke.

Caravaggio's Left-handed Subjects?

Today I came across an article that discusses a new theory regarding Caravaggio. Researcher Roberta Lapucci argues that Caravaggio used light sensitive substances (in essence, a very primitive form of photography) in order capture his figures on canvas. You should read this article and Lapucci's arguments - it's quite interesting.

But although I think that this is a really novel and fascinating idea, I have my doubts. Part of Lapucci's argument rests on the fact that Caravaggio used an "abnormal number" of left-handed subjects in his early works, since a light sensitive image would have been projected on a canvas backwards. (According to Lapucci, Caravaggio later depicts right-handed subjects in his paintings, which indicates that the artist used improved darkroom technologies in his later career). My problem with this argument is that I can only find three Caravaggio paintings with (possible) left-handed subjects, even in his early works. Just about all of the sitters appear to be right-handed (for example, see Judith Beheading Holofernes, Boy Peeling Fruit, Lute Player, and The Musicians). Here are the only lefties that I found:

Caravaggio, Bacchus, c. 1597
(A discovery regarding this painting was recently in the news - see my thoughts here)

Caravaggio, Catherine of Alexandria, c. 1598
Does Lapucci consider this subject to be left-handed, since
her left hand is closer to the handle of the sword? Hmm.

Caravaggio, Saint John the Baptist, 1610
This is a late work (in terms of Caravaggio's career), but the sitter is using his left hand to hold a staff. (Does that mean, though, that he is left-handed? Or that light sensitive technology was used? Hmm.)

And...that's it. From what I could find, those three are the only Caravaggio paintings that possibly manifest left-handed subjects. Feel free to try and find others - I'd love to see if anyone finds more lefties in Caravaggio's work. For now, though, I feel like this part of Lapucci's argument is pretty weak. You can decide for yourself, gentle reader, whether the number three constitutes an "abnormal number" for left-handed subjects.