Jan and Hubert van Eyck: What I Wish We Knew

I introduced Jan van Eyck to my students about a week ago, but I haven't stopped thinking about him since. It's known that van Eyck (depicted in a supposed self-portrait, The Man with the Red Turban, 1433, on right) worked as court painter for Philip the Good, Duke of Burgandy. This position was extremely advantageous for van Eyck, and essentially helped the artist to develop an individual reputation (as opposed to many unknown artists, who were involved in collaborative artistic workshops which were regulated by the local guilds).

We know a little about van Eyck's duties at Philip's court. For example, the artist was sent in an embassy which was charged with the duty of requesting Isabella of Portugal's hand in marriage to Philip. But I wish I knew more about the paintings that van Eyck produced for Philip the Good. Unfortunately, none of the paintings survive; the only extant works by van Eyck were produced for other, private patrons.¹ (I assume that all of these Philip-the-Good-paintings were destroyed in the iconoclastic riots of the 16th century, but I have not come across a comprehensive discussion of how/why these works no longer exist. That being said - if anyone could point me to specific information on this topic, I'd be most grateful!).

I also wish that we knew more information about Jan van Eyck's brother, the painter Hubert van Eyck. I think the paucity of information is rather surprising, given how much information is available about Jan. What do know, however, is that a "Master Hubert" was paid to paint panels in churches in both 1409 and 1413, and it seems likely that this painter is referring to Jan's brother (believe it or not, Hubert wasn't a terribly common name back then!).

There is only one definitive work by Hubert which survives: the Ghent altarpiece (1432, on left, see version of the altarpiece with closed wings here). Yep - the work which is touted as a masterpiece by Jan van Eyck (and for good reason, nonetheless), was actually begun by Hubert, as noted by a contemporary inscription (dated 6 May 1432, the date of the altarpiece's dedication).² According to the inscription, the altarpiece was finished by Jan, "'[Hubert's] brother, second in art'" at the request of patron Jodocus Vijd.² It appears that Hubert's death left the work unfinished: the inscription suggests that large areas of at least the lower layers of paint could be seen at the time of Hubert's passing.³

Wait - you're saying that you haven't ever heard of Hubert and his role in the Ghent altarpiece? I'm not surprised. With the "cult of the artist-genius" so prominent in art (and art history textbooks), it makes sense that people would shy away from (or ignore?) a discussion of Hubert. Mentioning any artistic collaboration would diminish the idea that Jan was a solitary master, a genius beyond equal. This idea ties in with my earlier discussion of Jef Vanderveken, the 20th century copyist who painted a new panel on the Ghent altarpiece (after "The Just Judges" panel was stolen in 1934). Poor Jef and Hubert. They both are relatively forgotten, having been lost in the mystic shadow which art history has cast for Jan van Eyck.

1 Kim Woods, "The Status of the Artist in Northern Europe in the Sixteenth Century" in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 123.

2 Although some historians question the authenticity of the inscription (finding it to be a contemporary forgery), others assert that it is a "doubtless reliable inscription." See Anne Hagopian van Buren, "Eyck, van." in Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T027196pg1, accessed 28 January 2011.

3 Ibid.

4 Ibid.

Cherub = The Blissful Graduate Student

Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514

I'm getting ready for an activity in tomorrow's class: we're going to explore the historiography of arguments surrounding Durer's enigmatic Melencolia I engraving (shown above). Perhaps one day I'll outline some of the arguments on Alberti's Window. For now, though, I wanted to post a very amusing, tongue-in-cheek interpretation of the winged child (in the center of the composition) and the large seated figure:

"The staring winged figure, compass listlessly in hand, has come upon a problem that exceeds her angelic strength, perhaps in string theory, and she is peevish; behind her a small graduate student, unaware of the deep difficulties that has stumped his Doktormutter, scribbles away blissfully at his dissertation."¹

Ha ha!

1 John L. Heilbron, "A Short History of Light in the Western World," from Visions of Discovery: New Light on Physics, Cosmology and Consciousness, edited by Raymond Y. Chiao et al., (Cambridge University Press, 2010), 8-9. Citation available online here.

The Ecstasy of St. Robert Plant

While commuting to work this morning, I listened to Led Zeppelin's "Mothership" album in anticipation for my lecture on Baroque art. But there's no similarity between those two things, you say? I beg to differ:

 

Bernini, detail of The Ecstasy of St. Theresa (1647-52)

Of course, the "ecstasy" that may have influenced Robert Plant would have been much different from the ecstasy of St. Theresa...

Lorenzo Ghiberti and Vittorio Ghiberti

Art historians have previously discussed how Ghiberti's self-portrait on the "Gates of Paradise" doors (shown on the far left of the image, 1424-52, see detail image here) can be interpreted not only as a signature portrait, but also as a promotional image.¹ By placing his portrait in such a prominent public location, there is little doubt that Ghiberti was interested in promoting himself as an artist. Catherine King also records that "the Latin inscription alongside [the doors] reads in translation: 'Made with wonderful skill by Lorenzo Ghiberti.'"²

This past week, when looking at dates and details regarding the "Gates of Paradise," I was struck with an additional idea. The "Gates of Paradise" were completed in 1452, when Ghiberti would have been about 74 or 75 years old. Therefore, at such a late point in the artist's life, it is not surprising that Ghiberti decided to include his son Vittorio's portrait on the door as well (see portrait on right side of the image). Vittorio inherited the family workshop after his father's death (which was in 1455, only three short years after the "Gates of Paradise" were finished). I think that Lorenzo has anticipated his death (at least to some degree) by including his heir's portrait. That way, even after Lorenzo died, the Ghiberti family business would still be promoted on the baptistery doors.

Smart thinking, Lorenzo.

As other historians have noted, Lorenzo was quite a "shrewd" and "keen" businessman.³ The inclusion of Vittorio's portrait seems to be further evidence for this fact.

1 Catherine King, "Italian Artists in Search of Virtue, Fame, and Honour c. 1450-1650," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 60-63.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 59. See also Gary M. Radke, ed., The Gates of Paradise: Lorenzo Ghiberti's Renaissance Masterpiece (London: Yale University Press, 2007), 67. Citation available online here.

Strange and Unusual Portrait by Fontana

Yesterday I came across the strangest portrait I have ever seen. Take a look at Lavinia Fontana's portrait of Antonietta Gonzalez (also written as "Gonzales," c. 1595, on left). At first, I didn't know what to make of this painting. Was it a joke? Why would young girl be depicted with a hairy face?

This is no joke, my friends. In fact, it's a rather unusual story. Antonietta Gonzalez (as well as her father, two sisters and other family members) had hypertrichosis (also commonly called "werewolf syndrome"). This is a rare genetic disorder which causes an abnormal amount of hair on the body. (You can read more about the disorder and see some interesting images here.) Antonietta's father, Pedro (sometimes written as Pedrus) Gonzalez, was the first known person to be affected with this disorder. Given the rarity of the disease, it seems a little surprising that so many people within the Gonzalez family were affected by hypertrichosis. One writer noted that in terms of pathology, "the Gonzales sisters were one in a billion - all three of them."¹

Luckily, though, Antonietta and her sisters were not shunned by society, but welcomed into the courts of Europe. Although I'm sure that these girls served as objects of curiosity to some degree, they also were subject to medical investigations and, obviously, portrait sittings. Antonietta explains a little of her personal history in the handwritten note which she holds in the portrait: "Don Pietro, a wild man discovered in the Canary Islands, was conveyed to his most serene highness Henry the king of France, and from there came to his Excellency the Duke of Parma. From whom [came] I, Antonietta, and now I can be found nearby at the court of the Lady Isabella Pallavicina, the honorable Marchesa of Soragna."²

Historian Merry Weisner-Hanks has speculated that Lavinia Fontana met Antonietta in Parma. I hope to find more information about the portrait in The Marvelous Hairy Girls: The Gonzales Sisters and Their World a relatively new book by Weisner-Hanks. It looks really interesting.

Okay, so here's my question: do you know of a portrait more unusual or strange than this one? Let's make it a little game; I'm curious to see what people might submit. And I'll let you, dear readers, decide what constitutes "unusual" or "strange" (e.g. the sitter, the artistic presentation of the sitter, the medium, etc.).

P.S. As I was finishing up this post, my two-year-old looked at the Fontana portrait and said, "Hey, is that you?" Ha ha! I didn't realize that I was having such a bad hair day!

1 Jason Zasky, "Hair Apparent," in Failure Magazine (n.d.), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

2 Merry Weisner-Hanks, "Hairy Marvels and Beastly Sex," in National Sexuality Resource Center (1 October 2009), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

Historia Paintings: Here's Looking at You, Kid

I'm getting ready to teach a lecture on Alberti's theories regarding the type of painting called historia (also seen as istoria). In his treatise On Painting (1435), Alberti argued that historia painting is the highest goal and achievement for an artist. A historia is a narrative painting which includes a complex composition and a large number of figures. Furthermore, these figures should be displayed in several dramatic and emotive poses. Alberti felt that "everything the people in the painting do among themselves, or perform in relation to the spectators, must fit together to represent and explain the 'historia.'"¹

One of Alberti's most interesting ideas about historia has to do with how the painting communicates and involves the viewer. Alberti found that a historia painting is most effective if there is a figure in the painting who directly communicates with the viewer. He wrote, "I like there be someone in the 'historia' who tells the spectators what is going on, and either beckons them with his hand to look, or with ferocious expression and forbidding glance challenges them not to come near, as if he wished their business to be secret, or points to some danger or some remarkable secret, or by his gestures invites you to laugh or to weep with them."²

I think one of the best ways for historia figures to communicate with the viewer is through an outward glance (as if the figure was actually looking at the viewer).³ I know that there are tons of examples of such outward glances, but here is just a small sample of my favorites:

Two figures gaze outwards (while one of them beckons toward the viewer - Alberti would be so pleased!) in Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Magi (1488). The staring figure near the top of the detail is a supposed self-portrait of Ghirlandaio.

Christ stares out at the viewer, amid all of the hustle and bustle found in Veronese's The Wedding Feast at Cana (1562-63)

An alleged self-portrait of Botticelli. The artist is gazing at the viewer from the foreground of his painting, Adoration of the Magi (c. 1475)

This one is also a supposed self-portrait of the artist Perugino, found within his painting Christ Giving the Keys to Saint Peter (1481)

I think it's interesting that so many painters decided to include themselves as the token "communicating figure" within their paintings. The examples by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli and Perugino are a small sampling of the staring/communicating self-portraits which exist. (To give you an idea, other such self-portraits were done by are Jacopo Pontormo (see here), Raphael (see here) and Fillipo Lippi (see here and here). But, the more that I think about it, the inclusion of the self-portrait is very fitting for historia painting, particularly when considering Alberti's thoughts on communication. After all, if at least one figure is responsible for communicating to the viewer (and drawing the viewer into the scene), shouldn't that figure be the artist?!? Makes sense to me.

What about you? What paintings do you enjoy where a figure is staring outwards at (or beckoning toward) the viewer? I know there are tons of them out there - especially from the Italian Renaissance period!

1 Leon Battista Alberti and Martin Kemp, On Painting (New York: Penguin Press, 1991), 78. Citation available online here.

2 Ibid., 77-78.

3 It should be noted that many painters followed Alberti's advice by including a figure in communication with the viewer, but not directly looking at the viewer. For example, Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Shepherds (1485) shows a shepherd who is pointing (to communicate with the viewer), but the shepherd's gaze is toward another figure in the painting.

James Hampton and Audience

One of my friends recently saw James Hampton's The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millenium General Assembly (ca. 1950-1964, shown left) on display in a folk art exhibition. Her mention of this piece brought back two memories for me. First, I remembered being struck by this piece a few years ago when visiting the Smithsonian American Art Museum. I was impressed to learn that Hampton created his altarpiece over a period of fourteen years. Hampton wasn't an artist by profession; he worked as a janitor. He kept his creation in a rented garage and continually built up the piece with found objects and discarded materials. Hampton then collected and then covered with shimmering metallic foil and purple paper (the latter now faded to a tan color).

When my friend mentioned seeing this work of art, it also brought back a second memory: a conversation that I had with an art history student last spring. We were discussing whether it is important for a work of art to have an audience, and this student brought up the example of Hampton. My student felt that Hampton was not interested in having anyone see his work: Hampton worked for years to create this piece, and yet he seemed to have kept his project a secret. His relatives did not learn about his project until after Hampton had died of stomach cancer. Even the man who owned Hampton's garage seemed unaware of what Hampton was creating in the rented space.

I can understand why the student had come to this conclusion, but I pointed out a few things which indicate that Hampton intended his work to have an audience. For example, it has been noted that he hoped to open a storefront ministry and use his artistic composition as the centerpiece for the ministry. This is a pretty sure indication that he wanted his art to be viewed by others. But we can also look to the work of art for clues that a viewer/audience is presupposed. One could argue that the phrase "FEAR NOT" (at the top of the central piece) is a visual indication that Hampton wanted an audience, since he obviously wanted those words to be read by someone (most likely someone other than himself).

Nonetheless, I'm the first to admit that there are some baffling things about Hampton's altarpiece. The work contains notebooks, plaques and tags that are written in some kind of secret language (which one scholar has called "Hamptonese"). Did Hampton intend for his audience to see this secret writing system? Or were these written areas intended only for Hampton to see? Does this supposed gibberish indicate that Hampton was mentally unstable? I suppose we'll never know.

Picasso and Paul McCartney

Pablo Picasso, The Old Guitarist, 1903

Did you know that a Picasso painting helped to inspire a Paul McCartney song? Today my little brother sent me this short clip of Paul explaining when/where/why he came up with the idea for the "Two Fingers" song:

I'm pretty sure, though, that Picasso didn't have a specific chord in mind when he painted The Old Guitarist. In fact, it has already been discussed how Picasso's lack of musical training is evident in his other depictions of musicians (for example, instances in which violinists hold their instruments with the wrong hand, as is seen in his Three Musicians (1921, PMA version)). Nonetheless, it's fun to know that Picasso had a little influence on Paul.