Noble or Ignoble Savages?

Almost exactly five years ago, I gave my first research presentation in a graduate seminar. This seminar was dedicated to Northern Baroque art, and I chose to write on the Dutch artist Albert Eckhout. However, even though Eckhout is Dutch, I am mostly interested in the paintings he created while living in Brazil. The Dutch established a colony in Brazil (called "The New Netherlands") in 1636, and the following year Eckhout traveled to the new colony as a commissioned artist. The governor-general of the colony, Johann Maurits, wanted Ekhout (and fellow artist Frans Post) to work as documentarists and paint the flora, fauna and indigenous people of the area. As part of the work, Eckhout painted eight portraits of the different indigenous people in the area, including Tupi Woman (c. 1641-44, shown right).

However, in my graduate presentation, I argued that even though Eckhout was hired as a "documentarist," he doesn't visually record the native people with a dispassionate eye of scientific observation. Nor do I think that these portraits were displayed as scientific images. Instead, I see these Brazilian portraits as a symbol of conquest. For one thing, Governor Maurits chose to display these portraits within his Vrijburg palace in Dutch Brazil. Maurits not only "owned" the subject matter within the painting, but the native people were therefore captured, defeated, and regulated to the walls of the palace.

Furthermore, Eckhout continually emphasizes the "Otherness" of the subjects of his Brazilian portraits. These portraits encourage the viewer to understand and define them on a basis of comparison against Western culture. As can be seen in his Tupi Woman, Eckhout is interested in emphasizing the cannibalism and nakedness of this native group. Ethnic stereotypes can be seen in the other portraits too. The Mameluke Woman (c. 1641-44, shown left) is depicted as a coquettish concubine in garb that is quite non-European (not only with the loose fitting dress, but because she apparently isn't wearing a girdle or underclothing). Her raised dress and exposed leg suggest the sexual "profitability" of native people to the conquering Dutch. In fact, these mameluke women (a mixture of Indian and European blood) were stereotypically seen by the Dutch as being promiscuous and sexually available.

I'm not going to outline the rest of my argument here, since I assume people can catch the gist of my interpretation. The reason why I am writing this post, however, is to flesh out a thought in relation to the scale of these paintings. (For some unknown reason, this thought unexpectedly popped into my head as I was washing dishes last night.)

These portraits are created on a large scale (they are life size), which could imply that Eckhout was attempting to elevate and honor the Brazilian natives in his paintings. In fact, my professor suggested as much when she critiqued my graduate presentation. She also pointed out that the trees in the background form a makeshift "cloth of honor," a visual tradition found in other Northern European portraits of nobility. Although I can see how one could interpret these aspects positively, I think that an opposite stance can be taken. I think that the grand scale and "cloth of honor" actually magnify the "Otherness" of the sitters. The Tupi woman is not only naked, but she's really naked. She's large-scale naked. And she doesn't really get a "cloth" of honor, does she? Instead of luxurious red velvet, this woman is shown in front of a native tree which furnishes imposing, machete-like pods.¹ I'm not sure if that is really ennobling. I think the uncomfortable juxtaposition of Western traditions (the grand scale painting with an impromptu "cloth of honor") with non-Western subject matter makes the "Otherness" of the subjects even more apparent.

What do others (and Others!) think? Do you think that the grand scale and "cloth of honor" serve to ennoble these indigenous portrait sitters? Why or why not?

1 I should point out that trees previously had been used as natural "cloths of honor" in Northern Baroque art (consider Van Dyck's portrait, Charles I at the Hunt (1635)). In the Charles I portrait, however, Van Dyck doesn't try to draw much attention to the tree. Instead, the tree is mainly used as a framing device. I think this is different from Eckhout's portraits, who takes pains to emphasize the non-Western nature of the plant life.

**When pulling together my previous research for this post, I also stumbled upon a book that was written in 2007 (one year after my graduate school presentation). I'm very curious to read Rebecca Parker Brienen's book, Visions of Savage Paradise: Albert Eckhout, Court Painter in Colonial Dutch Brazil. From what I can tell online, she and I are interested in the same topics and interpretations for this piece. Like Brienen, I think that Eckhout's work is "informed by sexual as well as ethnic stereotypes." We must have been researching these ideas around the same time. Fer Hegel's Geist! You can see a preview of Brienen's book here.

Diana of Ephesus: Keeping Abreast with Iconography

Some of my long-time readers will remember my previous post on Saint Lucy, whose iconography (or visual symbol) is a pair of eyeballs. I remember being struck by how St. Lucy's iconography was so unusual (and kinda grotesque, in my opinion). Some comments on that previous post mentioned another unusual example of hagiographic iconography: Saint Agatha carries her breasts on a platter (see an example by Zurbaran here). Today, though, I remembered another female figure associated with kinda bizarre iconography: Diana of Ephesus. Although Diana (or "Artemis" to the ancient Greeks) isn't a Catholic saint like Lucy and Agatha (she's a fertility goddess from classical mythology), I would have to say that her iconography might be the most unusual of all. Take a look:

Artemis of Ephesus, 1st century CE Roman copy (Museum of Efes, Turkey)

Lady of Ephesus, 1st century CE (Ephesus Archaeological Museum)

With breasts aplenty, it's easy to tell that Diana of Ephesus was an ancient goddess of fertility, but her iconography might be little more complex than one would suppose! In 1979 a scholar name Gerard Seiterle pointed out that none of the supposed breasts of Diana/Artemis figurines have nipples. Seiterle argued that instead of breasts, Diana is laden will bull testes.¹ This is an interesting argument for two reasons: 1) the bull was symbol of fertility in ancient times and 2) the altar at Ephesus would have been large enough to sacrifice a bull. Although Seiterle's argument is not accepted by all scholars (I personally don't feel quite convinced), it does add an interesting element to the discussion of Diana's iconography, don't you think?²

Even if early depictions of Diana do not include nipples on her breasts, I noticed that later depictions do include nipples:

Diana of Ephesus, detail from The Discovery of the Child Erichtonius by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1615

Fountain of Diana of Ephesus, Villa d'Este, 16th century

Diana of Ephesus was a very popular goddess in ancient times (in fact, some readers may be interested to know that worship of Diana is mentioned in the Bible (see Acts 19:28 and Acts 19:35). Additionally, Diana's temple at Ephesus was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. I get the sense, though, that she wasn't as popular (and more specifically, her traditional iconography wasn't as popular) in more recent artistic periods like the Renaissance (although some examples from later periods exist, as I've shown above).³ Perhaps Diana of Ephesus' multi-breasted appearance was too far from the Renaissance standards of idealization?

If you can put forward a more unusual type of iconography than Diana of Ephesus, speak up!

1 See Gerard Seiterle, "Artemis: die Grosse Göttin von Ephesos" Antike Welt 10 (1979): 3-16. Seiterle is also mentioned (although his name is misspelled) in Vicki Goldberg, "In Search of Diana of Ephesus" in New York Times 21 August 1994 (citation available online here). I also found some scholars discussing Seiterle's argument on this WikiTalk.

2 Wikipedia mentions here that Seiterle's argument was "accepted in the 1980s by Walter Burkert and Brita Alroth, among others, criticised and rejected by Robert Fleischer, but widely popularized." For an argument against Seiterle, see Fleischer, "Neues zur kleinasiatischen Kultstatue" Archäologischer Anzeiger 98 1983:81-93; Bammer 1990:153.

3 It's interesting to note that a Renaissance humanist scholar might have been interested in Diana of Ephesus, though. It's possible that Andrea Odoni is holding a statuette of Diana of Ephesus in his portrait (painted by Lorenzo Lotti, 1527). See portrait and discussion here.

A Halloween Medusa

Since Halloween is here, I wanted to highlight a creepy painting to delight (and horrify!) my readers. If you think that Peter Paul Rubens only painted rosy-faced saints and voluptuous women, think again. A few weeks ago I came across Ruben's painting Head of Medusa (c. 1617, shown above). This is the creepiest painting by Rubens that I have ever seen. Medusa's dead eyes stare into the distance, while her snakelike hair continues to writhe and squirm. Eek!

Actually, I am reminded of one other Rubens painting which includes some similarly dark subject matter. Miracle of St. Ignatius Loyola (c. 1617, about the same time as the Medusa painting) also has wide-eyed demons writhing in the background. In fact, the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna (which owns both paintings) suggested that there are some stylistic comparisons between the demons and Medusa.

It is thought that when making the Head of Medusa, Rubens was influenced by Italian masters like Caravaggio (who had painted the same subject matter in 1598-99). I tend to agree with the argument that Rubens made this painting for a connoisseur (and perhaps collector) of both paintings and natural objects. Rubens certainly pays keen attention to the various types of snakes, bugs, and creepy-crawly things.

Do you know of any other "dark" works by Rubens? These are the only two of which I am aware, but there may be more out there.

Have a Happy Halloween! (If you haven't submitted a post for the upcoming art history carnival, please send me one today!)

Matisse as de Heem (or "The Old as New")

About a week ago, my brother-in-law asked if I knew of any 20th century still-life paintings which "quoted" or were influenced by a still-life from an earlier century. In essence, N was interested in seeing if any 20th century artists had abstracted a traditional still-life beyond recognition. I didn't know of any direct copies/abstractions off the top of my head, but I did come across one example today (thanks to J!). Below is a painting by Matisse, which was influenced by the 17th century painting A Table of Dessert ("La Desserte", 1640, shown on bottom).

Matisse, Still Life After Jan Davidsz. de Heem’s ‘La Desserte', 1915

Jan Davidsz. de Heem, Table of Desserts ("La Desserte"), 1640

Matisse actually painted his version of this still-life after an academic copy that he made in 1893. I read a little about this painting in this article about a new Matisse exhibition at the MOMA. Looks like a fun show.

Although this isn't exactly what my brother-in-law was looking for (Matisse didn't abstract de Heem's still-life beyond recognition), it still is pretty fun. That being said - does anyone know of examples in which a 20th century painter abstracted an earlier work of art beyond recognition?

Pinholes in Vermeer's Canvases

Like many other art historians, I have learned that Vermeer probably used the camera obscura to help in the creation of his art.  However, I recently learned that Vermeer also employed a simpler and more rudimentary method to help him create perfect perspectival lines.  To start, Vermeer would often use a pin to create a small hole at the vanishing point within each painting.  Of the 35 known works that exist by Vermeer, approximately half of his paintings still have pinholes that can be seen with the naked eye.¹  In The Art of Painting (c. 1666, shown right), the pinhole (and therefore vanishing point) is underneath the female model's right hand, close to the knob for the map holder.

Vermeer probably attached a piece of string to the pin that he stuck in his canvases.  By using string, Vermeer could create perfect orthogonal lines which would converge at his pinhole.  If one recreates the string-and-pin method on The Art of Painting, the perspectival lines of the tiles and table perfectly align with the pinhole as the vanishing point.  Some scholars like Robert D. Huerta have even gone so far as to say that Vermeer might have put chalk on his string (see first full paragraph of link), and then snapped the taut string to leave a chalk line on the canvas.  This way, Vermeer would have had an easy (and erasable) marker while he worked to create an illusion of space.

It seems like Vermeer was a pretty clever guy.  After all his work on perspective though, one thing about this painting strikes me as funny: have you ever noticed that the artist in the foreground is disproportionately large in comparison with the female model?  If the artist stood up, he would be twice the height of his model.  Do you think that Vermeer was so focused on creating the perspectival illusion that he didn't notice the figural disproportion?  The National Gallery of Art's website defends Vermeer by saying that the disproportion is symbolic, emphasizing the artist's central role in the allegory.  Perhaps that is the case, but the gigantic artist always catches me off guard.

1 "The Art of Painting" episode in the BBC series The Private Life of a Masterpiece (2008) reports that 17 paintings have pinholes that are visible to the naked eye.  This seems to be the most up-to-date information on the topic.  Essential Vermeer mentions that 13 paintings contain pinhole images (including ones visible through x-ray), but appears to be citing an earlier source from 1995.  See Jørgen Wadum, "Vermeer in Perspective," in Johannes Vermeer edited by Arthur Wheelock, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995, 67-79.

The Art of Painting is one of the featured works of art in "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" BBC series. One of the fun things that I learned from his episode was that the red undergarments of the artist (look at his legs) were a mark of fashion.  Red was a preferred color for clothing at the time, since red looked warm and cozy.  If you're interested, you can win a copy of this episode by entering my giveaway to receive a free DVD set of "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" BBC series.

Kehinde Wiley and His Inspiration

I love when contemporary artists use historical art for inspiration. Kehinde Wiley is one such artist, who often creates portraits of African-American men in poses that mimic specific portraits from the 17th-19th centuries. Since Wiley's portraits show African-American in the latest hip hop street fashion, the portraits provide interesting commentary on fashion, identity, and propaganda. It's also interesting to see how issues of identity (and the creation of identity via portraiture) have existed for centuries, especially when examining the historical paintings which inspired Wiley. Here are two of my favorite Wiley paintings (and the paintings that inspired them):

Kehinde Wiley, Prince Tommaso Francesco of Savoy-Carignano, 2006

See the portrait which inspired Wiley below:

Anthony Van Dyck, Prince Tommaso Francesco of Savoy-Carignano, 1634

Kehinde Wiley, Equestrian Portrait of Philip II, 2009

This portrait by Wiley is a little different, in that he doesn't depict Michael Jackson wearing hip hop street clothes. Jackson actually commissioned this portrait in 2008, but never saw the completed work. J thinks that the inclusion of the cherubs (instead of the angel in the Ruben's painting which inspired Wiley, as shown below) is fitting, given that Jackson was accused of sexually abusing children. I really doubt that Wiley intended to make that reference, but it's an interesting thought. The painting was finished after Jackson's death in 2009 and sold that same year to German collector for $175,000. My favorite thing about this portrait is that it depicts Jackson at the height of his career. I think the armor and pose totally scream "I'm bad, I'm bad, you know it!" Man, you can't help but love MJ's early stuff. He was the Prince of Pop, and a royal equestrian portrait is fitting. Anyhow, you can read more about this portrait here and here.

Rubens, Philip II on Horseback, c. 1628-29

I have to admit, I think Rubens has created a lot more powerful horses than the one in this painting. Wiley's horse has a lot more presence than the one shown here. Maybe the puny horse accounts for why this portrait is not very well-known. Anyhow, if you're interested, the Prado Museum has some discussion about the restoration of this portrait here.

You can see more of Wiley's work on his website and read a little bit more about him on this page of the National Portrait Gallery's site. What do you think of Wiley's portraits? Do you think they raise interesting questions about identity and personal image?

(e, do you remember when you saw L L Cool J's portrait by Wiley (2005) in the NPG? I found out this evening that both L L Cool J and Wiley wanted the portrait to recall John Singer Sargent's portrait of Rockefeller (1917). Pretty cool, huh? Who would have guessed that L L Cool J was familiar with Sargent? Even though I think the green and red pattern in the Wiley portrait is a a little too visually aggressive, I love that the painting recalls a Sargent portrait.)

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?

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.

Favorite Christmas Art

Christmas art = a smorgasbord. There is so much art associated with Christmas. I would bet there there are over a million different depictions that are associated with the biblical Christmas story. Here are a couple of pieces of Christmas art that I particularly like:

Jan van Eyck, The Annunciation, c. 1435
My favorite thing about this painting: the awesome rainbow wings on the angel Gabriel. I also love the that Gothic and Renaissance references are combined in the same architectural setting, references the Old and New Testament.

Georges de la Tour, Adoration of the Shepherds, c. 1644
I particularly love the hand on the right which covers up a candle. Sigh - tenebristic lighting is awesome. I also love the adoring expression of the man on the right.

Brian Kershisnik, Nativity, 2006
You HAVE to click on the image above to see all of the details in this painting. I saw Nativity a few years ago, soon after it was completed. This painting is HUGE (about 7' x 17'), and the viewer can't help but feel swept into the swarm of angels that swoop around the Holy Family. It's quite moving.

Do you have a favorite piece of Christmas art?

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Enablers for "The Exotic" Experience

During the 17th-19th centuries, colonization and global expansion were growing trends in European culture. Although many Europeans enjoyed the benefits of colonization through imported goods (you do realize that British tea originally came from China, right?), most people would never travel to the exotic, faraway colonies that were claimed by their native countries. Instead, it is apparent that many people turned to fine art and the decorative arts as a way to visualize and experience the exotic. Really, the European view of what constituted "the exotic" was rather distorted from what the actual colonies were like. Travel accounts were a popular way for Europeans to learn about faraway lands, but the writers of these accounts often mythicized their subject matter, in order to make the story more interesting and marketable.

So, it can be argued that "the exotic" is really a European construct. Artists appealed to the interest in this construct by painting "exotic" subject matter. It's interesting to look at colonial art from this period, and see how it enables Europeans to experience the exotic (or, in truth, what Europeans perceived as exotic).

The Dutch colonists began to arrive in Brazil in the 1620s. Two Dutch artists, Frans Post and Albert Eckhout, were commissioned to artistically record the landscape, people, flora, and fauna of the new Brazilian colony. For the most part, Frans Post concentrated on painting Brazilian landscapes. Post focused on painting specific kinds of flora and fauna in his Brazilian paintings, which likely means that Post "intended his images to be true to the particular landscapes that he depicted."¹

After leaving Brazil, Post continued to paint Brazilian landscapes. However, these later landscapes are not accurate or true-to-life depictions like Post's earlier works. Instead, these paintings are more imaginary and fantastic, which likely was due to the European demand for mysterious and exciting subject matter in exotic art. You can see Post's exotic elaborations in the detail of the painting, View of Olinda, Brazil (1662, shown above). Next to the tropical plants, Post includes a sloth, monkey, armadillo, anteater, and a lizard. There is no way that all these animals would realistically appear together, outside of their natural habitats. I think, though, that Post is using this artistic liberty as an enabling mechanism, so that the viewer can experience a saturated "exotic" experience. Interestingly, Post also used much brighter colors in his later landscapes of Brazil, which can tie into this stress on exoticism, since the bright colors could emphasize a striking contrast between the exotic world and Europe.

I mentioned that travel journals were an important aspect of creating "the exotic" construct. Since the time of Alexander the Great, Europeans found the Orient, particularly China, to be an idealized, paradisaical environment. Associations with China as a type of Paradise, Garden of Eden, or Promised Land are implied in various travel journals which circulated Europe at this time. Ultimately, China was considered to be a “Celestial Empire” by the Europeans, who perhaps would have been able to understand the various descriptions of the Orient better through this Christian perspective.²

I really like how some European religious furniture was decorated with chinoiserie (a Western European style that contained Eastern artistic elements). I think that chinoiserie can be viewed as an enabler for a Western worshiper to have an exotic (and more religious) experience. This Roman prie-dieu (18th century, shown above) is a kneeling bench that was intended for prayer. It is decorated with gilded chinoiserie designs on a dark green background. Even the top of the prie-dieu board is decorated in chinoiserie. Therefore, when a prayerful worshiper approached this piece, kneeling down onto the design, it would be as if he was placing himself within the chinoiserie landscape. In other words, due to the paradisaical connotations with the East, the worshiper could kneel and place himself in the exotic, celestial realm of God for the duration of his prayer. This association and transcendent experience could heighten the religious experience for the European worshiper, who could feel a more intimate connection with God while temporarily abiding in His heavenly environs.

Can you think of a better way for art to enable one to experience the exotic, than to invite the viewer to kneel and physically enter the exotic realm? I think this prie-dieu is awesome.

Interest in "the exotic" continued into the 19th century. Some painters, such as Delacroix, were interested in exotic subject matter of the East. Their paintings and interests created the movement Orientalism, a French facet of Romanticism.

There is so much to say about this subject (for example, Linda Nochlin's feminist interpretation of Orientalist art is fascinating!), but I just want to mention one thing in regards to technique.³ I think it's interesting that Delacroix uses a painterly approach in his exotic painting, Women of Algiers (1834, shown left). It has been noted that, because of this tactile technique, Delacroix's figures are "redolent of the exotic, perfumed, and drugged harem atmosphere."⁴ I think that this is an interesting approach to enable the viewer to experience the exotic; Delacroix renders the paint to be tactile and visually-available, which perhaps makes the exotic experience seem within-reach of the viewer.

What do you think of "the exotic" construct and its manifestation in art? I wonder if such an exaggerated and incorrect view of a country (or culture) could exist today, since photographs and films are readily accessible to help one experience or learn about a faraway country. What do you think?

1 Edward J. Sullivan, ed., Brazil: Body and Soul, (New York: Guggenheim Museum Publications, 2003), 69.

2 Hugh Honor, Chinoiserie: The Vision of Cathay, (London: John Murray Publishers, Ltd., 1961), 4-6.

3 See Linda Nochlin, "The Imaginary Orient," in Politics of Vision: Essays on Nineteenth-Century Art and Society (New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 33-59.

4 Laurie Schneider Adams, A Western History of Art (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1994), 356.

Vermeer's Milkmaid

I have been thinking a lot about Vermeer's The Milkmaid (c. 1660) lately, mostly because of the publicity given to the current special exhibition at the Met. The last time The Milkmaid was on display in the United States was the 1939 World's Fair. Curator Walter Liedtke has given this painting a very unusual and provocative interpretation, which I first learned about on a recent post by Lee Rosenbaum (CultureGrrl). You can read Liedtke's discussion here, and also listen to a short radio interview with Rosenbaum here.

Liedtke thinks that the milkmaid can be interpreted in a more suggestive light, partially because of the inclusion of a foot warmer (a popular symbol for arousal in Dutch 17th century art) and the image of Cupid (on the tiles next to the foot warmer, shown above).

When I first heard of this interpretation, I guffawed and immediately thought of this newspaper cartoon that appeared in 1907:

This cartoon appeared in the Dutch publication, Het Vaderland. It was drawn at a time when Vermeer was gaining a lot of international attention. Prices had become so high for "Vermeers" that only American millionaires could afford to buy them. For example, Henry Clay Frick bought three Vermeers for his personal collection and home (which is now a museum in New York). The Dutch began to be concerned that The Milkmaid, which had been in the collection of an Amsterdam family for almost a century, would also be bought by the Americans. This idea of Americans snatching up all of Vermeer's paintings is embodied in this part of the cartoon, where Uncle Sam is courting "Holland's best-looking milkmaid."¹

Anyhow, I keep thinking about this cartoon and Liedtke's interpretation. With an American art historian interpreting the maid in a more sexual light, it now seems as if Uncle Sam is making a sexual proposition in the cartoon. (Yikes!) I wonder what Dutch scholars are going to think of this new theory. Maybe they'll think that Liedtke Uncle Sam is a scuzz bag.

Or maybe not. In all honesty, though, I have found Liedtke's theory to be interesting and semi-compelling (despite my initial reaction). I have never noticed the milkmaid's foot warmer before, but I have seen foot warmers in a lot of other Dutch paintings. At just about the same time that Vermeer painted The Milkmaid, Jan Steen included foot warmers in many of his moralizing paintings, like The Lovesick Maiden (c. 1663-65) and The Doctor's Visit (c. 1660). Here, the morality of the young girls are called into question by the presence of foot warmers (which suggest arousal because a girl is warmed underneath her skirt). Although Vermeer may have included the foot warmer to create a realistic scene (Henry Rand argues that the foot warmer indicates that the milkmaid's "kitchen is not properly heated"), I think it is probable that there is symbolic significance.² After all, Vermeer included symbols in his other paintings, so The Milkmaid is probably not an exception.

What do other people think about Liedtke's interpretation? Is the milkmaid naughty or nice? Do you think people will get upset with Americans for desecrating this popular symbol of the Dutch Golden Age? Maybe we'll have to wait another seventy years (or longer!) before the Dutch will let us borrow one of their masterpieces again.

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist, (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 214. Ultimately, the Dutch government voted for funds to acquire The Milkmaid, so that the painting would stay in Holland. To see the other half of the cartoon, in which the milkmaid decides to choose a Dutchman as her suitor, click here.

2 Jonathan Janson, "What is the Milkmaid Cooking?" available from http://www.essentialvermeer.com/catalogue/milkmaid.html; Internet, accessed 15 September 2009.

Han van Meegeren

If you thought that the painting above, Woman Reading Music (Rijksmuseum), was by Vermeer, you're mistaken. Don't feel too bad - for a while this painting was thought to be the work of the 17th century master. This webpage points out how the model in this painting is the same one in Vermeer's Woman Reading a Letter; furthermore, this painting is set in the same location as Vermeer's Woman with Lute. In actuality, though, this painting was completed sometime between 1935-40 by the forger Han Van Meegeren.

Van Megeeren was a master forger who spent much of his career making forgeries, particularly in the style of Frans Hals and Johannes Vermeer. Right now I'm reading more about Van Meegeren in the book, The Man Who Made Vermeers by Jonathan Lopez. It's a really interesting book and I highly recommend it. It's really fascinating to read about what forgers do to make their art convincingly old - the paint needs to have a certain chemical compound to imitate old oil paintings, and yet withstand the chemical tests that determine authenticity. Plus, the forgery needs to be created on the canvas of an old painting from about the same period - the forgery is painted on top of the ground layer of the original painting, so that the final product convincingly has the same craquelure. Forgers definitely are clever.

It's no surprise that as a forger, Van Meegeren latched onto the idea of creating paintings by Vermeer. During the latter half of the 19th century, Vermeer was rediscovered and celebrated within the art world. There are only 35 known paintings by Vermeer, which really isn't very many at all (by contrast, it's estimated that Picasso created around 50,000 works of art). Many scholars think that Vermeer did not create many more paintings than the ones that are known today. The last Vermeer paintings to be rediscovered were Woman Holding a Balance (rediscovered in 1911) and Girl with the Red Hat (rediscovered in 1925).¹

These last discoveries took place during Van Meegeren's early career, and the art world was desperate to try and find more work by Vermeer. It's amazing to read how hungry museums and collectors were to snatch up "Vermeers" during all this hype - the Boijmans Museum in Rotterdam paid an enormous sum of around 550, 000 guilders for Van Meegeren's forgery of Supper at Emmaus (painted in Vermeer's early style).² From what I calculated using this site, it looks like that would have amounted to around $4 million in today's currency.

Here are a couple of other forgeries by Han Van Meegeren:

Woman Playing the Lute, ca. 1933 (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

Malle Babbe, in the style of Frans Hals, ca. 1935 (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

Girl with a Blue Bow, ca. 1924 (The Hyde Collection; Glens Falls, New York)


A Young Woman Reading, ca. 1926 (The Metropolitan Museum of Art)

The Lace Maker, ca. 1925 (National Gallery of Art, Washington DC)

If you are interested in looking at more Van Meegeren forgeries, someone is starting to compile a list with images here. You can also read more about Van Meegeren's story and trial here.

So, what do you think of the forgeries? It's interesting to think about how authorship changes the value and reception of a forged work of art. Do you think that these works of art are not as good, now that they have been revealed to be the work of an imposter? Personally, I think that Van Meegeren had a lot of talent. But I think it's sad that he didn't utilize his talent to develop an original style. It takes talent to imitate the masters, but I think it takes more talent to create your own artistic niche.

1 Jonathan Lopez, The Man Who Made Vermeers: Unvarnishing the Legend of Master Forger Han Van Meegeren (New York: Harcourt Books, 2008), 53.

2 Wayne Franits. "Vermeer, Johannes." In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, > accessed 4 August 2009. It should be noted that Lopez' figures are a little different than this entry - Lopez writes that the price was 520,000 guilders, or about £58,000 (See Lopez, 139). Supper at Emmaus was purchased in 1937 by the museum, and its authenticity was not questioned until 1945, when Van Meegeren confessed his forgeries in order to exonerate himself from charges of selling national Dutch masterpieces to the Nazis.

Perhaps Not a Vermeer?

It was recently mentioned in a post by Lee Rosenbaum that this painting, Young Woman Seated at a Virginal, may actually not be painted by Vermeer. Benjamin Binstock argues in a new book, Vermeer's Family Secrets, that this painting (along with six others) may have been painted by Vermeer's eldest daughter. Walter Leidtke, the curator of Dutch Baroque art at the Met, obviously disagrees with this theory, having recently included this painting in his new monograph on Vermeer. However, the label for this painting at the Met does suggest that the yellow shawl may have been painted by someone else.

I wonder what kind of controversy will be sparked by Binstock's new book! Some of the debates have already started. Rosenbaum cites one reviewer in Art Newspaper that called Binstock's theory a "wild assumption based on limited information." Since I'm not a connoisseur of Vermeer, I can't give an opinion myself. I also have not read Binstock's book yet. It does seem, though, that Dr. Binstock has credible expertise; he received a PhD in Northern Baroque and Renaissance art from Columbia, and currently teaches at Columbia and New York University.

Ah, revisionist theories. It looks like the art community is about to get riled up again...

Rembrandt and Economic Slumps

There is an interesting article in today's edition of the New York Times that discusses the downside of Rembrandt's career during hard economic times in the Dutch Republic. As the writer of this article mentioned, it's interesting to examine these paintings right now, since we are also in the midst of an economic crisis.

This is a reproduction of Rembrandt's Woman with a Pink (early 1660s) that is discussed near the end of the article. I particularly enjoyed the writer's thoughts regarding this painting. I also didn't know that X-rays indicate that a child was originally included in the composition, but then painted out. This painting is one of the writer's favorite works at the Met, and I can see why. It's quite stunning.

Anniversary Art

J and I obviously didn't plan on celebrating our anniversary apart from each other. I teased J that he was lucky to get out of planning an anniversary date. Instead, we sent each other e-cards that were decorated with art:

Jan Steen, Love Sickness, c. 1660


Marc Chagall, Birthday, 1915

Can you guess which person picked which painting?

During the 1660s, Steen painted several scenes of doctors paying house calls to visit female patients. As in this painting, Steen's doctors usually do not recognize the cause of the female's ailing health - love sickness. In some of Steen's paintings that follow this theme, he also includes the phrase, "Here a physician is of no avail, since it is love sickness." ¹ I picked this card for J (yep, it was me!) because I literally got sick to my stomach when J returned home after a study abroad. We were close to getting engaged at that point; my doctor said I experienced too much "positive estress" with J's return, which led to an excess of acid in my stomach. Now we joke that J gives me ulcers.

In this painting, it appears that this woman is estranged from her lover, as indicated by the letter in her hand. It wasn't until after I sent J this painting that I realized it is especially appropriate for us today.

Chagall's painting has a rather melancholy tone, since the woman is dressed in black clothes (perhaps funeral attire). It is thought by some that the woman is celebrating the birthday of a deceased lover; he floats above the woman and contorts his body so that he can give her a kiss. Although I suppose this seems like a morbid painting to send as an anniversary card, it is fitting in the sense that J and I are apart on our special day. Actually, the sentiment that J included with this card (did you guess that he'd pick a 20th century artist?!?) was quite fitting and lovely.

J also pointed out that Chagall's floating figure is similar (in its awkward positioning and floating-ness) to some paintings by Brian Kershisnik. I don't know why I didn't notice that before: Kershisnik's work is a little Chagallian, don't you think?

1 Lyckle de Vries. "Steen, Jan." In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, found online at http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T081140, accessed December 31, 2008.