Kauffmann and Female Empowerment

This afternoon I've been thinking about Angelica Kauffmann's painting, Self-Portrait Hesitating between the Arts of Music and Painting (1791, shown left). I can relate to this painting quite well: during my first year and a half as an undergraduate, I couldn't decide whether to major in music or art history. I play the piano and studied classical voice for several years. At the beginning of college I continually felt compelled to study vocal performance, music education or choral conducting. In some ways, I still wish that I had kept up with my classical singing, especially when I listen to singers like Renée Fleming or Patricia Petibon (the latter is a recent discovery - she's fantastic!).

In the end, though, I decided to major in art history and minor in music. With only a minor in music, I felt like I could still learn and refine my singing skills but remain somewhat distant from the discipline. I've found that my enjoyment of music lessens if I focus on theory and technique too much; I end up overanalyzing musical scores and critiquing performances instead of just listening. However, my enjoyment and love for art (and art history!) doesn't ever seem to go away, despite how much I learn or how critically I think. So, in the end, I art history was the best choice for me.

Kauffmann was an accomplished musician; she played the zither and clavichord. She also was said to have an extremely beautiful, agile singing voice. Kauffmann had to choose between music and art as a career, and she depicts this decision in her painting. Obviously, Painting won her over. It appears that Kauffmann's career choice was influenced (at least in part) by a priest who convinced Kauffmann and her father that an operatic career on the stage would lead to a faithless, debased lifestyle.¹ (On a side note, I wonder what Painting is pointing at in the distance, beyond the canvas of Kauffman's painting. Great heights? Achievement? Music seems much more passive of a figure, being seated on the left.)

Not only do I love this painting because I relate to Kauffmann's interest in music and art, but I also love the idea behind the painting's composition. Here, Kauffmann is shown in an empowering position between the two arts: she has the ability to choose either career path. Instead of the many depictions in art that show women in helpless or subordinate positions, Kauffmann advertises "publicly her ability as an individual to choose."² Another painting by Kauffmann also hints at this same topic of female choice and empowerment: Venus Induces Helen to Fall in Love with Paris (1790, shown right) shows Helen contemplating the decision to fall in love. For Helen, love seems to be a conscientious choice and she has the ability to make that choice. What a dramatic departure this is from depictions of swooning women in art (see here and here and here), who are rendered as helpless subjects!

Do you know of other examples in art where a female figure is represented with agency or ability to choose? Or, do you know of any other examples of swooning and/or helpless women?


1 Frances A. Gerard, Angelica Kauffmann: A Biography (London: Ward and Downey, 1893), 18-21. Available online here. Gerard relates that a handsome, promising (male) musician was one of the individuals who actively tried to convince Kauffmann to study music. It is related that Kauffmann's depiction of Orpheus in Orpheus Leading Eurydice out of Hades (located in a private collection) is a portrait of the handsome musician.

2 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 406.

"Watson and the Shark" by Copley

I want to write a blog post on Copley's Watson and the Shark (1778, shown left) for my friend "e." She has been a long-time reader of this blog, and due to some significant changes in her life, she won't be able to get online and read blogs for some time. She particularly likes this painting, so I thought this post would be a fitting tribute to her.

This painting is interesting to me for several reasons. First of all, this painting is interesting because Copley probably had never seen a shark when he painted this scene!¹ In fact, at least one contemporary critic sensed there was some inaccuracy in the way the shark was depicted, saying that the shark "bore no resemblance to any creature on earth."² I wouldn't go that far (!) - but I don't think that the shark is perfectly realistic.

In addition, the I think subject matter of this painting is interesting since it is based on an actual historical event. In 1749, a fourteen year old boy named Brook Watson was attacked by a shark while swimming in Havana Harbor. The shark struck twice, consuming Watson's right foot and flesh from his right calf (notice in the painting that Watson's right leg eerily disappears at the bottom of the canvas). Copley depicts the moment where Watson was saved by rescuers, just as the shark was rearing for a third strike. Watson's leg was amputated just above the knee.

Watson managed with a wooden leg (as can be seen an etching of Watson created by Robert Dighton in 1803). He eventually became a successful merchant, and it is likely that he commissioned Copley to paint this scene for him, since Watson owned the painting at the time of his death.³ Honestly, I'm quite surprised that Watson wanted a have a painting which depicted such a traumatic event in his life! If I was ever attacked by a shark, I don't know if I would want the event immortalized in oil and canvas!

This painting holds some significance art historically, since it depicts a real-life event in the tradition of "history paintings." Typically, history paintings (which were considered to be the most important type of painting by artistic academies) consisted of biblical or mythological scenes. Copley breaks from the traditional representations of history paintings by depicting an obscure event from recent history.⁴ He even elevates this obscure event by depicting it on a grand-scale: the large canvas is approximately 5' 7" x 7' 6" (182.1 cm × 229.7 cm).

If you're interested in learning a little bit more about Watson and the Shark, check out this mini-site that is maintained by the National Gallery of Art (Washington, DC).

1 For more examples of art that was created without the artist having seen the animal beforehand, see my prior post, "The artist had never seen a [insert animal] before."

2 Louis P. Masur, "Reading Watson and the Shark," in The New England Quarterly 67, no. 3 (Sept. 1994): 437.

3 Ibid., 434.

4 Ibid., 436-37.

Handel as Art Collector

George Frideric Handel (shown on right in a portrait (1726-28) attributed to Balthasar Denner) is one of my favorite Baroque composers. And it's not only his music that I like: the more I learn about things related to Handel (such as his passion for food (so much that he withheld fine food from guests in his home), or even seemingly unrelated things, like the fact that he and Jimi Hendrix could have been next-door neighbors), the more I am intrigued by him.

Hence, I became helplessly distracted this afternoon when JSTOR's unreliable search engine brought up Thomas McGeary's article "Handel as Art Collector: Art, Connoisseurship and Taste in Hanoverian Britain" (when I had typed in keywords to search for medieval illustrations of French queens).

It was interesting to learn that Handel was a prolific art collector.  He was recorded to have "taken great pleasure in contemplating the works of art" in his collection.¹ I really enjoyed learning about the nature of his collection, too. Despite the fact that Victorians praised Handel for his biblical oratorios, the composer had few biblical works of visual art.² Instead, Handel was drawn to more landscapes, Dutch/Flemish paintings, French classical painters (e.g. Poussin), and a handful of Italian artists. Handel didn't care too much for portraits of individuals (which is unusual, since portraiture was so popular in England at the time), and it appears that he even gave away all portraits of himself. He did, however, have two pictures of heads by Balthasar Denner, one of which may have resembled Denner's Portrait of an Old Woman (before 1721, shown above left).

It also is apparent that Handel bought works of art simply because he liked them; he doesn't give one the impression of a hard-nosed collector who is interested in owning works by all major artists and schools, nor was he interested in collecting works by the Old Masters. He also didn't follow the contemporary craze to purchase works by William Hogarth, even though Handel might have known Hogarth personally. Instead, Handel did "his own thing" when it came to art collecting, which (I think) indicates an aspect of his personality that translates into his musical compositions: instead of closely following musical trends, Handel created his own musical style (which I think is instantly recognizable). He wrote music that appealed to him, just as he collected art which he found appealing.

1  Thomas McGeary, "Handel as Art Collector: Art, Connoisseurship and Taste in Hanoverian Britain," Early Music 34, no. 7 (2009): 533. 

2 McGeary lists the few biblical works that Handel owned: Hagar and the angel, the finding of Moses, prints of rest on the flight into Egypt, a Guido Reni altar-piece and possible a pair of biblical prints.  McGeary suggests that the lack of biblical scenes could be due to a Protestant fear of idolatry. It is interesting to see McGeary's comparisons of Handel's collection with other collections, which have large numbers of biblical scenes (approximately 27-33% of the collections mentioned). See Ibid., 533-576.

Dolley Madison and the Lansdowne Portrait

When I was in elementary school, I had to give a report on Dolley Madison. I was fascinated with Dolley's life, and poured over a children's version of her biography. I remember being particularly interested in how the first lady had to flee from the White House during the War of 1812.

One thing that I didn't learn from my project (or at least, I don't remember learning), was that before Dolley Madison's flight from the White House, she ensured that a portrait of George Washington would be kept safe from the British soldiers. This portrait by Gilbert Stuart (1796, shown right), is often called the "Lansdowne portrait," since at one point it was given as a gift of appreciation to William Petty, the Marquess of Lansdowne (Great Britain). The portrait depicts a significant point in American history, showing Washington renouncing a third term as president.

Dolley Madison called this portrait "iconic" and delayed her flight from the White House until she was able to arrange for the painting's safekeeping. She wrote to her sister, "I insist on waiting until the large picture of Gen. Washington is secured." This month's edition of Smithsonian magazine has a very interesting article that gives more details about Dolley Madison's flight and the portrait.

Ever since my elementary school report, I've always admired Dolley Madison. But now knowing the fundamental role she played in preserving an important work of art, I like her even more.

Watteau = Not Exactly Flemish

I'm still thinking about Watteau this week. On the left is a portrait of Watteau by Rosalba Carriera (1721).

Just in case you're wondering, it's not completely accurate to say that Watteau was a Flemish artist. Okay, I know what you're thinking: "Of course he's not Flemish - he was a French Rococo artist!" You're right. But I bet I'm not the only person who once learned that Watteau was Flemish. To clarify: Watteau was born in the town of Valenciennes, which originally was a Flemish town. However, the French took over the town about seven years before Watteau was born.¹

Does this change my belief that Watteau was influenced by the Flemish master Rubens? Of course not! There's no doubt that Watteau was interested in the Flemish masters, and I'm quite sure that Valenciennes maintained many Flemish customs and traditions, even after the French gained control.

I guess it's possible that Watteau considered himself to be Flemish, since his father was of Flemish descent. Watteau's interest in Flemish art suggests that the artist was interested in his heritage, to say the least. But if one wants to get technical, I think it would be most correct to say that Watteau had Flemish ancestry, but he was born on newly-acquired French soil.

In my mind, that means Watteau was French.

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 233.

"Fête Galante" and Demeaning Terms

In my earliest art history classes, I remember learning that Watteau was associated with the "fête galante" genre from the Rococo period. The "fête galante" includes depictions of feasts or celebrations of gallantry, and it usually showed idle aristocrats in outdoor settings.

Today, Watteau is hailed as the master of the "fête galante." However, it appears that the term intially was used in a more demeaning sense. I just learned today that "fête galante" was first applied to Watteau's art by the Academy, so that Watteau would be separated "from the scholarly and morally serious narratives of the history genre."¹ The Academy renamed Watteau's painting Pilgrimage to the Island of Cythera (shown above, 1717) to Un Feste Galante.² I guess that Watteau's title and allusion to semi-mythic subject matter was troubling for the Academy; they didn't want this painting to be associated with the history/mythological paintings that were considered the "highest" form of art at the time. Therefore, "by admitting Watteau [to the exhibition], but not as a history painter, the Academy both welcomed and snubbed him."³

It's interesting to see that several demeaning or derogatory terms have been associated with art initially, and then the term ends up sticking to the art/artist in a positive way. The Fauvists received their name after an art critic compared the group's paintings to "fauves" or wild beasts. Likewise, the term "impressionists" was coined by the art critic Louis Leroy as a demeaning way to mock the art of Claude Monet (and others that exhibited in the Salon des Refuses in 1874).

Can you think of any other instances when a demeaning term has become a badge of honor for an artist or movement?

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 229.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 232.

Goya Can Be Creepy

Halloween is here and I can't help but think of all the creepy, spooky art that exists. I think some of the creepiest art belongs to Goya's "Black Paintings" series (1820-1823). These fourteen paintings were created during the period that Goya was recuperating from yellow fever. Some have interpreted these works as Goya's response to constitutional freedom, but I think (along with many other art historians) there must have been a lot more personal, psychological motivations that inspired Goya's work.¹

Goya created the "Black Paintings" on the walls of his home, Quinta del Sordo (you can see a virtual tour here). Later, the paintings were transferred to canvas in the 1870s. The most famous painting in this series is Saturn Devouring His Children (shown above to the right). This painting refers to the classical story of Saturn, the king of the gods, who feared an prophecy which said that one of his children would overthrow him. In order to stop this from happening, Saturn ate each child upon birth (although you will notice that Saturn is eating an adult body in this painting). (You can read more of the mythological story here). With grim sarcasm, Goya painted Saturn Eating His Children on his dining room wall. Doesn't it whet your appetite?

Another creepy work from the "Black Paintings" series is Witches Sabbath (The Great He-Goat) (shown left). This painting shows a group of witches who have convened with the devil, who has assumed the form of a goat. Goya was obviously drawn to this subject matter, since he created a more light-hearted version of this subject earlier in 1789 (see here). I think the "Black Paintings" version is infinitely more spooky and ominous. I identify most with the figure of the little girl on the right, who seems resistant and apart from the frightening crowd.

The earlier 1789 version of Witches Sabbath was one of six paintings of witches and devils. Goya created these six paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. If the "Black Paintings" don't convince you that Goya was interested in creepy subject matter, maybe two of these Osuna paintings will:

The Bewitched Man, c. 1798
(More information here)

Witches in the Air, 1797-98
I think this painting is freaky. (More information here)

Still not convinced that Goya liked creepy art? Then check out some of the lithographs from his Los Caprichos series, which he created around the same time as the paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. You can see a few here. Another one in the series, "There is a lot to Suck" (Capricho 45), depicts a greedy witch with her mouth wide open. The witches are catching babies in a basket, in order to drink their blood. This superstition might be connected to abortion, since women who assisted with abortion were labeled as witches.²

Are you spooked? Which work by Goya do you think is the creepiest?

Happy Halloween!

1 Priscilla E. Muller, "Goya, Francisco de", in Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T033882, accessed 30 October 2009.

2 Rose-Marie Hagen and Rainer Hagen, Francisco Goya: 1746-1828 (London: Taschen, 2003), 36. Available online here.

Fuseli's Nightmares

I've had a little bit of insomnia lately. It hasn't been too bad, but substantial enough to be annoying. Last night, as I was twisting and turning in bed, I wryly thought of how much I envied the woman in Fuseli's The Nightmare (1781, shown above). Despite being surrounded by nightmarish figures, at least she was getting some sleep.

I've liked this painting ever since my first art history class in high school. It's just so bizarre and compelling. I especially like the distorted proportions of the woman's body (it reminds me of Mannerist art) and the burning eyes of the spooky horse.

It's possible his interest in this subject matter was due to his romantic attachment to a woman named Anna Landolt. Anna's uncle rejected Fuseli as a suitor, which really embittered the artist. This nightmare theme was created relatively soon after his rejection, "perhaps [as] an attempt to exorcise Fuseli’s bitterness against Anna Landolt by punishing her with a dream."¹

In total, Fuseli made four versions of this nightmare theme. There is a woodcut version (n.d.) and pencil/watercolor version (1810) that aren't very interesting (they are a little too ridiculous and suggestive for my taste), but I do like this one on the right (1790). I'm really drawn to the small still-life of a glass bottles and small jar on the table; the 1781 painting also has a variant of this still-life. Although the bottles and jars might not contain any significance to the nightmarish theme, I can't help but think of the romantic aspects of tonics and potions. Even if they don't mean anything, I think they add a nice touch to the composition and give Fuseli a chance to show off his painting skills.

Anyhow, there you have it. I thought about Fuseli's The Nightmare while lying in bed last night. It's no wonder that when I actually do fall asleep, my dreams often revolve around art history...

1 Georg Paula and David Blayney Brown. "Füssli." In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T030261pg3, accessed 2 October 2009.

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.

Browere's Life Mask of Jefferson

Have you heard the story of how Thomas Jefferson was nearly killed by the artist John H. I. Browere? The elderly, retired statesman and ex-president was approached in 1825 by Browere, who asked to be allowed to take a life mask of Jefferson. Apparently, Browere was not very skillful; the plaster hardened too quickly, which impaired Jefferson's breathing and ability to cry out for help. Luckily, Jefferson's hand was resting on a nearby chair, and he was able to bang it on the floor to bring attention to his distress.

To make matters worse, Browere did not apply enough oil on Jefferson's face, so the plaster stuck to the frail man's face. Browere had to use a mallet and chisel to break the plaster off of Jefferson's skin, and the ex-president reportedly groaned and even sobbed during the whole ordeal.¹ When discussing the removal process, Jefferson wrote in a letter that "there became a real danger that [my] ears would separate from [my] head sooner than from the plaster."²

Poor man. It's no wonder that Jefferson wrote in the same letter, "I now bid adieu for ever to busts and even portraits."³

The above photograph of this infamous life mask was taken in 1939 by LIFE photographer Bernard Hoffman. Jefferson's expression doesn't look to happy - and can you blame him? The man couldn't breathe!

Understandably, Browere didn't have the greatest reputation. He was called an "itinerant sculptor" by Dumas Malone and a "vile plaisterer" by Jefferson's granddaughter.⁴ Artists in the American Academy (i.e. Trumbull) and National Academy were opposed to Bowere, too.⁵ It seems, though, that the ambitious writer Charles Henry Hart was able to overlook all of Bowere's faults. In 1899 Hart published a thorough examination of Bowere's life casts in a book, and he even went as far as to call Bowere an "ingenious" man.⁶ (No doubt such a statement reflected well on Hart, who credited himself with rediscovering the artist.) Hmph.

Granted, I do think it is really fun to see life casts of so many prominent members from American history. In that aspect, I'm appreciative of what Bowere did. (If you are interested, you should look at some of the life casts in Hart's book, found online here). As an artist, though, Bowere definitely was lacking in skill. After all, he almost killed one of the Founding Fathers through his incompetence.

Let's end this post with a more pleasant portrait of Jefferson, shall we? At least Jefferson appears to breathe freely in this bust:

Houdon, Thomas Jefferson, 1789 (Museum of Fine Arts, Boston)

1 Annette Gordon-Reed, The Hemingses of Monticello (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2008), 626.

2 Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, 18 October 1825, in Smith, Republic of Letters, 3:1942-43. See also Gordon-Reed, 627.

3 Ibid.

4 Gordon-Reed, 626.

5 Charles Henry Hart, "Life Masks - Those Browere Made of Great Americans. Charles Heny Hart's Comments on Them." New York Times, 8 April 1899. Copy of article can be accessed here.

6 Charles Henry Hart, Browere's Life Masks of Great Americans (Doubleday & McClure Company, 1899), x. Citation can be accessed online here.

Paul Revere as Artist

Paul Revere, The Bloody Massacre, n.d.

I watched the first episode of the John Adams miniseries last night. The beginning of the episode revolves around the Boston Massacre, and at one point, John Adams briefly holds a print which depicts the massacre (shown above). My husband mentioned that he thought the patriot Paul Revere was the engraver of the print. I had never heard before that Paul Revere was an engraver, but my husband was right. Both the The National Gallery of Art and Smithsonian American Art Museum (SAAM) own copies of this engraving (see here and here).¹

Actually, Paul Revere made many engravings. Many of them were political, and some were just decorative. Here is are two other engravings by Revere:

Paul Revere, The Able Doctor, or America Swallowing the Bitter Draught. (Royal American Magazine, June 1774; National Archives)

Paul Revere, William Wetmore Bookplate, n.d. (Smithsonian American Art Museum)

It isn't very surprising that Paul Revere dabbled in engraving, since he was a silversmith by profession. (It's always funny for me to think that Paul Revere actually had a day job - I always associate him with his infamous horse ride, not normal day-to-day life.) Here are some examples of Revere's handiwork in silver:

Paul Revere, Tea Service, 1792-93 (Minneapolis Institute of Arts)

I think one of my favorite silver pieces by Revere are this silver teaspoon and this silver teapot and stand. You can see some of Revere's other engravings and silver pieces in the online collection of the Addison Gallery of American Art.

My final thoughts on Revere as an artist? I think he was a fantastic silversmith, but his engravings are just alright. It appears that Revere wasn't too passionate about engraving; he mostly used the medium for political propaganda.² I think this lack of artistic passion separates the quality of Revere's engravings from his beautiful silver work. For example, The Bloody Massacre has several problems with linear perspective (look at the orthogonal lines of the buildings) and disproportionate figures.

I don't want to be too harsh, though. Really, Revere's massacre engraving has a quaint, folksy aesthetic. And hey, that's just the kind of art that a patriot should create. It has kind of a "by the people, for the people" feel, right?

1 Paul Revere is often referred to as "Paul Revere II" since his father, Apollos Rivoire, assumed the name Paul Revere upon emigrating to America.

2 See Esther Forbes, Paul Revere and the World He Lived in (New York: Mariner Books, 1999), 110 (available online here).

Phrygian Caps in Art

Yesterday I was reading about Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People (1831) and started to think about the Phrygian cap that Liberty is wearing. The Phrygian cap is a soft, conical, red cap was traditionally worn in ancient Phrygia (modern day Turkey). In ancient Greek art, these caps were used as headdresses for people from the Orient. Eventually, the Phrygian cap developed into a symbol of freedom and liberty - they were worn by emancipated slaves in ancient Rome. In the eighteenth century, the Phrygian cap became popular with the French revolutionaries and subsequently was known as the "cap of liberty." (The Phrygian cap has even been used as part of the official seal for the United States Senate.) This is a detail of Liberty wearing a Phrygian cap in Delacroix's painting:


This cap made me think of my thesis, in which I argue that Aleijadinho's Prophets (1800-1805) composition is laced with abolitionist sentiment. I briefly mentioned that the clothing of the prophet Amos could allude to abolition (it is possible that Afro-Brazilian capoeiristas wore similar outfits at the time the sculpture was created), but I didn't consider Amos' cap until now:

I wonder if this cap could have been influenced by the Phrygian cap. Part of my thesis ties in these statues to the political/revolutionary sentiment of the day, since these statues were created relatively soon after the 1789 French Revolution. Could Aleijadinho have been influenced by the Phrygian cap of the French revolutionaries? At first glance, it seems to me like Amos' hat might be too long to be a Phrygian cap. I'm curious about looking at my photo archives, though, to see if I can see his cap in better detail. Interestingly, people have written about how the "turbans" of Aleijadinho's Prophets seem to be influenced by Turkish costume (which perhaps could be a connection to Phrygia instead?).

It will be interesting to follow up on this idea and see if it leads anywhere. In the meantime, though, here are a couple of other depictions of Phrygian caps in art:

The Three Magi (Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar), mosaic at Sant'Appollinare Nuovo (6th century); Ravenna, Italy
(In this instance, the Phrygian cap indicates the that the wise men are from the Orient, not that they are emancipated slaves!)

Berthel Thorvaldsen, Ganymede Waters Zeus as an Eagle (1817)

Joseph Chinard, The Republic (1794)

Anonymous, Louis XVI of France Wearing a Phrygian Cap, 1792 (Library of Congress)

Washer Women

I think everyone has some kind of dream in which their worst fears are realized. Apparently, my worst fear revolves around being unprepared to teach an art history lecture. Last night, I dreamed that I went to go visit my past professors at my alma mater. It was the first day of summer term, and I discovered upon arrival that I was slated to teach a course that began that very afternoon! The title of the course seminar was "Washer Women in Art," and it was supposed to cover all the extant depictions of laundresses. I started to scramble around campus, trying to find materials for the class, but I couldn't think of any paintings to include in the slide list. I kept thinking, "I can't think of any paintings of washer women," and "If any paintings exist, they probably are Dutch from the 17th century."

Needless to say, I woke up in a panic.

Naturally, I had to find out today if there are any paintings of laundresses. And there are. A lot. (Though not really any Dutch ones from 17th century, much to my subconscious' chagrin!) Here are a couple of my favorites:

Chardin, The Laundress, 1733
This book points out how the laundress does not wear a hoop skirt or any of the other fashionable clothing of the Rococo period - Chardin was interested in painting the domestic life of an ordinary French woman.

Greuze, The Laundress, 1761
Denis Diederot said of the laundress in this painting, "She's a rascal I wouldn't trust an inch." The Getty has published a whole book about this painting, comparing this provocative laundress to other paintings of laundresses by Greuze.

Camille Pissarro, Washer Woman, 1880

Martin Driscoll, The Washer WomanI was not familiar with this contemporary artist before my quest to find laundress paintings, but I think this work is very nice. You can look at more of Driscoll's paintings on his website.
Degas, Laundresses Carrying Linen in Town, c. 1876-78

Degas, Women Ironing (Les Rapasseuses), also called "The Laundresses," 1884

Most paintings of laundresses come from the 19th century Impressionists, and I've included a few of them above. (I left out this hideous one by Renoir, click on the link only if you dare.) It makes sense that the Impressionists would be interested in laundresses; they liked subject matter that revolved around French urban life.

Really, there probably are enough paintings of laundresses that one could hold a couple of classes on the subject (though probably not for the length of a term). Unfortunately, I haven't found a lot of scholarship on laundress paintings. I wonder if this subject matter would appeal to feminist art historians.

Has anyone else ever had a panic dream involving art history? If it also involves washer women and laundresses, we must be twins separated at birth.

The Cyclical Nature of Art

When I was in college, one of my professors explained her theory that art is cyclical in nature. Over the centuries, there are certain themes and styles in art that keep emerging and fading in popularity. I have often thought about this theory in regards to the Classical and Baroque styles. Although this theory can apply to different types of art, I am in the mood for looking at sculpture, so I'll only mostly use sculptural examples.

In early Greece, the serene, harmonious Classical style pervaded the artistic scene:

Polykleitos, "Spear-bearer" (Doryphoros), original dated c. 450-440 BC.

However, a short time later, the calm Classical style was disrupted by a taste for more dramatic, diagonal compositions in the Hellenistic period. In addition, relief sculptures were carved more deeply (some sculptures were practically in-the-round, almost jumping off of the relief wall) so that intense shadows could be cast:

Athena Battling Alkyoneos, Detail of the Gigantomachy Freize from the Altar of Zeus (Pergamon, Turkey, c. 175 BC).

The cycle between serenity and drama began again centuries later, when the Classical style became revived during the Renaissance:

Michelangelo, David, 1501-04

And only a century later, the Baroque period began as the artistic scene once again favored diagonal, dramatic compositions and subject matter:

Bernini, David, 1623

With the discovery of Pompeii in 1748, the interest in Classicism began the cycle all over again. This interest brought about the Neoclassical movement:

Antonio Canova, Pauline Borghese as Venus, 1808

The Romantic movement began about the same time and can be interpreted as a continuation of this cycle. In a way, the Romantics reacted against Neoclassicism by favoring drama and emotion over the serenity. This painting by Géricault focuses on dramatic subject matter by depicting a real-life event of shipwrecked passengers that were on the boat "Medusa." A shortage of lifeboats caused 150 passengers to build a raft, and survivors resorted to cannibalism in order to stay alive on the open sea. (You can read more of the story here.) Can you see how this subject matter is dramatic? To heighten the drama, Gericault depicted an emotional moment when the survivors spot their rescue ship in the distance. Géricault even follows the same dramatic diagonal compositions that were favored in earlier dramatic styles:

Géricault, Raft of the "Medusa", 1818-19

Since the Neoclassical/Romantic periods, the artistic continuum really hasn't seen another revival of the serene/dramatic styles. There have been some slight interest in traditional subject matter, such as the Regionalism movement (think of American Gothic). I guess Regionalism could be considered a continuation of serenity and tradition, if one is willing to categorize abstractionism (the style the Regionalists rejected) as dramatic. Hmm.

I'm curious to see if art will ever return back to this cycle. Since the 19th and 20th centuries, art has just exploded into different types of media and styles. Have we left traditional cycles altogether? It is interesting to think about what art will be like in a hundred years or so.

What do you think about the future of art? Have you observed any other types of artistic cycles besides this one?

Rethinking the Family of Charles IV

Like most people who study art, I was taught that Goya's portrait, Family of Charles IV (1800-1801), is a caricature of the royal family. Most introductory art history textbooks discuss the ugly features of the family members and their awkward poses. In short, the painting was supposed to reveal the stupidity of the royal family. I further interpreted this picture to show the family in an unflattering light - who in the royal family would approve of having a young woman (on the left) painted with her face turned towards the wall?

In fact, I was going to write a post on this unflattering portrait until I began to do some more research this morning.

Recently (within the past decade), there have been new arguments regarding Goya's portrait of Charles IV and his family. Edward J. Olszewski argued in 1999 that the Goya adds a sense of animation to this portrait because the sitters lack a common focal point. However, he also admits that there is a lack of unity that resulted because Goya sketched the members of the group individually, not collectively.¹ He argues that the family members approved of the sketches that were taken for the portrait. Suggestions that a family member looks "foolish" or awkward are because the elderly Dona Maria Josefa was suffering from the effects of lupis (she died shortly after the portrait was completed) and Dona Maria Luisa Josefina (on the far right, holding a baby) suffered from a spinal defect.² In addition, Olszewski finds the brilliant colors and pigments in the painting to be very favorable; they were quite modern for the period.

I also learned from Olszewski's article that the woman on the left side of the canvas (with her face turned towards the wall) is the future bride of the prince regent, as yet unchosen. Of course she would be depicted with her face towards the wall, since the family wasn't sure whose face to portray! Maria Antonia could have been painted in the portrait after she and Ferdinand married in 1802, but Goya was never asked to change the painting.

As for the infamous critic's statement that the painting looks like a "grocer and his family who have just won the big lottery prize," Alisa Luxenberg wrote in 2002 that this statement has been misquoted.³ Several historians have picked up on this quote and scattered it throughout art historical texts. She and Olszewski both point out that a similar quote was stated by Renoir in 1907. Renoir mentioned that the portrait looked "like a butcher's family in their Sunday best." However, the point of this comment was not to pinpoint the painting as caricature. Instead, this statement was an indication of Renoir's belief that "an artist's 'true' personality - meaning class to Renoir, who seemed acutely sensitive to his own working-class roots - manifests itself in art. In the recounting of this discussion, Renoir supposedly explained that Goya's plebian background emerged in his rendering of artistocrats as shopkeepers."⁴

These articles have made me rethink the Family of Charles IV portrait. I still don't find many of the family members to be terribly attractive, but this doesn't mean necessarily that the portrait is a caricature. Instead, perhaps this portrait is a paradigm for its age; with the ongoing Enlightenment in the 18th century, perhaps the stress on scientific, visual evidence affected the production of idealized portraiture? Maybe the members of the family wanted to be portrayed as how they really looked, whether attractive or inattractive.

If you want to read more, I would particularly recommend Olszewski's article. It's quite fascinating.


1 Edward J. Olszewski, "Exorcising Goya's 'The Family of Charles IV'," Arbitus et Historiae 20, no. 40 (1999): 176-177.

2 Ibid., 178.

3 Alisa Luxenberg, "Further Light on the Critical Reception of Goya's 'Family of Charles IV' as Caricature," Arbitus et Historiae 23, no. 46 (2002): 179-180.

4 Ibid, 179. See also Olszewski, 182-183.

Gainsborough's Portrait of Georgiana

Keeping with this week's theme of stolen art, I am particularly interested in the story regarding the portrait Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. This portrait was completed in 1787 by Thomas Gainsborough, a popular English portrait painter. I'm particularly interested in this painting because my grandparents own a reproduction of it (or else it's another painting that closely mimics the style and pose of Gainsborough's portrait - I'll have to look more closely next time I visit).

Georgiana is the great-great-great-great aunt of Princess Diana, and there have been many parallels drawn between the two women. Both beautiful women were the toast of England during their life, although Georgiana outlived her days of high public favor. (The film "The Duchess" (2008) was based on Georgiana's life; actress Kiera Knightly (who played Georgiana) was angered that her character was often compared to Diana).

Almost a century after the painting was completed, it was sold in 1876 at an auction. Crowds of people gathered to catch a glimpse of this famous portrait. It was eventually sold to the American banker Junius Spencer Morgan, who bought the painting as a gift for his son, J. P. Morgan. However, before the portrait was shipped to America, it remained for a while on exhibition in London.

During this short period of exhibition, Adam Worth crept into the Agnew Gallery and stole the Georgiana portrait from its location of display. Worth hoped that he could use the well-loved painting as collateral; he wanted to bargain with the government to get his brother John freed from prison. However, John's lawyer was able to negotiate a release for the prisoner before Adam even had time to strike a bargain with the government. Consequently, Adam Worth was left with the beautiful portrait on his hands.

For the next twenty five years, Worth kept the painting. When he traveled, he would bring the Georgiana with him in a false-bottomed trunk. While at home, Worth would sleep with the beloved portrait under his mattress. Ben Macintyre writes in his book Napoleon of Crime that Georgiana was a "permanent, hidden companion" for Worth. Even when Worth experienced financial troubles and threats of capture, the theif preferred to "face disgrace, penury, and imprisonment rather than part with the Duchess."¹ Finally, near the end of his life, Worth sold the painting for an undisclosed sum and negotiated a promise of immunity.

Today, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire is part of the Devonshire Collection. In 1994, the current Duke of Devonshire bought the portrait and placed it at Chatsworth, his ancestral home. Edward Dolnick points out that Georgiana now "presides" in the grand dining room, the location where she held court during her lifetime.²

1 Ben Macintyre, Napoleon of Crime (New York: Harper Collins, 1997), 16.

2 Edward Dolnick, The Rescue Artist (New York: Harper Collins, 2006), 151.

Thesis Anniversary

This month marks the one year anniversary of my thesis defense. I think I will always associate Leap Year Day as the day I became a Master of Arts. I can't believe that a whole year has passed; sometimes I think that I haven't done enough with my degree.

I really loved working on my thesis. I was lucky to receive a grant which enabled me to travel to Brazil and do research and analysis on-site. My thesis was about an 18th century Brazilian sculptor named Aleijadinho (a nickname which means "The Little Cripple") who lived during a time of political unrest in Brazil. I argued that Aleijadinho's sculptures of twelve Old Testament prophets (located at the church Bom Jesus dos Matozinhos) reflect this political unrest because they are positioned in the movements and formations of capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art. Capoeira is inherently political because it probably developed as a way for African slaves to fight their way off of plantations. Therefore, I interpreted these statues as a type of political propaganda; through the representation of capoeira, I find that these statues exhibit a call for liberation for not only African slaves, but also Brazilian colonists (who were under Portuguese rule at the time).

Chapter one of my thesis discusses the political unrest that occurred in Brazil during the lifetime of Aleijadinho. It also discusses how Aleijadinho may have been associated with the rebel group, the Inconfidência Mineira. This group formed in Aleijadinho's hometown and tried to overthrow the Portuguese crown. Chapter two deals with the history of capoeira and its political associations. Chapter three contains my analysis of the Prophets - I look at specific capoeira movements and compare them to different statues. I also compare capoeira formations with the formation of and interplay between the Prophets statues. The chapter also contains an analysis of how the signifiers of capoeira (as found on the statues) can be interpreted as political propaganda.

Phew - it was hard to type those last two paragraphs. I guess I haven't had a lot of practice explaining my thesis lately! If you want to read an abstract of my thesis (it contains more details than what I typed above), click here. Or, if you want to read my thesis (or look at the pictures of the statues!), it has been published online here. It's quite a lot of reading, though. I won't be offended if you just want to peruse.

David's Political Convictions

Jacques-Louis David was the most influential Neoclassical painter; he also was arguably the most influential painter of the 18th century (and subsequently the 19th as well). Earlier in David's career, he was actively involved in the French Revolution. Many of his earlier paintings contain political subjects, which speak as a propagandistic call to arms (e.g. Oath of the Horatii) or glorify the martyrs of the cause (Death of Marat shows the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat, who was killed in his bathtub by Charlotte Corday). In 1791, David began sketches for a commemorative painting of The Tennis Court Oath, 20th June, 1789, which was the historical event that launched the Revolution. In 1792 David was elected as a Deputy of the Convention; he became closely allied with rebel leader Robespierre.

Later, when the Republic fell and Robespierre was executed, David was imprisoned. This self-portrait on the right (1794) was painted while David was in prison. The large bulge on David's left cheek is a swollen, benign tumor which resulted after a fencing accident as a youth (He was known as "Gross David with the swollen cheek" by his English enemies).¹

"Following his release from prison, David declared that he would no longer follow men, he would follow principles. This indicated a desire to steer clear of controversial subjects."² I wonder if David's political convictions (or "principles") also changed during his imprisonment. Not long after David's release, he painted a portrait for Napoleon. Over time, after Napoleon rose to power, David became the court painter for the empire. Simon Shama remarks how David's career ends in "debased self-parody. The painter who invented a story to refute the charge that he'd dallied with a portrait commission for Louis XVI was happy to do Napoleon over and over and over."³ (Above is one of David's portraits of the emperor, Napoleon Crossing the Alps at the St. Bernard Pass, c. 1800-01).

After Napoleon briefly met David for his first portrait sitting, David declared, "Bonaparte is my hero." Why did David, who used to be an active revolutionary, suddenly switch to become Napoleon's adoring fan? Simon Lee describes David has having come under Napoleon's "spell."⁴ Historical writings and biographies describe Napoleon as charming and captivating.⁵ Was David so struck by Napoleon's charm and charisma that he forgot all of his earlier political convictions? Or did David just pander to whoever was in power at the time, either as a literal or financial tactic for survival?

I assume that both Napoleonic charm and survival tactics played into David's devotion to the emperor. It seems, however, that this might not have been such a wise choice. In 1816, after the fall of Napoleon, the artist was exiled and spent the rest of his days in Brussels.⁶ Perhaps David should have stuck with his earlier convictions and left Napoleon alone?

1 David also had a stammering problem and his speech was difficult to understand. It is interesting that someone whose painting is so expressive had difficulties with simple speech.
2 Simon Lee. "David, Jacques-Louis." In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T021541, accessed 13 January 2009.

3 Simon Shama, The Power of Art (New York: Harper Collins, 2006), 233.

4 Lee, "David, Jacques-Louis."

5 For one example, see Alan Schom, Napoleon Bonaparte, (New York: Harper Collins, 1998), 7.

6 In 1989, Belgian authorities prevented David's remains from returning to Paris.

Friedrich and Geognosy

Ever since I was a teenager, I have been fascinated by the mountains and rocks. In college I toyed with the idea of becoming a geologist, but changed my mind after realizing how much math and chemistry was involved. Luckily, though, art history dabbles in so many other disciplines that I can read about geology and art at the same time.

Today I read an article by Timothy Mitchell which argues that Caspar David Friedrich was influenced by "historical geology" in his painting of Der Watzmann (1825, shown here). As a German Romantic painter, Friedrich was usually interested in depicting forests and rocky seashores. This painting of Der Watzmann, therefore, is a departure from the majority of Friedrich's oeuvre. Mitchell argues that this interest in the Alps was influenced by the new study of geognosy ("knowledge of the earth") that was developed by Abraham Werner, an instructor at a mining school in Freiburg. Werner's geognosy focused on tangible evidence and facts. One of Werner's protégés wrote, "What the geognost cannot reach with his hammer lies outside his province."¹ (Isn't this stress on facts and evidence such a product of the ongoing Enlightenment?)

The Germans viewed the romantic landscape tradition as a type of nationalistic celebration. Mitchell convincingly argues that since discipline of geognosy was considered by the Germans to be both "of our time" and "thoroughly German in origin," Friedrich would have been especially intrigued by the subject.²

Interestingly, Friedrich's depiction of Der Watzmann is full of errors. Different perspectives of the mountain were combined together in the final painting. Although Mitchell suggests that Friedrich did not aim to create the mountain exactly as it appears (Mitchell instead ties this romanticized depiction as relating to the then-popular practice of worshiping God through nature), I also wonder if the different perspectives in this painting could partially have occurred because Friedrich never saw Der Watzmann in person - he was one of the few landscapists of the time who never traveled to the Alps. One would think that Friedrich would have been aware of the different mountain perspectives when examining other paintings of the peaks, but it cannot be certain. But, on the other hand, it was not unlike Romantic painters to, you know, romanticize their subject matter (!). That being said, I still am somewhat skeptical of Mitchell's reasoning for the multiple perspectives.

I do, however, agree with Mitchell that the artistic stress on mountain peaks and rock formations in the foreground appear to be influenced by the geognostic theories regarding mountain formation. For example, one Werner's theories is that the present state of the earth is due to a flood, which is best evidenced by the existence of massive boulders in the mountains. It appears that Friedrich added these boulders in the foreground of his painting as an allusion to this geognostic theory.³

There are more complexities to Mitchell's argument which are also very interesting. If you care to read more, you can find this article on JSTOR.

1 Timothy Mitchell, "Caspar David Friedrich's Der Watzmann: German Romantic Landscape Painting and Historical Geology," The Art Bulletin 66, co. 3 (September, 1984): 454.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 461.

Thesis Conviction

For the past week or so, I have been madly trying to research for my thesis topic before we leave for Brazil. I know that I'll be able to ILL a lot of the books that are in the archives of the NYPL, but it just seems to make sense to look at them while I'm here. And things have been going well, sort of.

Today I ran into a couple of walls which really have made me need to decide how much conviction I have in my argument. I still believe that my argument can be supported, don't get me wrong, but I sometimes feel like I'm paddling upstream. I wish there were more 18th century documents available from obscure areas of colonial Brazil. I wish that there was some definitive proof that my artist is not more than a legend. (I still think that the (two?) extant documents and baptismal certificate are enough, but it makes me falter when I see scholars in the field expressing doubts.) More than anything, I wish that some of Aleijadiho's contemporaries would have taken the time to write about him. That's most frustrating (and most disconcerting). All of the contemporary documents that supposedly mention Aleijadinho have been "lost" over time.

I think the thing that really threw me off today was researching Chico Rei. I got excited last night to draw a parallel between my argument and the construction of the Igreja Efigenia in Ouro Preto. This would be perfect for a lot of reasons (I won't divulge them now, it would take too long). However, after reading the argument about that Aleijadinho could be only a legend, I decided take a break and research Chico Rei (the patron of Santa Efigenia). I really couldn't find much, besides a WikiPedia account that says he is a "semi-mythic figure."

Great. I am now writing about a legendary artist and supporting my argument with a semi-mythic figure. This will go over well at my defense.

I am realizing now how thesis conviction really is important. I really think that my argument can be supported, and I need to stand up against some of these odds.

At least I feel like I can still think critically.