Art Crime and Textbooks

I was surprised to learn recently that Monet's famous painting Impression: Sunrise (dated 1872, shown right) was stolen from the Marmottan Museum on October 27, 1985. Seven armed men forced museums visitors and a guard to lie on the floor while they stole this painting and eight other works. Impression: Sunrise was recovered in December of 1990 and went back on display at the Marmottan in April 1991.

Although the actual theft doesn't surprise me that much, I was taken back that I wasn't aware of this aspect of the painting's history. I feel like I know this painting pretty well - it is the work of art that is often seen as the "kickoff" point to the Impressionist movement. The title of this painting, Impression: Sunrise led hostile critic Louis Leroy to first use the term "Impressionists."

As I've thought my surprised reaction, I've realized that much of my knowledge about Monet's painting comes from art history textbooks. And, on the flip side, I've realized that most of my knowledge about art crime doesn't come from standard art history textbooks. I usually learn about art crime from online sources (like the blog "Art Theft Central") and popular history books like Lopez's The Man Who Made Vermeers or Charney's Stealing the Mystic Lamb. (And, speaking of Charney, I look forward to reading his new book on the thefts of the Mona Lisa).

So, why does art crime not get included in art history textbooks very much? Undoubtedly, such crime (theft or otherwise) becomes part of an art piece's history. Here are some related questions that have been muddling about in my brain:

• Is there something about art crime that doesn't appeal to academia at large? 
• Is art crime too closely related to popular history? (Perhaps this topic is really an issue of popular history and academia, an idea that will be explored in an upcoming conference by The Historical Society.)
• Is art crime too base of a topic for art historians? Will a work of art be demystified if it is connected with crime? Isn't it okay if a work of art is demystified?
• Art crime is intrinsically linked to the art market. Does art history want to disassociate itself from the art market?
• Do scholars (and their book editors) feel like there isn't room for a discussion of art crime in survey texts?
• Am I just looking at the wrong kinds of art history textbooks? Are there textbooks out there that incorporate a good discussion of crime along with other general aspects of art history?

I feel like there are a lot of art historians and art history students that are interested in art crime, but I don't feel like there are enough academic publications to support my hunch. I definitely feel like there is a place for art crime in the classroom, though. I get very positive feedback from class lectures that include some information about theft, forgery and looting.

Maybe art crime is like crime itself - it needs to be learned "on the street" or by word of mouth! From what I can tell, it looks like Noah Charney's program for a Master's in Art Crime involves a lot of classroom discussion and lectures from experts on the topic, not a lot of textbook reading.

Thoughts, anyone?

The Red Vineyard: SOLD!

I have plenty of things to do this afternoon, but I keep stopping to think about Van Gogh. Today I was discussing with my students about how Van Gogh is the quintessential example of the "artist-genius" construct (an artist who essentially is tortured by his art and creative mind). After all, Van Gogh cut off his own ear (unless Gauguin cut it off!), checked himself into a mental asylum (no doubt because of his uncontrollable passion for art, right???), and committed suicide.

Such aspects of Van Gogh's life are popular to discuss in the world of art history (after all, we still are drawn to the "artist-genius" idea), but there has always been one other biographical detail which has puzzled me for a long time. In order for one to fully emphasize Van Gogh's oppressed, tortured life, one of the following "facts" is oft repeated in the art world: "Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime" or "Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime."

So, which is it? Did Van Gogh sell a painting or not? Or did he sell more than one painting? I've seen different answers in all types of locations (such as here and here), and I find it curious that there is so much ambiguity on this topic. Perhaps this confusion is partially a result of the internet, although I think that these these "facts" about Van Gogh have been independently propagated for much longer than the past two decades.

Luckily, the internet also has resources to allow for fact-checking. This afternoon I've been reading through an unabridged collection of Vincent Van Gogh's letters online. These letters indicate that Van Gogh did sell (at least) one painting during this lifetime. The Red Vineyard (shown above, 1888) was sold to Anna Boch for 400 francs in 1890 (just a few months before Van Gogh's death). The Red Vineyard had been on display at the 1890 "Les XX" exhibition in Brussels. Van Gogh was well aware of his sale, since he wrote his mother about the sale in a letter from 20 February 1890. In a later letter the following month (dated 29 March 1980), Vincent's brother Theo asked if he could send Vincent the money "from your picture from Brussels."

A website dedicated to Anna Boch has put forward some suggestions as to why Boch bought The Red Vineyard. One suggestion is that Boch wanted to show some support for Van Gogh, since his art received a mixed review from artists and critics at "Les XX." Or, as an Impressionist painter, it is possible that Boch simply was interested in Van Gogh's style. Whatever the reason, the sale was made.

Do you know any more information regarding Van Gogh's sold painting(s)? Any thoughts as to why this ambiguity has not been completely resolved?

The Scream!

I've had Edvard Munch's The Scream (right, 1893 version, also known as The Cry) keep popping into my mind lately. This week I'm getting ready for an extremely busy spring quarter, which will start next Monday. Although I know that the workload will be manageable (I'm too organized to let things become unmanageable!), this image keeps coming to mind when I look at my upcoming calendar. There's so much work to be done!

I thought I'd share my two favorite things about this painting (well, I should say that there are four versions of this painting, but I especially like the 1893 version). My favorite art historical argument about The Scream was put forth in 1978 by Robert Rosenblum.¹ Rosenblum argued is that the screaming figure was inspired by a Peruvian Mummy, which Munch would have seen on view at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris. This mummy, called the "momie trépanée," is now located in the Musee de l'Homme in Paris (see an additional image of the mummy here). It is thought that Gauguin also saw this mummy on display; the old woman in his painting Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? (1897) bears a strong resemblance to the mummy's features and fetal position.

I also love that The Scream has quite a history when it comes to art crime. Versions of The Scream have been stolen from the National Gallery in Norway (in 1994) and the Munch Museum (in 2004 - Wikipedia even has a photo of the thieves with their loot!). I think the 1994 story is especially interesting; a few years ago I read The Rescue Artist by Edward Dolnick, which discusses the theft and recovery in detail. If you're interested in art crime, I'd recommend this book. Essentially, two thieves simply propped a ladder against the window of the museum, shattered the glass, and stole the painting around 6:30 in the morning. The crime occurred on quite a historic day, 12 February 1994, the opening day for the Olympic Games held in Lillehammer. The painting was recovered in May of that same year.

On a side note, I wanted to point out that The Scream was originally titled Despair. (This original title doesn't surprise me, since it seems like Munch experienced a lot of despair and turmoil in his personal life.) I have to say, though, that I don't feel despair when I think about the upcoming spring quarter. Actually, I'm quite excited about it, even though I know it will be very busy.

1 Robert Rosenblum, "Symbols and Images of Edvard Munch," (National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1978).

Why Picasso Needs the Old Masters

Over the past few weeks, my students and I have been discussing some of the ironies regarding the avant-garde tradition. One of the biggest ironies is that although avant-garde artists are radical and break away from tradition, the avant-garde is also reliant upon tradition. Without the conservative Academy, the avant-garde would have nothing to react against. Hence, avant-garde art will never be able to break completely free from Western artistic tradition, because it would become meaningless without that context.

Today I've been thinking about this irony in relation to Picasso. During the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, a stray shell broke the defenses of the Prado Museum. Picasso was very concerned about the masterpieces in the museum, particularly the work of artists like Goya. But the artist had added motivation to be concerned: this same year Picasso accepted the honorific title of Director of the Museum, which was bestowed on him by the Republican government. Picasso's acceptance of this title is an indication of his sympathies with the Republican government (in case you think his attack on General Francisco Franco via his etching The Dream and the Lie of Franco Part 1 (1937) isn't enough evidence of his political leanings! Ha!).

As director of the Prado, Picasso managed the removal of several masterpieces from Madrid to Valencia. Two years later, Picasso contributed part of his personal funds to have these paintings removed once again to safekeeping in Geneva. For the most part, the paintings were kept safe, although Goya's Second of May 1808 (1814, shown right) and Third of May 1808 (1814) were both severely damaged by a falling balcony. The Prado reports that some damage was intentionally kept on the left corner of Second of May as a reminder of the Civil War.

Of course, on one hand, it isn't surprising that Picasso was concerned about the masterpieces in the Prado collection. After all, as an artist, Picasso undoubtedly appreciated the work of other artists. But could there be another reason why Picasso was invested in preserving this art? Think about it: what would Picasso be if artistic masterpieces did not exist? The radicalism in his own art wouldn't make sense. His commentaries on artistic tradition (and his rejection of those traditions) would have no meaning. Picasso needs masterpieces and tradition in order to stylistically reject them. In this light, one could say that Picasso was helping his own career when he helped to save the work of earlier masters. The continued existence of masterpieces would help ensure that Picasso's art held meaning and relevance. I wonder if Picasso realized this ironic fact.

Caillebotte and Hopper

Today a perceptive student asked if art historians had ever discussed a connection between the paintings by Gustave Caillebotte (a 19th century Impressionist) and Edward Hopper (a 20th century artist). I thought this was a really fascinating question. This week, my students and I have been discussing how Caillebotte's work can be interpreted within the themes of isolation and loneliness. We've discussed ideas of how the modernization and industrialization of Paris could have isolated people in the 19th century, and particularly analyzed Caillebotte's painting Pont de l'Europe (1876, see right). My students and I looked at Caillebotte's biography, using some of the research done by my friend and colleague Breanne Gilroy. One thing Gilroy mentions is that Caillebotte experienced a sense of isolation during his lifetime, particularly since the artist's father, brother, and mother all died within a period of four years.¹

Anyhow, I thought that my student's question regarding Edward Hopper was especially interesting in this context, since Hopper's paintings also can tie into themes of isolation and loneliness. One can especially get a sense of isolation in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks (1942) and Gas Station (1940). Caillebotte and Hopper are also similar in other ways as well: they both have an interest in depicting contemporary subject matter, both use comparatively muted color palates, and both favor compositions with large, flat areas of color.

Although I didn't find too many people who discuss a similarity between the two artists, I did come across a few things. First of all, Time blogger Richard Lacayo noted that he saw a similarity between the compositions of Caillebotte's Paris Street, Rainy Day (1877) and Hopper's New York Movie (1939). Lacayo also noted a essay by Judith A. Barter in the catalog Edward Hopper.

Although I haven't seen a copy of Barter's essay, this evening I was able to listen to a podcast in which Barter discusses more of Hopper's life. Barter mentions that Hopper went to France three times between the years 1906-1910. While there, Hopper viewed and studied the art of many Impressionist painters, and I think it's very likely that Hopper was familiar with the work of Caillebotte. Although Baxter doesn't cite Caillebotte as a direct influence, she does mention a similarity between Caillebotte's Paris Street, Rainy Day and Hopper's Nighthawks (side note: it isn't surprising that she chose these two paintings for comparison, since they are both part of the Art Institute of Chicago collection - the museum where Baxter works as a curator!). Here is a transcript from the podcast:

"Hopper’s...viewer witnesses the street corner and figures in Nighthawks in much the same way that Gustave Caillebotte saw the boulevard section in Paris Street, Rainy Day…But there is an important difference: unlike Caillebotte’s pedestrian, who is part of the moving traffic of the street, Hopper’s observers are further distanced and stand outside the vision of the figures that the artist paints. Hopper eliminates all pedestrians, removing the observer from the observed. This is the core of his city subjects: the experience of watching unobserved."²

What do others think? Can you think of more similarities between the work of Caillebotte and the work of Hopper? Do you know of any other art historians who have published on this topic?

1 Breanne Gilroy, "Mourning and Melancholy in the Work of Gustave Caillebotte," (Unpublished), 2006. Gilroy mentions how Caillebotte's father died in 1874, his brother René died in 1876, and his mother died in 1878. Gilroy also cites an article by Kirk Vardenoe, "Gustave Caillebotte in Context" in Arts Magazine 9 (May 1976): 94-99.

2 Judith A. Baxter, "Transcending Reality: Edward Hopper's Nighthawks," public lecture delivered 28 February 2010. Podcast of lecture is available here.

Christmas During the Civil War

Over the past few days I've been reading about the history of Christmas in America. (For a brief introduction on the subject, I suggest you read the preface of William B. Wait's book, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving). It has been most surprising for me to discover that Christmas wasn't widely celebrated until about the mid-19th century. I didn't realize that the celebration of Christmas was such a recent phenomenon in American history. Of course, I already guessed that the Puritans didn't celebrate Christmas, so I wasn't surprised to learn that the holiday was outlawed between 1659 and 1681. But it appears that Americans still resisted Christmas in the 18th century, partially because it was a way for rebellious American patriots to set themselves apart from an English/European tradition.

In the 19th century, Christmas began to be celebrated more regularly. I've been particularly interested in different historical arguments regarding how Americans perceived Christmas during the Civil War (1861-1865). For example, Penne L. Restad argues that around the time of the Civil War, Americans looked toward the Christmas holiday as an "idealized domestic haven that was neither northern nor southern in its origins or biases."¹

On the other hand, it has also been argued that Americans also were divided on the subject of Christmas. Southerners tended to celebrate the Christmas as part of the social season, whereas Northerners saw more sin in the celebration of the holiday.² Although these two arguments by historians seem a little contradictory, I think that they can coexist. Perhaps the idea of Christmas both unified Americans (with its promise of peace and tranquility) and also divided Americans (in the way that the holiday should be observed).

The division of Civil War era Americans regarding Christmas is especially interesting to me when considering Thomas Nast's drawings for Harper's Magazine. Nast made several images of Santa Claus during the 1860s, including a picture of Santa delivering presents to Union soldiers (see image above, which is from the January 3, 1863 cover of Harper's Magazine).  Some argue that this drawing functioned as a type of psychological warfare against the Confederate Army, since Santa Claus was showing favor to Union soldiers (when Southerners were the ones who tended to celebrate the Christmas holiday).

I think that the drawing is particularly interesting. Santa is dressed in a suit with stripes and stars, which looks very similar to the Union flag. He is handing out gifts which would have been important to soldiers, such as a pair of socks. Interestingly, Santa is holding out a puppet that looks very much like Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate South. Santa is pulling on the puppet string, which makes it look like Santa is lynching Jefferson Davis! (Who knew that Santa could be so violent?) I think that the inclusion of lynching is an especially interesting comment on anti-slavery, don't you think?

It's interesting to think about how Christmas is a cultural construct, especially within a relatively young country like America. If you live outside the United States, what is the history of Christmas in your country? Are you aware of early representations of Christmas in your respective country or area? Or, if you are American, what representations of Christmas do you like?

1 Penne L. Restad, Christmas in America: A History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 98. Citation is available online here.

2 Although not within the Civil War context, William B. Wait also discusses how the Northerners were suspicious of the Christmas revelry, whereas the Southerners embraced the celebration. See William B. Wait, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving (New York: New York University Press, 1994), xv-xvi. Citation is available online here.

Art History Bloggers as "Les Indépendents"

I've been thinking about art history blogging lately, partially because I got to read so many art history posts for this month's issue of the Art History Carnival. Really, though, I've been thinking about blogging ever since reading Alexandra Korey's interview on Three Pipe Problem. Alex discusses how blogging can be seen as a waste of time and a "not serious" endeavor in the eyes of other academics. I can see how one could have this perspective, especially for those who are in tenure-track positions who feel the pressure to "publish [in print] or perish." (Although one begs the question: isn't print perishing?)

As I've been mulling over these thoughts, I've begun to see some parallels between art history bloggers and the French avant-garde artists of the 19th century. Art history bloggers have decided to showcase their work in a forum different from the traditional publishing method in academia (i.e. print journals or academic textbooks). Really, one could argue that we have set up our own "Salon des Indépendents" online, similar to what 19th century artists did to break away from the artistic salon established by the Academy.

We could even make further parallels between blogging and 19th century art (particularly Impressionism). Since (most) blog posts are very short and succinct in nature, they differ from the fleshed-out topics that are examined in academic print. The physical size of blogging posts can be compared with the canvases that some Impressionists used. For example, Monet was interested in non-standard canvas shapes (such as the square), which were rarely used outside of avant-garde circles.¹

The informal writing style of blogs can parallel the choppy, short brushstrokes of Impressionist painters like Monet (see Impression: Sunrise, 1872 above). Maybe that's why our work seems less appealing to those in academia: blogs seem unfinished and unrefined (perhaps just a mere impression of scholarship?). I also think that an informal writing style could compare with the color schemes found in some Impressionist paintings: lighter, pastel colors could be interpreted as less formal (or weighty) than rich, saturated colors.

We can even draw parallels between plein air painting and blogging in a virtual world. In both instances, the artist/writer needs to be immersed in a specific type of environment.

So, what am I saying? Am I predicting that blogging is going to rise up as an avant-garde movement to overthrow the academic publishing convention? Hardly. I don't feel like I can be that prophetic. But it is interesting to think about how art history often values the "underdog" movements in retrospect. Even though the Indépendents/Impressionists were mocked at the time, they ended up being an extremely influential and important art movement over the course of history. And I think it's safe to say that we, as bloggers, are also involved in a really great thing.

1 Anthea Callen, The Art of Impressionism: Painting Technique & The Making of Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 21. Available online here.

Henry "Box" Brown's Moving Panorama

Have you ever picked up a book and pleasantly discovered that the reading was more interesting than you anticipated? I recently read The Unboxing of Henry Brown by Jeffrey Ruggles, and I ended up feeling that way. I'm very interested in issues of slavery/antislavery in the United States (and elsewhere), and for a long time I've wanted to learn more about Henry "Box" Brown. I didn't anticipate reading about art history when I picked up this book, though, but was excited to find a lot of discussion about the moving panorama, a popular form of art (and entertainment) in the mid-19th century.

Before reading this book, the only thing I knew about Brown was his escape from slavery: he climbed into a box and shipped himself from Virginia (a "slave" state) to Philadelphia (a "free" state). Various images of Brown's "resurrection" from his box (the one above is from Boston, 1850 (unsigned)) were used by abolitionists. One art historian commented that these images of the unboxing were "perhaps the most potent single metaphor [that abolitionists used] for the displacement of the traditional image of the 'runaway' slave in popular imagination."¹

The thing that surprised me most about this book, though, was to learn how Brown decided to earn a living after escaping from slavery. Brown commissioned a moving panorama to be painted, which he titled Mirror of Slavery.²  Moving panoramas consisted of huge canvases (sewn together) which were displayed on a type of vertical spool. The paintings could then be scrolled in front of an audience, revealing a sequence of scenes. In some ways, the moving panorama was the predecessor to the slide show.  (If you like, you can get a sense of the moving panorama idea by watching the beginning of this scene from the film "Letter from an Unknown Woman," 1948).  During the middle of the 19th century, the moving panorama was an extremely popular form of entertainment. It's sad that few moving panoramas exist today. Those that do exist are never shown in their original format, either, largely due to conservation issues.

A good portion of Ruggles' book discusses the history of the moving panorama (as a type of art) and the scenes which appeared on Mirror of Slavery. Although Mirror of Slavery doesn't exist today, it was interesting to learn about the subject matter for the scenes. We also have a basic idea of the composition for some of the Mirror of Slavery scenes too, since it's obvious that Mirror of Slavery found inspiration in the illustrations for the Charles Green's book The Nubian Slave. Ruggles book is replete with lots of images that may have resembled the scenes from Mirror of Slavery.

Anyhow, for several years Brown traveled around the United States and England, giving presentations and lectures while exhibiting his moving panorama. I have to admit - while I was very interested to learn about Brown's life, I found it even more fascinating to learn more about the moving panorama. Although I was familiar with the idea of the moving panorama before, I didn't realize that such an artistic device helped to aid the antislavery movement.³

1 Marcus Wood, Blind Memory: Visual Representations of Slavery in England and America, 1780-1865 (Manchester, England: 2000), 103. (See text online here.)

2 Henry "Box" Brown's moving panorama was painted by three painters from Boston, with the primary artist probably being Josiah Wollcott. The other artists are described in an 1850 newspaper from Liverpool as "Rouse and Johnson." Ruggles suggests that these artists might have been Samuel Worcester Rowse and David Claypoole Johnston. See Ruggles, p. 75.

3 Henry "Box" Brown was not the only person to use the moving panorama to discuss slavery. Ruggles mentions a couple of others who also produced moving panoramas, including the black abolitionist William Wells Brown. See Ruggles, p. 72.

"La Bella Principessa" by Von Carolsfeld?

My longstanding readers may remember a short post that I did last year, expressing reservations that the painting nicknamed "La Bella Principessa" (shown left) was a work by Leonardo da Vinci. (You may recall that a fingerprinting method was used to attribute this painting to Leonardo.)  I question this attribution for a couple of reasons, including the fact that this painting was done on vellum, a medium which Leonardo never used. I'm not the only art historian or curator with reservations about this attribution, and now people are coming forward to suggest who the actual artist might be.

I just read this news release about a new attribution: Fred R. Kline (an independent scholar) has come forward to suggest that the actual artist is Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, a lesser-known 19th century artist who belonged to the Nazarene Brotherhood in Germany. Kline's argument is supported by a sketch called "Half-Nude Female" (shown below) which Klein discovered in the State Art Museum in Mannheim, Germany. Not only was this sketch created on vellum (just like "La Bella Principessa"), the model and braided hair are quite similar. Kline thinks that "La Bella Principessa" could have been a gift from Von Carolsfeld to this model.

This is a really interesting idea, and I congratulate Klein on his sleuthing. If this painting is by Von Carolsfeld, "La Bella Principessa" would be one of the best paintings that he ever created. I'm not familiar with all of Von Carolsfeld's work, but I haven't been terribly impressed with the paintings that I have seen.¹ I do really like Von Carolsfeld's sketches, though (for example, his sketches Seated Boy Playing a Pipe (1818) and Portrait of Victor Emil Jansen (n.d.) are very good). In my opinion, Von Carolsfeld was a much better draftsman than a painter, and I kind-of doubt he could create as fine of a painting as "La Bella Principessa."  Even though Von Carolsfeld's Klara Bianka von Quandt (1820) is an alright painting (despite the fact that the lute looks like it's been cut-and-pasted into the model's hands - sorry, I couldn't help myself), it lacks the sfumato and modeling that gives the Principessa's image a sense of depth and richness.

So, there you have it. We may have found a possible artist for "La Bella Principessa," but (yet again!) I'm still not quite sure. I wonder, though, if "La Bella Principessa" might have been painted by another person associated with Nazarene Brotherhood. Perhaps someone who used the same model as Von Carolsfeld's "Half-Nude Female" sketch, but also had more talent as a painter?  Does anyone know any information about Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld (Julius' older brother)? I know that he was a painter too, but so far I can only find information about Julius' son, who was given the same name.

1 Let me explain some of my reasoning. I think a lot of Von Carolsfeld's painted figures seem a little too static. Consider The Family of John the Baptist Visiting Christ (1817), where the Christ child is awkwardly spread out like a lifeless doll. Or look at The Annunciation (1818): it seems strange that the Gabriel's drapery is flowing behind him (suggesting movement), when the angel appears absolutely frozen in its stance. I realize that "La Bella Principessa" doesn't allow for much comparative analysis in terms pose (since it is a bust portrait), but I still think that the face and upper figure of the "Principessa" seem much more relaxed and natural than any of the Von Carolsfeld paintings which I have seen.

"The Kiss" and the 1889 Exposition

Did you know that a version of Rodin's The Kiss (1888-89, shown right) was slated to be shown in the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris? The marble sculpture wasn't finished in time (largely due to the serious illness of an assistant), which I think is really unfortunate. The Eiffel Tower was also constructed for the exhibition that year, which obviously ended up being the highlight of the world fair event. I wonder how The Kiss would have been received by the public, in comparison to the popular Eiffel Tower. Would people at the fair have loved it as well? (And what would Gauguin have said about it? Ha ha!)

I like to think about why this sculpture might have been chosen for the 1889 exhibition. What is it about this sculpture that would have been perceived as typically "French?" Obviously not the literal subject matter, since it was inspired by Dante's Inferno. Perhaps the passion and love embodied in the piece appealed to the French culture? I think it's likely that this sculpture was selected for both its artistic nod towards Classicism, and also its blatant disregard for proportions and perfection. This sculpture is indeed modern and innovative in that sense, and it definitely would have communicated that idea of French modernity to those who visited the fair.

Why do you think that the French might have wanted this sculpture in the 1889 Exposition Universelle? Why do you like (or dislike - *gasp!*) this sculpture?


The Kiss is one of the featured works of art in "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" BBC series. The episode of The Kiss is quite interesting, since it gives background on the copy of the The Kiss that now belongs to the Tate Modern. I didn't realize that the Tate sculpture had spent time being 1) hidden under a tarpaulin (due to its scandalous subject matter) and 2) stored in a carriage house and placed under bales of hay or straw! 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.

What the Palette Has to Say

A friend recently sent me a link to this Telegraph article, which discusses the palettes of several French painters from the 19th century. It's a really interesting article, and it's fun to see the how the methodology, artistic style, personality of an artist is revealed in his/her palette. Here are two examples from the article that I thought were especially interesting:

Seurat's palette for La Grande Jatte (1884) was heavily ordered by Chevruel's color theory (which was popular among Impressionist painters at the time). Look at how Seurat kept the colors on his palette rigidly organized.

Delacroix's palette is especially interesting to me. I've never thought of Delacroix as being an extremely meticulous person, but look at how he orders and arranges his palette. In a way, this orderly arrangement reminds me of how Delacroix was extremely concerned with the composition of his paintings. I've always been struck with how the triangular composition of Liberty Leading the People (1830) is very well-considered, especially when examining the different gestures and lines that form the triangle.

Which artist's palette do you like best? (Note: There are several other images of palettes in the article, not just these two.) What part of the article did you find most interesting?

The $12 Million Stuffed Shark

When I worked in the museum industry several years ago, one of my bosses was heavily involved in the art auction business (in addition to his responsibilities at our museum). This boss worked as an on-call consultant for a major auction house, and would often tell me stories about the dog-eat-dog attitude within the art market. I remember one story that involved an auctioneer who fell into a coughing fit at the climax of one lot sale, but it quickly became apparent that he was stalling for time: there was an agent on the phone who was working to secure a higher bid for the painting.

Anyhow, I think that listening to these stories piqued my interest in the art market, which is why I wanted to read Don Thompson's book, The $12 Million Stuffed Shark: The Curious Economics of Contemporary Art. The book discusses the everything you wanted to know about the art market: auction houses, prices for art, art as an investment, galleries and dealers, etc.

I thought the first few chapters of this book was really fascinating. Thompson related some interesting anecdotes about contemporary artists and art sales, including an interesting story about Damien Hirst's The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991). Thompson relates how the original shark in Hirst's tank was not preserved properly, and by the time the work of art went for sale, the shark was not in good condition: one of the fins had fallen off and the skin had become green and wrinkly. Worse still, the formaldehyde had become rather murky. Nonetheless, the deteriorated shark and tank sold for $12 million! (Hirst later agreed to replace the original shark with a new one.)¹

I have to admit, though, the middle of the book was rather uninteresting. Thompson focused a lot of auction prices and technicalities. I think this information would be very useful to anyone who is interested in buying or selling art, but it wasn't very compelling from a historical standpoint. Perhaps I shouldn't have set my expectations too high - I knew that Thompson was an economist (and not an art historian) when I started to read the book.

The ending of the book completely redeemed itself, though. Thompson devoted a whole chapter to how art crime (especially forgeries) affect the art market. One interesting story was from May 2000, when Christie's and Sotheby's realized that their most recent auction catalogs were offering the exact same painting for sale, Gauguin's Vase de Fleurs (Lilas), 1885.

Obviously, one of the paintings had to be a fake. The auction houses showed the works to a specialist, and it was later determined that Christie's was selling the copy. The FBI ended up getting involved and a complex art scandal was unearthed that involved Ely Sakhai, the owner of the original Gauguin painting.

Anyhow, I don't know if I'll read this book again, but I think it is a good resource for the art world. I'd recommend this book to anyone who is seriously interested in buying or selling contemporary art.

This is my last book for heidenkind's Art History Challenge.

1 Don Thompson, The $12 Million Stuffed Shark: The Curious Economics of Contemporary Art (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 2, 63.

The Private Lives of the Impressionists

Heidenkind's Art History Challenge ends this week, and I am finishing up the last two books that I selected for the challenge. This morning I finished Sue Roe's The Private Lives of the Impressionists, which I have been trying to read for several months. It's not that Roe's book is boring or bothersome - but it wasn't compelling enough for me to read in a single sitting. Ironically, I wonder if the book wasn't amazingly compelling because I'm an art historian. I wasn't waiting on edge, wondering what was going to happen to the Impressionists, because more-or-less I already knew.

The book is dedicated to the personal and professional lives of several Impressionist artists: Manet, Monet, Pissarro, Cezanne, Renoir, Degas, Sisley, Morisot, and Cassatt. Roe's writing style is very informed, but also lively and engaging. I thought that she gave fairly equal treatment to all of the artists mentioned, with the exception of Alfred Sisley, who didn't receive a lot of discussion (which I would expect, since he's not very well-known).

One of my favorite things that I learned from the book was that Degas traveled to New Orleans. He delayed his return to Paris for three months so that he could paint this picture of a cotton office:

Degas, Cotton Merchants in New Orleans, 1873

I think this might be my new favorite work by Degas. It's fun and interesting subject matter, and I love the white, fluffy cotton.

Overall, Roe's book was pretty good. It's not the most compelling thing that I have ever read, but it was interesting to learn more about the personal lives of the Impressionists. I'd recommend this book to anyone who wants to learn more about the Impressionists, but I do think it would be easier for the reader to be somewhat informed about Impressionism before reading Roe's book.

Have you read The Private Lives of the Impressionists? Did you like it?

Morisot and Manet

It has taken me forever to work through Sue Roe's The Private Lives of the Impressionists, and I'm still not quite finished. I've had various obligations and nonrenewable library books that have consumed my time over the past three months. Hence, Private Lives has had to sit on my nightstand for quite awhile. I'm really interested in the subject matter, though, and hope to finish the book soon.

Anyhow, I have read far enough in the book to learn more about the relationship between Manet and Berthe Morisot, a female Impressionist painter. Morisot posed in several of Manet's portraits, and it is often thought that the two were romantically interested in each other (although Manet was already married and Morisot eventually became engaged to Manet's brother). Manet's painting on the left, The Balcony (1868-69) was the first painting for which Morisot posed (she is seated in the foreground). Since I am interested in this Manet/Morisot relationship, I was excited to see that today heidenkind mentioned an interesting article on this topic (see her fun post which "interviews" Manet).

The article, "Unmasking Manet's Morisot" by Marni R. Kessler visually analyzes portraits of Morisot by Manet. Kessler points out that the "crucial significance of Manet's depictions of Morisot lies in...continual shifting identity: [Morisot] looks different from canvas to canvas."¹ It is especially interesting to see how Morisot's portraits morph over time, especially as Morisot's relationship progressed with Manet's brother. Morisot's features continually become harsher in the paintings, and she is depicted with increasingly violent brushstrokes. Take a look at these following paintings, which are posted chronologically:

Manet, Le Repos (Portrait of Berthe Morisot), 1870

Manet, Berthe Morisot with a Bouquet of Flowers, 1872

Manet, Berthe Morisot with a Fan, 1872

Manet, Berthe Morisot with a Veil, 1872

Manet paints this veil so that it simultanously reflects lace, a skull, and even a beard.² Not a very flattering portrait, is it?

Manet, Berthe Morisot in a Mourning Hat, 1874

This painting was created shortly after Morisot's father died. Also, by this time, Morisot was engaged to Manet's brother. Not surprisingly, Manet abruptly stopped painting Morisot after her marriage.

Pretty interesting, huh? It seems that the depictions of Morisot don't reflect changes in her actual appearance too, since she also painted self-portraits at the time. Instead, one can visualize Manet's frustration and sense of loss as Morisot becomes engaged to Manet's brother. I would really recommend that you read Kessler's detailed analysis of these paintings - they are quite fascinating.

This article explores a lot of other interesting ideas, such as Kessler's argument that a sense of artistic rivalry is manifest in these same portraits: interestingly, Manet never chose to depict Morisot in the act of painting. Instead of a reference to her accomplishments as a painter, all of these portraits emphasize Morisot's gender and femininity in one way or another.³

Anyhow, this is an interesting article, and I wholeheartedly recommend it.

1 Marni R. Kessler, "Unmasking Manet's Morisot," The Art Bulletin 81, no 3 (September 1999): 475.
2 Ibid., 482.
3 Ibid., 477-478.

Turner Painting to be Sold!

J. M. W. Turner, Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino, 1839

This July, Turner's painting Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino (1839, shown above) will appear on auction at Sotheby's in London.  This auction news has attracted quite a bit of attention as of late - and for good reason.  First of all, this painting is absolutely stunning (don't you agree?).  Second, this is the last painting of Rome that Turner ever made.  Turner traveled to Italy multiple times in his life, and even exhibited a small group of his work in Rome. Therefore, this last painting of Rome is historically important in regards to Turner's career.  And finally, this upcoming auction is significant because this painting has only been on the market one other time, back in 1878.  Sotheby's projects that the work to reach somewhere between $18 million and $27 million in the upcoming auction. 

I sure wish I had that kind of cash lying around.  I can only hope that this work will be purchased by a museum (or bought by a collector who permanently lends the painting to a museum).  It is such a beautiful painting and so representative of Turner's interests in light and color - it doesn't seem right for the canvas to end up in a private collection.  I think lots of people should have the chance to enjoy this painting.

For more links and commentary on the auction, see here (Art History Today), here (The History Blog), and here (New York Times article).

P.S.  I discovered the Art History Today blog this past week.  It's really interesting and I highly recommend it.

Van Gogh News!

What immediately comes to your mind when you think of paintings by Van Gogh? Sunflowers? Starry nights? Creepy self portraits with bandages that cover up a mutilated ear? Well, my friends, it looks like you can add new subject matter to Van Gogh's oeuvre: a windmill and tricoleur flag. This painting on the right, Le Blute-Fin Mill (1886) was recently authenticated as a Van Gogh painting. Honestly, I never would have considered this to be by Van Gogh, mostly because of the human figures: not only are the uncharacteristically large, but there are a lot more bodies than you normally see in Van Gogh's work. But I really like the use of color, and that does remind me of Van Gogh. I especially like the red highlights of the woman's dress in the foreground. What do you think? Do you like this painting?

This authentication is pretty exciting - Le Blute-Fin Mill is the first Van Gogh to be authenticated since 1995. However, admittedly, the painting has long been disputed as by Van Gogh - an eccentric art collector bought the painting and always claimed it to be by the master, but no one took the collector seriously. You can read more about the story and authentication here.

In other Van Gogh news, the famous The Night Cafe (1888, shown left) is involved in a dispute regarding ownership. This painting has hung for almost fifty years in the Yale University Art Gallery, but now Pierre Konowaloff, the great-grandson of the previous owner, is trying to claim the painting back. It seems like a pretty sticky situation: Konowaloff's great-grandfather bought the painting in 1908, but it was subsequently nationalized and sold by the Soviet government during the Russian Revolution. Therefore, Konowaloff believes that the painting classifies as "stolen" and feels justified in claiming it back.

I personally don't think that Konowaloff has a very good chance of getting The Night Cafe back, but what do other people think?

Equality Leading the People

Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People, 1831

Last night I was reading a little bit of Théophile Thoré's review of the 1848 Salon exhibition. The year 1848 was a very important year in European history. It was the year that Marx's Communist Manifesto was published, and the year that socialist revolutions broke out all over Europe. Thoré was commenting on the contemporary political sentiment and fervor, and implied that similar political fervor is found in Liberty Leading the People (a painting by Delacroix that was made earlier, around the time of the national French revolution in 1830). Thoré wrote, "It is said that [Delacroix] has just begun an Equality Leading the People, for our recent revolution is the true sister of that national one to which he paid homage eighteen years ago. . . . One can only hope that Delacroix makes haste, and that both paintings will soon be on display, hanging side by side."¹

From what I can tell, Delacroix never made Equality Leading the People, and Thoré may have been discussing only hearsay. Nonetheless, this got me thinking. What type of figure would Delacroix have picked to represent Equality? Given the context of the 1848 socialist revolutions, I'm guessing that he would have picked some type of proletarian (member of the working class).

I think that Equality Leading the People would have contained an interesting idea that is still relevant with current issues. What if Equality Leading the People was being painted today? What figure would you pick to represent Equality? My first thought was Martin Luther King, Jr. or Rosa Parks. What person (or generalized type of figure) would you choose?

1 Théophile Thoré, "Salon of 1848" in Art in Theory: 1815-1900, edited by Charles Harrison, Paul Wood and Jason Gaiger, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, Ltd., 1998), 181. (Is available online here).

Loggia dei Lanzi and Subjugation

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

Giambologna, Rape of a Sabine, 1581-83

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

Pio Fedi, Rape of Polyxana, 1866

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

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

I really recommend that you read Even's article.

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

2 Ibid.

Banksy + Degas = Simon Cowell

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

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

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

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

"Déjeuner sur L'Herbe" by Monet (NOT Manet)

I'm preparing a lecture on the Impressionists, and I've been completely distracted by Monet's Déjeuner sur L'Herbe ("Luncheon on the Grass"). Yes - that's not a typo. I meant to write "Monet," not "Manet."

Maybe you're saying "What?" just like I did fifteen minutes ago. Don't get too bewildered: Manet DID a very seminal painting that is called Le Déjeuner sur L'Herbe (1863). And Manet's painting is infinitely more well-known than Monet's early work with the same title. But allow me to bring Monet's painting out of obscurity:

Monet, Le Déjeuner Sur L'Herbe, 1865-66

It's interesting to see a painting by Monet that includes human figures. (You can see a figure study for this painting here.) I'm so used to seeing Monet paintings with haystacks and Rouen Cathedrals and water lilies and train stations - it's so nice to see something different. You also might have noticed that this painting was made just about two years after Manet completed his painting with the same title. A coincidence? Definitely not. There's no question that Monet was influenced by Manet.

Other painters were also influenced by Manet's 1863 painting. Cezanne did his own picnicking painting with the same title, and Picasso did several versions that were directly inspired by Manet. In fact, the Musee d'Orsay did an exhibition (which ended in February 2009) that revolved around Picasso's variations of Manet's Le Déjeuner sur L'Herbe. Here's one Picasso example:

Picasso, Le Déjeuner sur L'Herbe after Manet, 27 February 1960

So, what do you think? Did you know that Monet painted a Déjeuner sur L'Herbe? (I really hope that I'm not the only one who was unaware of that fact.) Which version of the subject matter do you like the best?