Loggia dei Lanzi and Subjugation

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

Giambologna, Rape of a Sabine, 1581-83

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

Pio Fedi, Rape of Polyxana, 1866

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

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

I really recommend that you read Even's article.

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

2 Ibid.

Things Spotted by Students

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perseus = Bronze + Pewter Tableware

The first time I heard about Cellini was not in an art history lecture, but while watching How to Steal a Million (1966, starring Audrey Hepburn and Peter O'Toole). Even though there really isn't a Venus sculpture by Cellini, this film is really fun - especially if you like stories about art crime and forgery.

I recently was reading more about Cellini, and came across an interesting fact about his Perseus statue (1545-54, shown left). Perseus was intended to be placed in the same location as other major statues, specifically ones by Michelangelo and Donatello. Cellini undoubtedly felt pressure to compete with the skill of these canonical artists. Consequently, Cellini made the figures and design of this statue extremely complex (which is so typical for Mannerist art, don't you think?), and it seemed unlikely that the work could be cast in a single piece. However, Cellini prevailed in creating a near-perfect cast, even though he almost burned down his studio in the process. My favorite thing about this story, though, is that Cellini was forced to throw pewter tableware into his furnace as an emergency precaution (in order to increase the liquidity of the molten metal)!¹

Technically, I guess the media listing for this statue should be: "Pewter [tableware] and bronze on marble base."

You can read Cellini's dramatic account of casting Perseus here.

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist, (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 99.

The Answer is: Giulio Romano

I had another art history dream the other night. I dreamed that I went to go visit my the AP art history teacher from my old high school. She was a really fantastic teacher and really influenced my decision to study art history. In my dream, I wanted to prove to Mrs. W that I had learned a lot from my art history training and schooling, so I went to go visit her class. However, I arrived on a day that an exam was scheduled. Mrs. W had set up the test so that we would travel to her house and then give a stylistic analysis of the house's architectural features. When we arrived, I realized that Mrs. W expected me to take the exam too. The facade of her dilapidated house was a mumbo-jumbo amalgamation of a bigillion different architectural features.

I started the exam feeling pretty confident, because I saw a whole bunch of connections and references to famous pieces of architecture. And then I noticed some architectural feature which related to the Palazzo del Té (Mantua, Italy; 1525-1535, shown here). I wrote that down, but then panicked and realized that I couldn't remember the architect's name.

What is it?
What is it?

Aaaah! I died of embarrassment, knowing that Mrs. W would find out that I couldn't remember something that she expected her AP students to know. Luckily, I woke up before we finished taking the exam. Phew!

When I woke up, I still couldn't remember the name and had to look it up. But I'm sure that I won't forget it now. The answer is Giulio Romano.

The Palazzo del Té dates from the Mannerist period in art. In this period, it was the style for figures in painting and sculpture to be elongated, twisted in physically impossible poses, depicted with unnatural colors, etc. The key idea surrounding Mannerism is that art is artifice - and for that reason, it's okay to make things look like they are not "natural." This nonsensical (and sometimes strange) style spread into architecture too, as shown in the design of the Palazzo del Té.

My favorite things about the Palazzo del Té are the ridiculously large keystones. They look really unsettled and seem like they are going to slip out from their position. Furthermore, many keystones are placed over rectangular niches (which is ridiculous, since keystones are used to help hold an arch in place, not a rectangle). I also like the impressively large Tuscan columns, that end up supporting an itty-bitty architrave. (And the architrave itself is broken into different sections, as if the triglyphs above are going to push chunks of architrave off of the structure.) He hee! It's a little silly. And I like it.

So, thanks for making this fun piece of architecture, Giulio Romano. I promise not to forget your name again.