Strawberries as an "Earthly Delight"

I've been thinking about Hieronymous Bosch and The Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1510-1515) quite a bit this week. In fact, this afternoon I sat down to write a post about how Bosch's "tree-man" (located in the center of the panel which depicts Hell) is believed by some to be a self-portrait of the artist.¹ But, I'm not going to write on that. At least not right now.

Instead, I've become pleasantly distracted by Walter S. Gibson's article, "The Strawberries of Hieronymous Bosch." These strawberries appear all over the central panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights altarpiece (see details on right and below). Gibson notes that Bosch's strawberries garnered attention from viewers very early on. In fact, in 1593 an inventory for some of Philip II's pictures mentions that the altarpiece had earned the nickname the Madroño (or "the Strawberry").² Twelve years later a librarian at El Escorial, Philip's monastery-palace, explained that the panel is "of the vanity and glory and the passing taste of strawberries or the strawberry plant and its pleasant odor that is hardly remembered once it has passed."³ This librarian, named Fray José de Sigüenza, felt that the strawberry was the most important feature of Bosch's garden, and was the fruit was a symbol of the ephemeral, transient nature of earthly pleasures.

Many symbolic interpretations for the strawberries have been put forward, and most of them have negative connotations.⁴ For example,  strawberries have multiple seeds, which could hint at promiscuity.⁵ The other fruit included in the central panel (such as the big raspberries) could also be associated with promiscuity for this same reason.

Gibson suggests that the strawberry imagery might connected to a text by Virgil (which probably would have been familiar to Bosch and Hendrik III because Virgil's passage is referenced in Roman de la Rose, a popular poem in the Burgundian court). In this text, Virgil warns children to not gather strawberries, because "the cold, evil serpent" is hiding the grass nearby. It seems to me that Bosch's strawberries could serve as an indirect reference to a serpent (and, by extension, the Fall and sin). Such associations fit well with the imagery for The Garden of Earthly Delights, don't you think? That being said, I also think that there isn't just one specific symbolic meaning for these strawberries. Since this altarpiece undoubtedly served as a focus for intellectual discussion, it is appropriate that Bosch used imagery that was replete with symbolic associations.

Do you know of any other interpretations for the strawberries in this altarpiece? Do you know of any works of art which also include strawberries for symbolic reasons? On a fun side note, I found an amusing comparison between Katy Perry and Bosch's fruit here. No doubt that Perry would view Bosch's strawberries as a symbol of sexuality!

1 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 327.

2 Walter S. Gibson, "The Strawberries of Hieronymous Bosch," in Cleveland Studies in the History of Art 8 (2003): 25.

3 Ibid.

4 There are some positive interpretations of the strawberry which exist. In fact, Gibson points out that the strawberry was seen a medieval symbol of the Virgin. Such exalted associations with the fruit have led a handful of individuals to interpret Bosch's central panel as a scene of transcendent bliss and spiritual love. For a brief synopsis of these interpretations, see Gibson, 26-27. 

5 Wilkins, 326.

Bruegel's Dead Men

On Wednesday I had a student point out something in a painting that I had never noticed before (I love it when this happens!). We were discussing Pieter Bruegel the Elder's The Fall of Icarus (c. 1558, shown left), and I was mentioning how this painting's subject matter appears to be influenced by several different literary sources. For one thing, Bruegel's depiction of the scene follows the Icarus story described in Ovid's Metamorphosis, which mentions a fisherman, peasant at his plough, and a shepherd.¹

Given that Bruegel was strongly influenced by oral tradition, it also seems likely that this painting refers to the popular proverb, "No plough stops for the dying man." Up until Wednesday, I have always thought that Icarus was the "dying man" shown in the painting (notice Icarus' flailing legs as he falls into the sea). However, it looks like Bruegel included two dying (or dead!) men in this scene, perhaps to really emphasize this popular proverb.

If you look closely on the left side of the painting, you'll notice a white dot on the left side of the plowed field, slightly above the donkey's ears. There, in the bushes, is a corpse. Check it out:

Crazy, huh? After noticing this corpse, I decided to do a little research and find out what scholars had say on this topic. Lyncle de Vries discusses how the inclusion of this corpse emphasizes a message about brevity of life.² This interpretation makes sense, and ties into my idea that Bruegel wanted to reference the popular proverb that I mentioned earlier.

I also am interested in an idea that was discussed by Robert Baldwin. He mentions how the corpse and sword (which is placed in the foreground of the painting, on the right side of the canvas (see detail on left)) is an allusion to the Christ as the "Prince of Peace." These two details may reference the biblical prophecy regarding the beating of "swords into plowshares." Baldwin points out that similar Netherlandish imagery existed that contrasts the soldiers of death (perhaps referenced here by the corpse) and the plowman of life.³

Another interesting argument is proposed by Karsten Harries, a philosopher. Harries sees this scene as an allusion to the biblical story of Cain and Abel. Cain, who was a "tiller of the ground," murders his brother Abel, a shepherd. Not only could Abel's body be depicted in the bushes, but Harries posits that the shepherd in the middleground might also represent Abel.⁴

Which interpretation do you like? I think that several (if not all) of these interpretations can coexist; Bruegel appears to have wanted this painting to have multiple references. Are you familiar with any other interpretations for Bruegel's corpse in the bushes? It's too bad the Bruegel didn't leave any writings for historians to reference; it would be nice to know his thoughts on the matter. Unfortunately, we're left on our own to interpret this painting, since "dead men tell no tales."

1 Kim Woods, "Pieter Bruegel the Elder and the Northern Canon," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 181-82.

2 Lyncle de Vries, "Bruegel's Fall of Icarus: Ovid or Solomon?" Simiolus 30, no. 1/2 (2003): 17.

3 Robert Baldwin, "Peasant Imagery and Bruegel's Fall of Icarus," in Konsthistorisk Tidskrift, LV, 3, (1986): 101-114. Citation available online here.

4 Karsten Harries, Infinity and Perspective (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002), 101. Citation available online here.

"Stealing the Mystic Lamb": A Review

This past weekend I finally finished reading art historian Noah Charney's book Stealing the Mystic Lamb: The True Story of the World's Most Coveted Masterpiece. I've wanted to read this book for a long time, and I finally got my hands on a copy over a month ago. It took me several weeks to read this book, not because it was boring, but because I kept pausing to type notes on my computer. And now, with eighteen pages of notes in my computer files, I have finally finished the book. Phew!

This book recounts the troubled (and bizarre!) history of the Ghent Altarpiece by Jan van Eyck. Specifically, Charney deals with the many crimes (particularly thefts and attempted thefts) of this famous altarpiece from the Northern Renaissance. Historically, this work of art has been stolen and "coveted" more than any other work of art. I was particularly interested in how much of the altarpiece ended up in France during the Napoleonic era. During this time, the panels were put on display at the Louvre. The panels were undoubtedly seen in the Louvre by the artist Ingres, whose painting Napoleon on his Imperial Throne quotes van Eyck's image of God the Father.¹

Although I liked all of the book, I think that I enjoyed the first half of the book a little bit more. In this first half, Charney races through several centuries of history in a lively discussion of the altarpiece's creation and thefts before WWII. I really enjoyed the quick, animated pace in the first few chapters. The latter half of Charney's book slows down considerably to focus on just one historical event: the theft of the Ghent Altarpiece by Nazis during WWII. The altarpiece panels, which were intended to be placed in Hitler's super-museum for art, were kept in the Alt Aussee mine in Austria. Although I thought that this story was still very interesting, it took a some mental adjustment to move at a slower pace in terms of chronology.

This book is fascinating and written with a very engaging tone. Aside from the change in pace, I only had one other teensy-weensy issue with Charney's book: I was really surprised to see that he referred to Jan van Eyck's The Arnolfini Portrait (1434) as a marriage scene.² Since the marriage interpretation has been questioned by art historians for so long (and has been disproved in many ways), it ever-so-slightly undermined the quality of Charney's book. But that being said, don't let my nit-picky issue deter you from reading Stealing the Mystic Lamb. On the contrary, please read it. (Just know that I have crossed out the word "wedding" on a few pages. That's all.)

P.S. There is a great interview of Noah Charney on Three Pipe Problem. Be sure to check it out!


1 Noah Charney, Stealing the Mystic Lamb: The True Story of the World's Most Coveted Masterpiece (New York: PublicAffairs, 2010), 104.


2 Ibid., 22.

Mrs. Arnolfini Might Be Dead!

Yes, the title of my post is a bit facetious. Of course Mrs. Arnolfini is dead - Jan van Eyck's famous Arnolfini Portrait (shown left, 1434) was made several centuries ago. But I'm actually referring to a relatively new argument: in 2003 Margaret L. Koster argued that this double-portrait includes a depiction of Giovanni di Nicolao Arnolfini's deceased wife.¹ (Koster recognizes though, that this painting might not be of Giovanni Arnolfini at all - there were no less that five Arnolfinis in Bruges at the time who could have commissioned the painting. In 1998 Lorne Campbell picked Giovanni di Nicolao as the probable commissioner for this painting, since Giovanni di Nicolao would have been in Bruges for some time and would have had ample opportunity to meet Jan van Eyck.²)

Anyhow, I think Koster's argument is fascinating for several reasons. First of all, Koster reveals an archival discovery that Giovanni di Nicolao's wife, Costanza Trenta, was dead by 1433 (a year before the Arnolfini Portrait was dated!). And from what we know, Giovanni di Nicolao Arnolfini never remarried.

So, what does this mean? Koster convincingly argues that this portrait is a posthumous representation of Costanza, a way to remember and commemorate Giovanni's wife. The oath gesture by Arnolfini could reference an wedding oath already taken, perhaps suggesting a renewal of Arnolfini's wedding vows and devotion to his deceased wife.

First of all, the idealized depiction of Costanza stands in stark contrast to the very naturalistic and individualized depiction of Giovanni, which could indicate that these two individuals are separated by life and death. Furthermore, there are other aspects in the painting which allude to death. The roundels circulating the mirror frame (see right) are scenes from the Passion of Christ. All of the scenes which show Christ alive are on the left side of the mirror (near Giovanni), whereas all of the scenes alluding to Christ's death or resurrection are closest to Costanza. Additionally, the lit candle is placed near Giovanni, whereas the snuffed-out candle is placed over Costanza.

The colors of Costanza and Giovanni's garments could also symbolically allude to their present situation. Costanza is wearing a dress of blue and green: blue was a symbol of faithfulness and green was a symbol of love. Giovanni's darker clothing can be interpreted as a symbol of mourning or suffering (and Koster further points out that this work was painted before black clothing became fashionable for the Burgundian court).

If you'd like to see Koster explain aspects of her argument, check out the beginning of the "Part 5" section for this documentary. (This documentary on Northern Renaissance art is hosted by Joseph Koerner, another art historian who happens to be Margaret L. Koster's husband!).

What do people think of this argument by Koster? On a side note, I have to say that I'm always surprised when practicing scholars still refer to this painting as a wedding portrait. That Panofskian approach has been questioned by Northern Renaissance scholars for several decades, and even the National Gallery (which houses this painting) shies away from the wedding interpretation. In fact, I thought the wedding debate was settled in 1993 by Margaret D. Carroll, who pointed out that Mrs. Arnolfini is wearing a headdress traditionally reserved for married women.³ Argh. Despite all of the respect that Panofsky deserves, I really feel like we need to stop interpreting this piece as a wedding portrait. Let's get on with our lives, folks.

1 Margaret L. Koster, "The Arnolfini Double Portrait: A Simple Solution," in Apollo (Sept. 2003): 3-14. Text available online here.

2 Lorne Campbell, “Portrait of Giovanni(?) Arnolfini and his Wife,” The Fifteenth Century Netherlandish Schools (London, 1998), 174-204 (see especially p. 195).

3 Margaret D. Carroll, "In the Name of God and Profit: Jan van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait," Representations 44 (Autumn 1993): 100-101.

The Inverted "T" Shape

Occasionally a student will ask me about why Rogier van der Weyden's Deposition altarpiece (also called "Descent from the Cross, c. 1440, shown left) is formed in an unusual shape. Up until this point, I have always answered that the shape (which looks like an inverted "T") was a traditional form for altarpieces in Northern Europe. Although this answer is true, I have recently learned that I could give a much more detailed response to my students. In a fascinating article, "The Inverted "T"-Shape in Early Netherlandish Altarpieces: Studies in the Relation between Painting and Sculpture," scholar Lynn F. Jacobs explores some reasons for why this particular shape would have contained significance, meaning, and specific purpose. ¹ I wanted to highlight some of her ideas here:

• The inverted "T" could help to visually emphasize the most important scene in the altarpiece. Along these lines, the added vertical section could also accommodate particular narrative features (such as a cross, as is well demonstrated in van der Weyden's Seven Sacraments altarpiece, c. 1445-50, shown right).²

• The elevated section of the shape could have been used to suggest a type of hierarchy (in terms of sanctity). The more sanctified, holy persons appear in the most elevated section of the "T" altarpiece. This visual emphasis on sanctity is connected with the idea of heaven (since heaven is usually conceived as being a place "on high"). Jacobs points out that this connection with heaven is implicit in the "T" shape, simply by virtue of its form.³

• The "T" shape could have symbolic associations with the church, since it also mimics the architectural cross section of a Gothic cathedral. (Notice how Seven Sacraments even places the figures within a cathedral setting, with the vertical section for the nave elevation and the smaller areas for the side aisles.) Jacobs even points out that some of these altarpieces seem to suggest the triple portal facade of a cathedral.⁴

• Jacobs particularly stresses that the inverted "T" might have originated for practical reasons (and perhaps later took on these aforementioned symbolic associations). These altarpieces were used to define space during the celebration of the Mass. During this service, the priest elevates the Sacrament and holds it high in the air. Not only does the "T" shape altarpiece create "a backdrop to frame the display of the sanctified Host," but the vertical stress of the shape ensures "a backdrop that could encompass this elevated gesture."⁵ Since the elevation of the Sacrament had been an established part of the Mass service since the thirteenth century, this practical explanation seems extremely logical to me.

What suggestion do you particularly like? Do you have a favorite Netherlandish altarpiece that is formed in an inverted "T" shape?

1 Lynn F. Jacobs, "The Inverted "T"-Shape in Early Netherlandish Altarpieces: Studies in the Relation between Painting and Sculpture," Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 54 Bd., H. 1 (1991): 33-65.

2 Ibid., 36.

3 Ibid., 48.

4 Ibid., 37.

5 Ibid., 45.

Jan and Hubert van Eyck: What I Wish We Knew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 Ibid.

4 Ibid.

Cherub = The Blissful Graduate Student

Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514

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

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

Ha ha!

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

Happy Holidays

Unknown German Master, The Adoration of the Magi, c. 1420

Happy holidays from Alberti's Window! This is one of the Christmas paintings which I recently discovered while performing a research project for a friend.  Isn't it fun? I love that the kings are wearing contemporary Renaissance clothing - check out the crowns and the ermine robe! Ermine has been associated with royalty (and the extremely wealthy) for a long time, so it's not surprising that one of the Three Magi is dressed in ermine. Interestingly, though, ermine was also seen as a symbol of purity during the Renaissance period. I think that the inclusion of ermine fur in this painting could also refer to the pure heart of the king (and perhaps emphasize the holy nature of the scene in general).

What is your favorite Nativity/Adoration scene?

Happy holidays and Merry Christmas!

Dürer's "Virgin Among a Multitude of Animals"

School is wrapping up for the quarter, and my eyes are tired of looking at dozens and dozens of student papers. This evening I thought I'd have change of scenery by looking at a watercolor that I discovered recently: Dürer's Virgin Among a Multitude of Animals (1503, shown right). Isn't it lovely? Here are a couple of thoughts about the painting:

• I really like the interpretion that this painting is a Christian version of the ancient "Master of the Animals" motif. However, unlike ancient depictions which show deities or heroes showing power over animals (see one example at the end of this post), Dürer depicts the Christ child as the hero (shown at the center the painting).
• Given that this is a Northern Renaissance painting, it is unsurprising that the animals surrounding the Virgin have symbolic meaning. Even the stag beetle (shown in the lower left corner, teasing a sleeping dog) is seen as a symbol for Christ (since its horns could subdue "the dragon," or Satan).
• Coincidentally (or perhaps not-so-coincidentally), this evening I noticed that there is a stork placed next to the Joseph (located in the middle ground on the right). I immediately became exited, having recently read this post on Three Pipe Problem which examines how storks (as well as cranes and herons) served as symbols of vigilance. (This painting dates just a few years before the Carpaccio and Giorgione paintings discussed in the Three Pipe Problem post; it was particularly fun to find another stork connection from the same time period.) I also read here that storks also have been associated with piety, resurrection, and purity in Christian iconography.
• The background of the painting also depicts aspects from the Nativity story: the angel appearing to shepherds, the star in the sky, the visit of the Magi (in this painting, the kings and their entourage have alighted ships and are traveling along a road).
• This painting by Dürer was particularly liked by Rudolf II, the emperor of Austria in the late 16th - early 17th centuries. Rudolf II was a great patron of the arts, and he ordered that a print of this painting by made by Aegidius Sadler, the court engraver. Additionally, in 1604 Rudolf II ordered Jan Brueghel the Elder to make a copy of this same Dürer painting. (If anyone knows of an online reproduction for this Brueghel copy, please let me know! I'm curious to see it.)

Dürer's painting is fun, isn't it? Which animal do you like the best? I particularly like the parrot that is perched on the left side of the Virgin.

Elizabeth I and a Snake?

I've always liked royal portraits. It's always fun to see how a monarch decides to visually assert his/her power, prestige, wisdom, wealth, etc. In portraiture, these attributes and characteristics of the sitter are emphasized through various signifiers (e.g. lavish, expensive clothing signifies that the wearer of the clothes is rich). What what if the signifier (or symbol) isn't clear or easily understood?

That seems to be the case with this portrait by Elizabeth I (anonymous artist, 16th century, shown left). The final product of this painting showed Elizabeth I holding a bunch of roses in her hand. I haven't seen what the painting looked like with roses (this Telegraph article described the roses as a "decorative" element), but it seems to me that roses could have also been been an easily identifiable symbol for Elizabeth I, since roses were a symbol of her family, the house of Tudor.¹

But whether these roses were symbolic or decorative, they were obviously added at the last minute. Deterioration of this painting has revealed that the monarch originally was holding a snake in her hand. Based on the remaining visual evidence, an artist has recreated how the snake probably appeared in the original portrait (see below). It is thought that the snake was repainted with roses because of the "ambiguity" of the serpent symbol (again, see Telegraph article).

Well, "ambiguity" is right. The well-known symbolic associations with snakes are the Fall, sin, death, and Satan. And I'm pretty sure Elizabeth I wasn't going for those associations. Once in a while you hear about snakes being associated with wisdom, so maybe that explains why the snake was originally included? Can you think of any other symbolic reasons why Elizabeth I would be depicted with a snake?

On another note, deterioration of this painting has also caused a strange ghostly appearance on Elizabeth I's forehead. This portrait was painted over another unfinished portrait, and the eyes and nose of the previous woman face have become visible. It appears that the painter of Elizabeth I decided to reuse the unfinished panel, a common practice at the time.

Poor Elizabeth. As was suggested on The Corinthian Column, Elizabeth I doesn't appear to have been the most attractive of monarchs. And having an extra nose and pair of eyes in your forehead is not going to improve your looks.²

1 You can see other portraits of Elizabeth I with Tudor roses, such as "The Pelican Portrait" by Nicolas Hilliard (c. 1575-1580).

2 This Elizabeth I portrait is part of the National Portrait Gallery (London) collection. It has not been on display for almost a century, but will soon be exhibited as part of the show "Concealed and Revealed: The Changing Faces of Elizabeth I." The show runs from March 13 to September 26.

Mathematician Helps with Art Attribution

I sometimes start my lectures by talking with students about art that has recently been in the news. Tonight, though, it was a student who shared an interesting news item. She had overheard people discussing this NPR story about Daniel Rockmore, a math professor at Dartmouth College.

Rockmore is using his mathematical skills to help determine if drawings are correctly attributed to Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a Northern Renaissance artist. Bruegel used various pen strokes which art connoisseurs have noted to be especially characteristic of the artist's work. Nevertheless, connoisseurs have had difficulty in concretely identifying some of Bruegel's work (e.g. the above image of an Alpine landscape (Morgan Library and Museum) was attributed Bruegel until recently). In order to help determine which strokes are Bruegel-like and which ones are not, Rockmore used his math skills to create a computer program that analyzes the pen strokes.

It sounds like an interesting program. It makes me wonder more about how computers and technology will affect the future practice of connoisseurship. Could future art attribution be left completely in the hands of technology, instead of actual connoisseurs? I imagine that couldn't happen, but it's an interesting/scary thought.

Rockmore made an interesting point at the end of the article, explaining that this program is a way to deconstruct art and determine what it means to be Picasso-like or Bruegel-like. In a way, I think that's true, but I also think that an artist's "hand" and styles can never be completely, concretely deconstructed. Even if an artist is relatively consistent in a technique, stylistic approach or color scheme, artists are subjective to change and variation. Although I think Rockmore has an interesting and useful idea, I don't think it can find all of the answers to explaining an artist's style.

Forgers, Copyists, and Authenticity/Authority

I remember being surprised to learn that the Ghent Altarpiece (1432) that exists today is not entirely a product of the fifteenth century.¹ One of the panels in the altarpiece ("The Just Judges") was stolen in the 1930s, and was repainted by the copyist Jef Vanderveken in 1945 (see left).

I think it's telling that none of my art history books mention anything about Vanderveken or this copied panel. And when I traveled to Ghent to see this altarpiece in 2003, I don't remember seeing any information about any other artist than van Eyck. I think there's a reason for this "cover-up": the altarpiece doesn't appear to be a product of pristine history and genius with the knowledge that not everything is "authentic" (i.e. by van Eyck's hand). And I would argue that by extension, to undermine the genius of van Eyck's work would also undermine the genius and authoritative voice of the art historical discipline.

This connection between authenticity and the authoritative voice is interesting. One of the most prominent places to encounter an authoritative (and institutional) voice is within the museum setting. Pieces of art are displayed within the museum, and an unspoken authoritative voice tells museum visitors, "This is important and authentic by the mere fact that it's on display." And museum visitors do not question that implied statement (at least, they're not encouraged to do so!).

But what happens when a work of art in a museum collection is determined to not be authentic? This change in status (i.e. artistic genius) reflects poorly on the museum because it loses a measure of authority. (Museums don't want to admit that they make mistakes, too!)

I'm particularly reminded of the forger Han van Meegeren, who duped the art world into thinking it had discovered several paintings by Vermeer (among a few other artists). Van Meegeren's forgeries are now scattered throughout the world in many prominent collections, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery (Washington, DC). However, from what I can tell, these paintings are not on permanent display at most of these museums. Instead, the forgeries are shuttled down to the depths of storage, to hide the blemish of mistake and allow the museum to still "speak" authoritatively.

Furthermore, whenever Van Meegeren paintings are on display for temporary exhibition, it appears that they are almost always labeled with "Imitator of Vermeer" or "After Johannes Vermeer." Even though Van Meegeren was exposed and we know who made the forgeries, museums don't give him any credit for his work! It's as if the museum world still wants to try and tap into the genius of Vermeer by association, even though we know that the paintings are fakes. Bah!

Do you know of any other instances where a question of authenticity has undermined the authority of a museum/art appraiser/work of art/art history textbook?

1 In fact, the Ghent altarpiece was not entirely a product of Jan van Eyck "hand." It appears that the Ghent altarpiece was begun by the painter Hubert van Eyck, Jan's brother. See my post on the topic here.

Favorite Christmas Art

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

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

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

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

Do you have a favorite piece of Christmas art?

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Dürer's Temperaments of the Four Humours

I got distracted today by Dürer's Adam and Eve (1504). I'm preparing a lecture on how Dürer's engraving Melencolia I is influenced by the doctrine of the four humours, and then I remembered how Dürer also included references to the four humors in his Adam and Eve.
Let me explain a little bit about the doctrine of the humours. It a very complex notion about how humankind was linked to the natural world. The doctrine of the humours has largely been disproved by modern medicine, but it's interesting to think about, especially since the doctrine was upheld for thousands of years. One interesting aspect of the doctrine discusses how basic elements of the earth are transformed into food for humans. Depending on the nature of the element, the food will then create four different bodily fluids (that in turn create different character types). Are you following me? The four character types or temperaments are: the melancholic, the phelgmatic, the choleric, and the sanguine.

Okay. Now to Adam and Eve. Dürer included four animals which represent these four different temperaments of the humours. To emphasize the character types, I'm also including Panofsky's further explanations for each animal in parentheses:

Cat = Choleric (cruelty, pride)
Rabbit = Sanguine (sensuality)
Elk = Melancholic (gloom)
Ox = Phlegmatic (sluggishness, sloth)¹

It's interesting to see how these animals are still kind-of associated with these character types today. Doesn't the phrase "Breed like rabbits!" still tie into sensuality? And aren't oxen typically associated with slow, sluggish movements?

Dürer's depiction of the four temperaments is fitting, given the subject matter. It was believed that the four temperaments were held-in-check while in Paradise. After the Fall (notice Eve is holding the forbidden fruit), the balance was lost and the the soul of man became "contaminated" by the humours.¹

Are there any symbols or animals that you particularly like in this engraving? I'm always intrigued by the ibex in the far background (standing on the top of a mountain). I like the interpretation that the ibex is a represention the Adam and Eve, who figuratively stand on a spiritual precipice because of the Fall.

1 Erwin Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer, Princeton University Press (1955), p. 120 and pp. 84-84. Citation also available online at http://www.csus.edu/indiv/v/vonmeierk/4-05BEAU.html, accessed 17 November 2009. If you're interested in reading more about the iconography/symbolism for the other animals and objects in this engraving, I'd recommend that you read Panofsky's interpretation.

2 Ibid.

The Artist Had Never Seen a [Insert Animal] Before

It's always interesting to see how an artist depicts an animal that he/she has never seen. Vasari writes that Paolo Uccello wanted to depict a chameleon his Four Seasons, but since the artist had never seen a chameleon, he opted to draw a camel instead.¹ I guess you can kind of see Uccello's logic in picking a camel, since camaleonte and camello are similar words in Italian (the two words are a little similar in English, too). I wish that Uccello's Four Seasons still existed; I'd love to see what that chameleon/camel looked like.

Durer attempted to depict a rhinoceros, even though he had never seen one. He really didn't do too bad of a job (see woodcut print The Rhinoceros (1515) on the right), although the armor-like plates are a little funny. Durer became interested in the rhino after seeing a sketch and reading descriptions in a letter from Lisbon.² The year that Durer made this print, 1515, was a big year for rhinoceroses in Europe. Both the king of Spain and king of Portugal were trying to win the favor of the pope by giving him rhinoceroses. The pope apparently liked the West African rhino (the gift from Spain) best, which allegedly answers why the pope gave more New World territory to Spain.³ I bet that Durer was trying to maximize on the interest in rhinoceroses during this year, since woodcut prints can be widely distributed, popularized, etc.

There are other animal depictions which I think are amusing. When writing my thesis, I would often chuckle at Aleijadinho's depiction of a lion. Since the Brazilian artist had never seen a lion before, he sculpted this one with the face of a monkey:

Aleijadinho, detail of lion next to the prophet Daniel, 1800-1805

And you have to love Aleijadinho's great attempt at a whale. I especially love the whale's two spouts (kind of like nostrils, I guess) and fins:

Aleijadinho, detail of whale next to the prophet Jonah, 1800-1805

Aleijadinho, side-view of Jonah's whale, 1800-1805

Medieval bestiaries are full of creative depictions of animals. I particularly like this depiction of a crocodile and this depiction of an elephant (check out those tusks and horse-like flanks!).

I know there are lots of other interesting/creative/bizarre depictions of creatures that have resulted from the artist never seeing the actual animal. What ones do you know? Do you have a favorite? Let's see who can give the most bizarre example...

1 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 82.

2 "The Rhinoceros," in Web Gallery of Art, available from , accessed 5 November 2009.

3 Hemanta Mishra, Bruce Babbitt, Jim Ottaway, Jr., The Soul of the Rhino (Guilman, Connecticut: Lyons Press, 2008), 137. Available online here.

Giovanni Arnolfini and Van Eyck

Most people are familiar with Giovanni Arnolfini because of his infamous family portrait by Jan van Eyck (1434). But did you know that Jan van Eyck made another portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini? This portrait, shown above, dates c. 1435.

I've never thought that Giovanni Arnolfini was very attractive, and seeing this portrait has further solidified my opinion. But who knows? Maybe he had a great personality, right?

What really caught my attention, however, is that there is a striking similarity between this portrait and Jan van Eyck's self-portrait, (commonly called Man in a Red Turban, 1433, see below):

Notice the red turbans (which, technically, should be called chaperons) in each painting? I realize that this headgear was popular in the mid-fifteenth century (you can see more examples here), so I guess it shouldn't be surprising that both men are portrayed this way. But there are other similarities between the portraits too, like the dark fur-lined coat and three-quarter profile view. Perhaps it isn't coincidental that these portraits are only about two years apart. I wonder if Giovanni saw van Eyck's self-portrait and then said, "Hey Jan, will you make me one of those too?"

Bruegel as Bosch

It's easy for one to make comparisons between the bizarre paintings of Hieronymous Bosch and those of his later Netherlandish counterpart, Pieter Bruegel the Elder. One can see similar interests in moralizing subject matter, bizarre imagery, and convoluted compositions by looking at these works by Bosch and Bruegel, respectively:

Hieronymous Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights (central panel), c. 1500

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Netherlandish Proverbs, 1559

(These paintings are both so detailed and awesome that I should dedicate a post to each of them. Does anyone have a favorite vignette in either of these images? I really like the man in the foreground of Netherlandish Proverbs who is banging his head against a brick wall.)

It makes sense the Bruegel would have been influenced by Bosch, since the latter was widely popularized through prints and imitated by many artists. What I think is interesting, though, is that Bruegel's print Big Fish Eat Little Fish (see image below) initially was sold as a Bosch engraving! This print was published by Hieronymus Cock, who was a leading humanist print publisher in Antwerp.¹. It appears that Cock hired Bruegel to imitate Bosch's work; Cock might have used Bosch's name as a marketing strategy, since a Bosch print would sell more easily than something by the young (and lesser known) Bruegel.²

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Big Fish Eat Little Fish, 1556

One can see how this print could fit into Bosch's canon of works, particularly due to the strange, nightmarish images. The title of the work also makes use of a popular proverb, which is similar to some of Bosch's titles. Furthermore, the print has a moralizing, didactic message (as emphasized by the father in the foreground, who points out the moral to his young child).

I wonder how Bruegel felt to have his work touted as a Bosch. Would Bruegel have been proud to have his work pass off as something by the popular and esteemed artist? Or perhaps he would have been upset that his handiwork was not recognized as his own?

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist, (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 111.

2 Ibid., 174.

Lilith

I recently read George MacDonald's novel Lilith, which caused me to think about the Jewish legend of Lilith, Adam's first wife. Legend holds that Lilith was God's first, unsuccessful attempt at creating a female companion for Adam. This dreadful attempt resulted in a female demon who attempts to corrupt the human race through lust.

One of the best sources for the Lilith story is a medieval text called Alphabet of Ben-Sira (c. 10th century AD). According to this text, Lilith was made from the earth at the same time as Adam. Lilith was an independent woman. Since she and Adam were created the same way, Lilith refused to acknowledge Adam's superiority (was she the first feminist? ha!). Eventually she left Eden to consort with demons that live in the Red Sea. When making a second female companion for Adam, God made Eve out of Adam's rib so there would be no question of superiority.¹ Some sources also refer to Lilith as a half-woman, half-serpent. Filled with jealousy for Eve, Lilith reportedly took on the form of a serpent in order to provoke the Fall of Man (as recorded in Genesis).² You can read a little more about the Lilith legend and history here.

The story of Lilith has inspired artists for many centuries. In the Middle Ages, many artists included a half-female serpent in depictions of the Temptation of Adam and Eve.³ One Renaissance example of the half-serpent Lilith is by Michelangelo, found on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. In the late 19th century, Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote a poem about Lilith and also painted a scene of the seductress combing her golden hair (Lady Lilith, painted 1868-69, shown to the left). Scholars agree that this painting was inspired by the description of Lilith in Goethe's Faust (Walpurgisnacht scene).²

The most interesting article I've read about Lilith is by Virginia Tuttle. She argues that Hieronymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights (1505-1510, left panel of altarpiece shown below) actually includes a depiction of Adam and Lilith, not Adam and Eve. I have always wondered why there are demonic beasts in the foreground of this Garden of Eden scene (it doesn't seem too paradisaical, does it? Although, one can't take Bosch too seriously; this whole altarpiece is a little absurd.). However, if one considers this woman to be Lilith instead of Eve, the presence of demonic beasts makes sense.

Tuttle also convincingly argues that this left panel scene does not conform to the iconography of traditional Creation of Eve scenes. Traditionally, Adam is shown asleep or lying on his side, so that Eve easily can be created out of his rib. In other triptychs, Bosch follows this traditional iconographic format (see details in his Last Judgment triptych and Haywain triptych). However, in the Garden of Earthly Delights, Tuttle argues that it appears Lilith has been "raised up from the earth, as if she were created independently and immediately following Adam's creation."² I think this is a convincing argument and I recommend that people read Tuttle's article (it can be found in JSTOR). My only reservation about this argument is that it doesn't seem to be widely accepted. This article was written almost twenty years ago, but recent art history texts continue to label this panel as Creation of Eve. Does anyone know of (or have) criticisms for this argument?

What do other people think?

1 To read a synopsis Lilith story in the Alphabet of Ben-Sira, see Virginia Tuttle, "Lilith in Bosch's 'Garden of Earthly Delights," Simiolus 15, no. 2 (1985): 123.-24.

2 Jeffrey M. Hoffeld, "Adam's Two Wives," The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series 26, no. 10 (June 1968): 434.

3 For Medieval examples, see Ibid., 430-40.
4 Virginia M. Allen, "'One Strangling Golden Hair': Dante Gabriel Rossetti's Lady Lilith," The Art Bulletin 66, no. 2 (June 1984): 286.

5 Tuttle, 123.

Thoughts on the Portinari Altarpiece

I've been reading a really interesting article on the Portinari Altarpiece lately.¹ The Portinari Altarpiece has been determined by earlier art historians (such as Panofsky) to contain iconography related to the Eucharist and Passion. For example, the stalks of wheat in the foreground of the central panel (shown above) are a reference to the Eucharistic bread. In the article I have been reading, Miller discusses how the actual scene of the Nativity can also be interpreted as a metaphor for salvation. She writes,

"Not only did the Nativity represent the Incarnation of the Savior but, in popular legend, the delivery itself was miraculous: it preserved Mary's virginity and was also exempt from the usual fears, pains, and dangers of ordinary human parturition. This exemption helped to confirm the Virgin's position as reversing Eve's role in Original Sin, and in this way the miraculous birth could have stood as a potent metaphor for salvation."²

The article discusses references to birth, such as the inclusion of Saint Margaret, the patron saint of childbirth. Margaret is placed on the right panel of the triptych. I never noticed this before, but there is a dragon placed at the saint's feet for her identification! Has anybody else missed seeing that before?

A large part of Miller's argument ties into the hospital setting for this altarpiece; she finds that elements included within this altarpiece would have had particular significance to the hospital patrons. In this sense, her article is similar to analyses of the Isenheim Altarpiece by Hayum and Mellinkoff.³ Miller mentions how the flowers in the foreground of the central panel of the Portinari Altarpiece were used for medicinal purposes in the Renaissance.⁴ The healing properties of these flowers would have been recognized by hospital patrons, who could then relate these flowers to the healing properties of Christ's sacrifice, repentance, etc. Miller then ties her argument together by saying that miraculous childbirth is a metaphor for salvation and therefore also of healing, therefore making the subject matter of this altarpiece of interest to hospital patrons and not just iconographic details included within the work (i.e. the flowers, shafts of wheat, etc.).

I think this is an interesting and fairly convincing argument. I realize that this is a short synopsis of the article, but based on what I have written, what do other people think?

1 Julia I. Miller, "Miraculous Childbirth and the Portinari Altarpiece," The Art Bulletin 77, no. 2, (June, 1995): 249-61. For those readers who have access to JSTOR, this article is available for reading and download.

2 Ibid., 249.

3 Ibid., 257. See also A. Hayum, "The Meaning and Function of the Isenheim Altarpiece: The Hospital Context Revisited," Art Bulletin, LIX, 1977, 512-13; and R. Mellinkoff, The Devil at Isenheim: Reflections of Popular Belief in Grunewald's Altarpiece, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 89.

4 Ibid.

The Frick Collection

Last weekend, while J was at a "Mantreat" with his brothers, I had time to go to The Frick Collection. I really loved going to this collection for a lot of reasons, particularly because I'm loving more and more the experience of visiting a personal collection instead of going to a museum. When visiting a collection, there usually isn't really an "exhibition thesis" or message that the curator is trying to jam down your throat. Instead, you can simply enjoy the works and aesthetic that the collector itself enjoyed. It's so nice. I feel like I can just focus on artistic aesthetic and beauty, instead of analyzing and historicizing. Although museums and exhibition theses have their virtues, sometimes it's nice to just appreciate art for it's beauty.

My biggest surprise when arriving at the Frick was seeing Holbein's portrait of Sir Thomas More. I already was well familiar with this painting, but had never seen it in person. When I stood in front of it, I audibly gasped. There is such an energetic, vivacious quality in the red sleeves of More's clothing - it was so gorgeous! The painting was so much more lively and animated than I had ever before thought (I have to admit, portraiture is not always my favorite type of art). I have included a reproduction which best "does justice" to the work and the glowing sleeves, but it still is a far cry from the actual work.

The sleeves were only the beginning of my love affair with this painting. The fur trim is so soft in it's depiction -it really is a great example of how oil painters used their medium "evasively." This isn't oil paint at all - this is fur! The cold, heavy gold chain around More's neck (which also parades the strengths and capabilities of Holbein and oil paint, because it has such strikingly different qualities than the other textures in the work) makes the fur seem even softer by contrast.

What a gemsticle of a work! I've always appreciated Northern Renaissance and Baroque art to a degree, but I think this is one of the first times that I really had a strong aesthetic experience. The bright oil colors were just too gorgeous to be overlooked. Way to go, Holbein.