Book Review: "Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome"

I recently had the pleasure of reading the new exhibition catalog, Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome. I've read this book with a great deal of personal interest - not only do I love Caravaggio, but I will be traveling to Texas later this year to see this historic exhibition! Many of you are probably aware that I highlighted some details from this catalog on a post at Three Pipe Problem - particularly information regarding the painting, Saint Augustine (c. 1600) which recently has been attributed to Caravaggio.

When opening this book for the first time, I was immediately struck by the beautiful images. This catalog is chock full of gorgeous, simply delicious color reproductions of paintings by Caravaggio and the Caravaggisti. There are numerous detail images for many of these paintings, too. The catalog also includes several dozen images that are not included in the actual exhibition, too. Honestly, I would own this book just for the reproductions themselves.

But praise for this catalog goes beyond the reproductions. This book also includes a lot of great essays about Caravaggio, written by prominent scholars like Sebastian Schütze, Francesca Cappelletti, and Michael Fried. That being said, though, this catalog isn't for someone with just a casual interest in art history or Caravaggio. The essays are pretty dense, and some writers (I'm particularly thinking of Fried and Schütze) use art historical terms that would be unfamiliar to the casual reader.

The first half of the book is dedicated to essays about general history regarding Caravaggio and the Caravaggisti (even mentioning Caravaggio's plate of artichokes that recently grabbed a bit of attention in the news). This section also includes a theoretical essay by Michael Fried. The essay is interesting (and, granted, is written in a slightly more approachable way than many of Fried's other essays on similar topics of absorption and spectatorship), but it seems quite out-of-place with the other historical essays in the book.

The second part of the book is dedicated to thematic essays related to works in the exhibition. I loved this section of the book the most. The essays are generally organized by different types of subject matter: gypsies, cardsharps, musicians, saints, etc. It's really fun. I was interested to learn that Caravaggio's painting The Cardsharps (c. 1595, shown left) has inspired more copies and variants than any other work by Caravaggio.¹

In fact, themes of gambling (which expands to include dice players) and were popular among Caravaggio's Roman followers. One popular subject matter for the Caravaggisti was The Denial of Saint Peter (as can be seen in Bartolomeo Manfredi's work of c. 1616-18). These scenes were often expanded to include depictions of soldiers playing dice or cards. Interestingly, though, the Caravaggisti were not inspired by Caravaggio's personal treatment of the subject; Caravaggio's Denial of Saint Peter (c. 1609-10) includes only three half-figures. Instead, the Caravaggisti used Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew (1599-1600) as a prototype for their Denial of Saint Peter scenes. One can see similarities in composition by comparing Manfredi and Caravaggio's paintings, particularly since both works involve groups of men huddled around a table. In addition to these similarities, Nancy E. Edwards points out that "The Denial of Saint Peter and The Calling of Saint Matthew have similar subjects: an apostle's response to Christ's call of faith."²

Anyhow, that interesting tidbit of information is just a taste of what is available in this great catalog. I would heartily recommend it to anyone that has a keen interest in Caravaggio or the Caravaggisti. I only have one small complain about the book itself: it needs to have an index! I know that it is not common for exhibition catalogs to have indexes, so I realize that this complaint is geared more toward a cultural standard than this particular book. However, I have noticed that exhibition catalogs are becoming increasingly more scholarly in their content. If museums want scholars to use their catalogs as an academic resource, more indexes need to start showing up in catalogs!

As I read Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome, I wrote down a makeshift index on the last page of my book copy (see above right), with some of the topics that are particularly interesting to me. If there was an index, I would be spared such effort...

1 Nancy E. Edwards, "The Cardsharps," in Caravaggio and His Followers in Rome, edited by David Franklin and Sebastian Schütze (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 180.
2 Ibid., 199.


Thank you to H Niyazi of Three Pipe Problem, Inbooks and Yale University Press for supplying the review copy.

Caravaggio Guest Post on 3PP

Hello everyone! Today I am honored to have a guest post featured on Three Pipe Problem. I recently received a copy of the new catalog Caravaggio and His Followers in Rome. My post covers information from the catalog (and elsewhere) regarding the attribution of a new Caravaggio painting, Saint Augustine (c. 1600, see left).

Please take a look! Enjoy!

Image credit: Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.

Book Review: "The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome" by Alois Riegl

Today I finished reading Riegl's The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (2009, Getty Publications). As I mentioned in an earlier post, this publication is very significant, since it is the first time that Riegl's writings on Baroque art have been translated into English. Apart from a few introductory essays, this book is comprised of Riegl's lecture notes. Riegl taught lectures on Baroque art during three different university semesters in the late 19th and early 20th century. These lecture notes were first published posthumously in 1908, and now have appeared in English almost a century later!¹

I have to say, I think that this book is very interesting in many respects, but it's not a book for someone who has a casual interest in Baroque art. Although Riegl's lecture notes are written in a relatively approachable manner (since the text was written with the intent of being spoken in a lecture hall), the publication itself is rather dense. Riegl takes many specific arguments in his lectures, and he assumes that his audience already has a solid foundation of Renaissance history. In fact, much of this book discusses Renaissance art, as opposed to the Baroque art that is commonly found in today's art history textbooks. For example, I was surprised to see more discussion of Bramante than Borromini (the latter was hardly mentioned at all!).

One of Riegl's arguments is that Michelangelo and Correggio should be seen as the earliest predecessors of the Baroque style. I think this is an interesting argument. On a whole, I think that today's Baroque scholars don't give a lot of attention or emphasis to Michelangelo, at least in comparison with Riegl. Michelangelo really is the core of Riegl's text. I think that today it is more common for people to think of Correggio as a "proto-Baroque" artist than Michelangelo. Perhaps 20th and 21st century Renaissance scholarship has such a vice-like grip on Michelangelo, that Baroque scholarship has been forced to back off a little bit?

I thought quite a bit about historiography while reading this book, and it wasn't just because I noticed a discrepancy between today's scholarship and Riegl's treatment of Michelangelo. Riegl also made a passing comment about naturalism, which caught my attention: "Naturally, for us northerners the naturalists are the most interesting [artists to discuss]."² As an Austrian art historian, Riegl realized that his geographic area and cultural origins influenced the way he responded to artistic style. Is there more scholarly interest in "naturalist" Baroque artists because so many great Baroque art historians came from Germany and Austria? Perhaps so!³

As for the publication itself, I liked that many of the key ideas and artists were highlighted in bold text. This small detail helps the viewer to maneuver and search through the text quite easily. On the other hand, I was disappointed to see so few images included in the publication - and the images that are included are only black and white! Although I have a solid foundation of Renaissance/Baroque sculpture and painting, I am less familiar with the secular architecture that is produced during those periods. Without images to help me visualize Riegl's descriptions of the architectural pieces, I found myself a little bored and frustrated in that section of the text.

That being said, I really enjoyed reading the sections about painting and sculpture; I wasn't bothered by the lack of images since I am familiar with the works of art that were discussed. Since I had this mixed reaction to the images (and lack of images!) in this book, I really would recommend this book only to Renaissance and Baroque scholars. Without many pictures to entice or engage the casual reader, this publication could disappoint. However, if you are interested in early Baroque scholarship and historiography, this is a great resource!

1 Riegl died in 1905 at the young age of 47.

2 Alois Riegl, The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2009), 216.

3 One such "naturalist" artist is Caravaggio, as opposed to more-so classical artists (or "eclectic" artists, to use Riegl's term) like the Carracci and Guido Reni. I personally think there is more interest in Baroque naturalism today, but I'm biased toward Caravaggio myself!

Thank you to H Niyazi of Three Pipe Problem, Inbooks and Getty Research Institute for supplying the review copy.

Altar of Pergamon and Baroque Scholarship

I'm in the middle of reading The Origins of the Baroque Art in Rome by Alois Riegl. This recent publication is a really exciting and influential textbook in its own right, since it is the first time that Riegl's essays on Baroque art have been translated into English. I plan on writing a full review of the book very soon, but I just wanted to write something that I found particularly interesting.

As an introduction to Riegl's discussion of Baroque art, this book is prefaced with three essays. These essays largely deal with historiography in regards to Baroque scholarship. It's pretty fascinating stuff. I was particularly interested in the discussion about the excavation of the Altar of Pergamon in the late 19th century. Fragments of the altar started to arrive in Berlin in 1879 (which, incidentally, was the same year that prehistoric cave paintings were first discovered. But that's a topic for another day. My point: 1879 was a big year for art history.)

The Altar of Pergamon is from the Greek Hellenistic period (c. 175-150 BCE). It was excavated in the late 19th century by Carl Humann, a German road construction engineer. The continuous frieze depicts the Gigantomachy ("Battle of the Giants") with extremely high relief figures, dramatic emotional expressions, lots of diagonal compositions, and light/dark contrasts (see detail on left). Baroque scholars (such as myself) eat this kind of stuff up, since the stylistic characteristics are very similar to those of the Baroque period. I think that even the placement of the frieze near the steps (as opposed to being placed above the columns, which is the traditional location for an Ionic frieze) ties into the Baroque characteristics of viewer participation and involvement.

So, how did the arrival of the Altar of Pergamon in Berlin change scholarship on Baroque art? Before this point, the Baroque period had been viewed with some disdain by art historians and scholars. In fact, in the 18th century Winckelmann used the word "baroque" as an abusive term (and unsurprisingly, Winckelmann also disliked Hellenistic art!). But the unquestionable quality of the Pergamon frieze caused 19th century scholars to reassess their previous negative interpretations of not only Hellenistic art, but Baroque art as well. In fact, the Hellenistic period began to be known by scholars as the "ancient Baroque."²

Consequently, because of the Altar of Pergamon's influence, German art historians began to write about Baroque art. Heinirch Wölfflin wrote his seminal book Renaissance and Baroque in 1888, less than a decade after the Pergamon altar began to arrive in Berlin. Wölfflin even wrote in the preface "that he had intended to include an evaluation of the 'ancient Baroque' but that his 'little book' did not afford enough scope for this project, and he promised to return to it at a later date."² Unfortunately, Wölfflin never returned to write about the "ancient Baroque," though other scholars (such as Arnold von Salis) did. Now, I think that Baroque scholars take the connection between the Hellenistic and Baroque period for granted. But Baroque scholarship is quite indebted to the Altar of Pergamon. Without the arrival of the altar in Berlin, perhaps "baroque" would still be a demeaning term in art history.

1 Alina Payne, "Beyond Kunstwollen: Alois Riegl and the Baroque" in The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome by Andrew Hopkins and Arnold Witte, eds. (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2010), 8.

2 Ibid.

*Image for Pergamon altar photograph © Raimond Spekking (via Wikimedia Commons) CC-BY-SA-3.0

Versailles and France as "Art Capital" of the World

I think Versailles is a big deal. And I don't mean that the palace of Versailles is big in terms of physical space (that fact is beyond obvious!), but I have long thought that Versailles needs to have more recognition for its role in art history - particularly in terms of why France became the art capital of the world in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Up until this point, I've never seen a fantastic explanation for how and why the artistic scene shifted from Italy (and Southern Europe) to France. A lot of possible ideas for this shift could be put forth, such as the establishment of the Academie de peinture et de sculpture (Paris) in 1648. Obviously, this artistic academy helped to promote art and establish France within the artistic scene, but I don't think that this event caused Europe to focus its attention on France. Likewise, if one looks to the 18th century, it is easy to pinpoint how the establishment of the Louvre museum in 1763 was connected to France's preeminence among the arts (not only so that artists could study art, but in terms of France becoming a major artistic attraction for tourists).

Although these are both very significant events, I don't think that either the Louvre or French Academy was the initial cause of a major geographic shift in Europe's artistic scene. Instead, I really think that it was the redesign of Versailles which brought France to the forefront of the European art scene. Versailles, which originally functioned as a hunting lodge, underwent a major redesign and enlargement in the 17th century. One of the major additions to the palace was begun by the architect Le Vau in 1668. Subsequent additions, remodels, and changes were made over the next several years (including he creation of the "Hall of Mirrors," which was begun in 1678 by Hardouin-Mansart and Le Brun). Louis XIV finally moved to the palace in 1682, and eventually required his court to live at the palace as well.

Versailles was over-the-top in terms of luxury, space, and design. It was so huge and so ostentatious that it immediately attracted the attention of other countries. In fact, Versailles was so impressive that many European monarchs wanted to model their own palaces after Versailles. Subsequently, Baroque palaces popped up all over Europe. You can see a great compilation of Baroque residences here (complete with photographs). One such Versailles-inspired palace was the Würzburg Residenz, in Würzburg, Germany (1720-1744, shown above). In essence, Louis XVI became a major trend-setter with Versailles. Everyone wanted to live like him. And, consequently, I think that this is the reason that the art world moved to France. Europeans focused their attention to French art and architecture, a focus that would continue for over two centuries.

Although I don't think that Versailles is the sole reason that the artistic scene shifted to France, I think the remodeling and establishment of court at Versailles are very pivotal points in art history. Obviously, I'm a little biased as a Baroque scholar, but I can't overlook Versailles on this point. It's just too big - both physically and metaphorically!

Can you think of historical events which helped to foster (or solidify the presence of) the artistic scene in France?

*Photo of Versailles courtesy of Eric Pouhier, as found on Wikipedia.

A Halloween Medusa

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

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

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

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

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

Why Don't I Like New "Masterpiece" Discoveries?

My friend heidenkind recently brought my attention to this article, which asserts that The Education of the Virgin (17th century, shown right), a painting discovered in the basement of Yale Art Gallery, is not by Velasquez (as was thought earlier this year). I have to admit, I was pretty pleased that the painting was unattributed to Velasquez. Is that strange? I would assume that most people are thrilled when they learn that a possible new work by Velasquez, da Vinci, Michelangelo, etc., has been discovered. And I rarely (if ever) feel thrilled about such news - particularly if the work has immediately been attributed to a great master. Instead, I get pleased when the painting is demoted from any "great master" status.

Lately I've been trying to figure out why I feel this way. Some of you may remember me earlier post along these lines, in which I discussed my skepticism on the plethora of new discoveries. I haven't quite pinpointed all of the reasons for my skepticism/hesitation regarding new discoveries, but I thought that writing this post might help me to organize my thoughts. I think that I mostly resist hasty attributions to great masters because I know a little bit about the politics behind art attribution - it's tempting for a connoisseur to attribute a painting to a great master, since such an attribution would help further the publicity and career of that connoisseur. I'm particularly reminded of Abraham Bredius, the connoisseur who "discovered" the "Vermeer" paintings by the forger Han Van Meegeren. Bredius is lucky that he passed away soon after Van Meegeren's confession in 1945.

Anyhow, there are lots of other motivations for a work of art to be attributed to a great master, and most of them are financial. The owning museum, institution, or gallery will push for such an attribution, since it will be monetarily beneficial. And hey, the connoisseur could also get a nice fat check for such an attribution.

But is this political/financial reason why I don't get excited about discoveries? I also wonder if my might have something to do with the historian side of me. If there are unknown works by great masters, then this forces me (as a historian) to reshape the artist in my mind as a historical figure. And I think I resist such reshaping a little bit. Does that make sense? In some ways, I feel like I know great artists quite well, and having a new work of art means that there is some aspect to their lives and work that was hidden from me. (I guess it's kind of like the artist was doing something "behind my back.") I know, it's a little silly. Yet, at the same time, I love learning new things about artists. So maybe I experience some kind of inward struggle (i.e. the desire to learn vs. feeling deceived) when a new work of art is discovered, and that's why I shy away from such discoveries. I don't know.

Ironically, though, I rarely feel skeptical when archaeologists announce that a new work of prehistoric/ancient art was discovered or excavated. I always think, "Hey, awesome!" and move on with my life. So my skepticism (and emotional attachment?) must be somehow related to the idea that these works of art are attached to early modern "masters" (i.e. individuals). There isn't enough information about specific prehistoric/ancient artists (or even some cultures!) for me to get as defensive and protective as a historian. Instead, I almost always get excited about ancient discoveries.

So, that's what I came up with this evening: political/financial reasons and my silly protectiveness as a historian prevent me from embracing new "masterpieces." What about you? Am I the only person who is continuously skeptical? Do most people get excited about attributions and "masterpiece" discoveries? Do any other historians get protective about an artist's biography/oeuvre?

Boy Bitten by a Lizard: Posner vs. Gilbert

About this time of year, several years ago, I was assigned my absolute favorite project in graduate school. I was required to read every single published work about one work of art, in order to trace the artwork's historiography. I ultimately decided to research Caravaggio's Boy Bitten by a Lizard (c. 1594).

Soon after I began to research my topic, I discovered that there are actually two versions of this painting - and both are attributed to Caravaggio. One version (shown left) hangs in the National Gallery in London, and the other (shown below, right) is in the Fondazione Roberto Longhi in Florence.  Several connoisseurs argued over the authenticity of the paintings during the 20th century, but that debate essentially ended in 1992 (when Denis Mahon asserted that both examples are original, although he thinks that the Florence version was painted several years earlier than the London version).¹

The most interesting thing I learned from my research project, however, was that one single article can forever change the shape of discourse (for better or for worse). In 1971, Donald Posner wrote a seminal article on the homo-erotic nature of Caravaggio's early paintings.² Posner argued that Boy Bitten by a Lizard is one of the most pronounced homosexual characters painted by Caravaggio. He finds the boy in this painting to appear sensuous, androgynous, and seductive (as suggested by the off-the-shoulder robe). Since that 1971 article, just about everyone has latched onto this homo-erotic theory and it still remains (mostly) undisputed.

What is interesting to me, though, is that no one (not even Caravaggio's contemporary biographers) ever mentioned anything about homosexuality or effeminate characteristics until 1971. If this was such a key part of Caravaggio's work, why was it unmentioned (perhaps unnoticed?) for centuries? I think that "Posnerian" scholars have imposed a 20th century perspective on this painting, and we need to rethink some of the homo-erotic interpretations of Caravaggio's work. Creighton Gilbert also has come to this conclusion, arguing that the fair appearance of youthful men, was long celebrated in society.³ Gilbert argues that it was only during the nineteenth century, with the rise of capitalism, that men no longer wanted to be considered beautiful. The life of the artistocrat was not considered a social ideal anymore, for it was replaced by work ethic. With this change, men (particularly those of the middle class) began to insist on their difference from women, which not only changed clothing, but also changed other social norms (such as men kissing or crying).

From a historical (and historiographic!) perspective, I think that Gilbert's argument makes a lot of sense. I also like much of Gilbert's argument that this painting has roots in classicism. Gilbert finds that Boy Bitten by a Lizard was inspired by a Latin poem which was popular during the time of Caravaggio: O treacherous boy, spare the lizard creeping toward you; it wants to die in your fingers. The elements in this painting point towards this poem, including the bare shoulder, which recalls classical antiquity (instead of homosexuality, as interpreted by Posner).

What do people think? What was your immediate reaction upon seeing this painting for the first time? (Did you think that the subject was "effeminate" or merely "classical"?) Are we so entrenched in homo-erotic theory that it is difficult to examine this painting in any other way?

P.S. This post was indirectly inspired by the ongoing contest at Three Pipe Problem. People can submit a limerick about Caravaggio in order to win a copy of Andrew Graham-Dixon's new book, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane. Last night I was thinking up words that rhymed with "lizard," and decided I also better write a Boy Bitten by a Lizard post.


1 See Keith Christiansen and Denis Mahon, "Caravaggio's Second Versions," The Burlington Magazine 134, no. 1073 (August 1992): 502-04.

2 Donald Posner, "Caravaggio's Homo-Erotic Early Works," Art Quarterly 34 (1971): 301-324.

3 Creighton E. Gilbert, Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995).

Baroque Scrolls and Titian Fire Disaster

When I visited Europe several summers ago, there were a couple of things that inspired me to pick up a sketch pad. And I'm not really an artist, so when I'm motivated to draw (and put aside the impulse to self-criticize), I've gotta be pretty darn inspired. Santa Maria della Salute (Venice, 1631-1687, shown right) was one of the things that inspired me to draw for a bit. Really, it was the huge baroque scrolls along the drum of the dome that I sketched (click on the image to see the scrolls in better detail).  They are awesome, and I couldn't help but think about the large volute scrolls that flank the top of some Greek vases (like this one).

Anyhow, tonight I read here that there was a fire in seminary building near Santa Maria della Salute. (When I read about the initial fire, I immediately gasped and thought, "Are the baroque scrolls alright?" But it seems like the fire was concentrated at the nearby seminary.  Perhaps firefighters doused the roof of Santa Maria della Salute to prevent the fire from spreading. Nonetheless, my scrolls were spared! Yay!) However, water did seep in through the roof of Santa Maria della Salute, which has permanently damaged Titian's David and Goliath (1542-44, shown right). David and Goliath was hung on the ceiling of the church, and seemed to have received the brunt of the damage. There are eight other Titian paintings located in the church, but an initial examination suggests that no damage has been done.

That's good news, but it's sad to hear about the ruined work.  I actually gave an empathetic moan when I read a quote by Vittorio Sgarbi (head of Venice's museum agency) on The History Blog, which has a great post about this unfortunate disaster. Sgarbi rushed to the museum scene after seeing the fire from a nearby restaurant. He then relayed to the press that he saw "water dripping from the painting for over an hour."

Aw. Poor man. That definitely won't be the highlight of his career.

Luckily for us, it sounds like this painting will be able to be restored.  I don't know if the painting can ever be "good as new" (or, er, good as it was before this deluge), but at least this painting isn't lost forever.

Painter + Sculptor Collaboration (and a Little about Luisa Roldán)

I thought I'd keep on the theme of polychrome sculpture this week, given my earlier post on painted classical sculpture.  Recently I've wondered whether classical artists would sculpt and paint their works, or if the work was divided between specialized painters and sculptors. Consequently, I began to think of polychrome baroque sculpture in Spain, Portugal, and Brazil; such sculpture is often painted (by a specialized painter) after the physical piece is created by a sculptor. (As a graduate student, my research on Brazilian art included the Passion sculptures at Bom Jesus dos Matozinhos (Congonhas do Campo), which were sculpted by Aleijadinho but later painted by Manoel da Costa Ataíde).

One striking example of painter and sculptor collaboration is St. Gines de la Jara (c. 1692, shown above). This work was sculpted by Spanish Baroque sculptor Luisa Roldán and then painted by Tomás de los Arcos (Roldán's brother-in-law).  Arcos did an amazing job creating lifelike appearance of veins on St. Gines de la Jara's hands, using a technique called "encarnacion." The technique involves applying thin layers of glue and gesso.  Arcos then painted layers of beige and blue oil paint to suggest veins. (You can see a great detail of the veins and hand here. Also, you can learn more about this sculpture here, since it is the centerpiece of an ongoing Getty exhibition about Luisa Roldán.)

Does anyone know more information about the Spanish/Portuguese tradition of having painters and sculptors collaborate?  Off the top of my head, I would guess that this practice may have come out of the medieval tradition of wooden sculpture, but I couldn't say for sure.  So much medieval sculpture was created by anonymous artists; it's probably difficult (or perhaps impossible) to know if medieval painters and sculptors collaborated on three-dimensional work.  Perhaps medieval artists were trained to both paint and sculpt, and there was no need for collaboration?

On a side note, I'm glad that my friend Shelley recently introduced me to Luisa Roldán (who is affectionately nicknamed "La Roldana," on the right is her presumed portrait by Antonio Rotondo, 1862).  I'd never even heard of La Roldana until a few weeks ago, but I immediately feel in love with her because 1) she's a Baroque sculptor, 2) she's Spanish (and Spanish sculpture often reminds me of the wooden baroque sculpture from Portugal and Brazil) and 3) she's a woman.

Like many other female artists from the Renaissance and Baroque eras, Roldán's father (Pedro Roldán) was also an artist. Roldán was an extremely successful artist (a great feat in the male-dominated profession) and worked as the court sculptor for Charles II.  (In fact, St. Gines de la Jara was probably a royal commission.)  Roldán was quite famous and successful during her lifetime, but seems to be relatively obscure today. Sigh - I wish she was discussed more in art history textbooks.

A Little Skepticism over Discoveries

My friends, we either live in a very fruitful time for artistic discoveries, or something is out-of-whack.  Has anyone paid attention to how many works of art that have been recently discovered?  Just within this past year, there have been several works of art (or art-related discoveries, like Caravaggio's bones) that have been brought to public attention.  I'm sure that I haven't posted about all of the discoveries made within these past few months, but here are a couple that I pulled out of my archives (noted with their post date, not the discovery date):

October 2009: "La Bella Principessa" attributed to Leonardo (via fingerprinting)
November 2009: Raphael Copy Discovered in Apartment
January 2010: Rembrandt Discovered in Bathroom Cabinet
May 2010: Possible Raphael Found in Modena
June 2010: Caravaggio Bones Discovered

And now, just as of this month, there are two more possible discoveries to include in the list.  The Vatican recently reported the possible discovery of a new Caravaggio painting, the Martyrdom of St. Lawrence (see right).  I have to admit, I'm quite skeptical about this new "discovery."  Although I haven't seen the painting in person, some of the things look a little "off" to me.  I think the treatment of the blue drapery is a little unrefined, as well as the rendering of Lawrence's left arm and right hand.  But who knows?  I could be wrong.  I'm a historian, not a connoisseur.  Maybe I'm just skeptical as to why the Vatican is announcing this timely "discovery" during the celebrations marking the 400th anniversary of Caravaggio's death.  It seems a little too convenient, and I wonder if people are getting too hyped-up over Caravaggio to think sensibly.

The other work of art recently "discovered" was found in the basement of Yale University Art Gallery (see left).  The Guardian reports that this battered canvas, which was located in the museum basement, has now been attributed to Velasquez.  The Prado Museum is reserving judgment on the painting, and I'm tending to do the same.  When I read that this painting was discovered in the museum basement, I sarcastically thought, "Of course.  Of course it was discovered in the basement."  Maybe I'm too skeptical, but it seems like all museum directors would be interested in rummaging through their basement storage right now, ever since a possible Raphael was discovered in storage this past May.

What do other people think?  Are you beginning to get skeptical of these discoveries?  Or are you happy to embrace discoveries with open arms?  I sure like the idea of paintings being discovered, but starting to get a little wary...

Recovered Caravaggio is Probably a COPY!

Earlier this week I posted about a stolen Caravaggio painting, The Taking of Christ ("The Kiss of Judas") that was recovered in Berlin (see above (and note damage incurred by theft!)). However, a lot of debate has occurred this week as to the authenticity of this painting, which originally was housed in the Odessa Museum of Western and Eastern Art (Ukraine).  As reported here, it is very likely that this this recovered "masterpiece" is actually a contemporary copy from the 17th century.  Experts argue that this copy was probably created 20 or 25 years after Caravaggio's original painting of c. 1602.

In truth, the authenticity of the Odessa painting and another version of the painting (located in Dublin) has been disputed over the years.  At this point, most experts agree that the Dublin painting is an original work by Caravaggio.  In fact, the Odessa painting was only authenticated as recently as 2005 (it had long been considered a copy, but was authenticated while it was on exhibit in Spain).  In a twisted way, I guess it's good that this Odessa painting was stolen: the events have afforded experts another chance to reexamine this work.  Although I haven't examined the painting for myself, I have a feeling that this new (and not-so-new) opinion of the painting is correct.  I think that it's a copy.  Although I don't know the specifics regarding the 2005 authentication, it seems like someone (a Spaniard?) was a little too hasty and a little too determined to authenticate the Odessa painting.  And hey, I can't blame that person too much.  I would want to authenticate and "discover" a work by Caravaggio, too.

Obviously, it's hard for the Odessa museum to accept this new opinion.  No one wants to hear that their prized piece is no longer a masterpiece (and also not worth the previous estimated value of $100 million).  I guess that by now the thieves have heard this news, as well.  How ironic: they went through all of that trouble to steal a fake.

Caravaggio Painting Recovered (and Bones Discovered)

Caravaggio continues to make headlines this year (which celebrates the 400th anniversary of Caravaggio's death).  You may have noticed my recent tweet that scientists believe that they have found Caravaggio's bones (see left).  This is really exciting news, although I wish that we could determine the exact cause of Caravaggio's death through analysis of these bones.  If only bones could talk...

 

In other exciting news, Caravaggio's painting The Taking of Christ (also known as "The Kiss of Judas," c. 1602, see right) was recently recovered (see here).  This painting was stolen from Ukraine two years ago, and it recently appeared in Berlin.  Two thieves have been apprehended; they apparently tried to sell the painting to a German collector.  The recovery is really exciting, but its really disheartening to see the damage incurred by the theft (see image of the damaged canvas at the end of this post).

(FYI: There is another version of The Taking of Christ which is located in the National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin.  Don't be confused if you're recently seen this painting on display!)

UPDATE: This recovered painting has been reexamined by experts and determined to be a 17th century copy of Caravaggio.  See this post for more information.

Bernini and Borromini's "Arms"

I just finished reading The Genius in the Design: Bernini, Borromini, and the Rivalry That Transformed Rome by Jake Morrissey.  It was a pretty good book, although I fluctuated between being bored and fascinated.  Morrissey covered a lot of information that I already knew (his discussion of St. Peter's building history bored me to no end), but he also presented many things that were new to me.  It's always interesting for me to read popular history books like this one. I vacillate between feeling like a scholar (by already knowing the information that's presented in the book) and feeling like an idiot who doesn't know anything.  I guess such vacillation is good, in a way.  There is always more to learn on a subject, and it's good to be reminded of that.

This book revolved around the artistic rivalry that existed between Borromini and Bernini during the 17th century.  Although the artists worked together for many years (did you know that Borromini helped Bernini make the baldacchino inside St. Peter's?), they eventually had a falling out.  The two artists ended up competing for some of the same commissions.  Things turned especially ugly when Borromini publicly and vehemently critiqued the instability of Bernini's bell towers at St. Peter's.  It's interesting to realize, though, that although they two artists were rivals, they also undoubtedly influenced the work of each other.  Morrissey points out one such influence by suggesting that Bernini's Scala Regia (1663-1666) was influenced by Borromini's colonnade at the Palazzo Spada (1652-53).

As I was reading Morrissey's book, I thought about another possible way that Borromini may have influenced Bernini.  Morrissey quotes Borromini's description of his church Oratorio dei Filippini (Oratory of Saint Philip Neri, 1637-1650, shown left in a 1658-1662 engraving by Domenico Barrière).  Borromini designed this church with specific intent to reference the human figure.  He wrote in his treatise Opus Architectonicum, "In giving form to the facade...I created the figure of the human body with open arms as if it embraces everyone who enters; and this open-armed figure is divided in five parts, that is, the chest in the center, and the arm, each in two sections [arm and forearm] as they open out."¹

This quote immediately reminded me of the many interpretations of Bernini's piazza of Saint Peter's (1656-1667, shown right), which has also been analyzed as anthropomorphic in form.  In fact, Howard Hibbard notes that Bernini himself compared the colonnade of the piazza to those of outstretched arms (just like Borromini's comparison with the Oratorio dei Filippini and open arms!).  Hibbard writes, "The image of the piazza was likened by Bernini to the outstretched arms of the Church welcoming the faithful, so that even this seemingly pure architectural creation has an anthropomorphic, and even quite sculptural connotation and function."²

Is it just coincidence that these two rivals both used the imagery of oustretched, open arms for their architectural designs?  I doubt it, especially considering the rivalry between these two men.  I think that Bernini's architectural "arms" were influenced by Borromini's "arms" at the Oratorio dei Filippini.  Borromini's church was completed just six years before Bernini began work on his project. And, furthermore, the manuscript of Opus Architectonicum (in which Borromini outlines his explanation of the "arms" idea) is dated to 1656, the same year that Bernini began work on the piazza of St. Peter's.  What if Bernini got a look at Borromini's treatise or heard of some of the ideas contained therein?  I think it's possible that Borromini's "arms" theory may have actually influenced the piazza design at St. Peter's.³


1 Jake Morrissey, The Genius in the Design: Bernini, Borromini and the Rivalry That Transformed Rome (New York: Harper Collins, 2005), 132.  Morrissey quotes Borromini's treatise Opus Architectonicum (Joseph Connors, ed. Milan: Il Polifilo, Trattati di architettura, 1998). 

2 Howard Hibbard, Bernini (New York: Penguin Books, 1965), 155.

3 I realize that other architectural theories exist which compare architectural forms to the human figure.  Even the ancient Roman writer Vitruvius compared the proportions of the Classical orders to the human form.  Admittedly, Borromini is not the first architect to come up with this comparison between the human form and architecture.  However, I wonder if Borromini could have been the first to incorporate the welcoming outstretched arms in architecture, particularly in its propagandistic role for the Counter-Reformation.  If that's the case, then Borromini has once again been relegated to the sidelines, since most people associate this propagandistic idea of Catholic arms/hugs/embraces with Bernini's piazza.

Exhuming Caravaggio

Keeping up with the Caravaggiomania theme, I wanted to bring attention to some recent news stories (brought to my attention by heidenkind). Currently, two groups are working together to exhume the possible remains of Caravaggio:

- Silvano Vinceti, a television producer, believes that he narrowed down the possible remains of Caravaggio to fragments of nine different bodies. These remains have been sent to the Professor Giorgio Gruppioni (University of Ravenna) for carbon dating. Vinceti has exhumed the remains of other prominent historical figures, including Petrarch and Pico della Mirandola. However, Vinceti has long been susceptible to criticism, largely because he isn't a trained historian or scholar. You can read the recent news article here. (There is also an interesting picture in the article that shows Gruppioni and Vinceti displaying an open box that may contain Caravaggio's remains - it's kind of creepy but also really cool.)

- Mr. Gruppioni and the University of Ravenna, in tandem with the University of Bologna, are furthering this testing by performing DNA tests on possible descendants of Caravaggio. See the Associated Press release here. (I think it's interesting that this article doesn't mention Mr. Vinceti's involvement in the project. Are the universities are somewhat embarrassed about their association with the controversial television producer?)

Even though Vinceti isn't a trained scholar, I'm glad to see that he is utilizing the knowledge of scholars for this research project. It will be interesting to see what findings come from these studies! Wouldn't it be neat to find out that you were a descendant of Caravaggio?

Caravaggiomania

Caravaggio, Medusa, 1598-99

One of my students brought my attention to this recent article in the New York Times. The article highlights a new argument by Philip Sohm, an art historian at the University of Toronto. Sohm believes that people aren't as interested in the Renaissance artist Michelangelo anymore - instead, people have shifted their interest to Caravaggio. Sohm has charted interest in Caravaggio and Michelangelo through the number of scholarly publications over the past fifty years, and the number of writings about Caravaggio have gradually overtaken those about Michelangelo. Sohm calls this new phenomenon "Caravaggiomania" - and as a Baroque scholar who loves Caravaggio, I think that term is awesome.

Sohm thinks that art history doctoral students are having difficulty finding new and innovative things to say about Michelangelo. I don't doubt this is the case. Michelangelo and the Renaissance period have been beaten to death for centuries in terms of research - but I do think that new interpretations and fresh scholarship can still rise up in the 21st century. I just wonder where Renaissance scholarship can go for new and fresh ideas. I've been thinking about this quite recently, actually, ever since I read heidenkind's post about her difficulty in finding great publications about Donatello.

Sohm's Caravaggio argument is timely, particularly since this year celebrates the 400th anniversary of the artist's death. There are a lot of huge celebrations and events taking place to honor Caravaggio this year, including a major exhibition that is currently on display at the Scuderie del Quirinale in Rome. This exhibition is bringing together Caravaggio paintings from all over the world - you can see a list of the paintings at the bottom of this Italian website. Other events have also taken place in preparation for this show, such as the public restoration of Adoration of the Shepherds. How I wish that I could go to Rome and celebrate this summer!

Anyhow, because of these celebrations, there undoubtedly has been Caravaggiomania over the past couple of months and years. Here's the question that I would pose to Sohm: How many publications and writings have occurred recently because of the preparations for this celebration? Is it possible that we will see a decline in Caravaggiomania next year, once all of the celebrations have ended?

Louis XIV as the Rising Sun

Up until this past weekend, my favorite portrait of Louis XIV was this infamous portrait by Rigaud (1701):

One of the reasons I love this portrait is because it captures the ostentatious, over-the-top personality of the absolute monarch. With all of that ermine fur, there is no question that this guy is a big spender. And how many people at age sixty-three have enough self-confidence to show off their legs (while wearing high-heels?). You have to admit, Louis Quatorze had guts.

Anyhow, while doing research this past weekend, I came across a new favorite depiction of Louis XIV. I present to you the king, costumed in his role as Apollo, the "Rising Sun" (part of the court ballet Royal Ballet of the Night (c. 1650, see here for more information)):

I knew that Louis XIV performed in ballets, but I didn't realize that any extant depictions of the costumed monarch existed. Don't you love his peacock-feathered skirt? And the wavy, golden sun rays that extend from everywhere (even his shoe buckles!)? It's no wonder that Louis XIV was given this role in the ballet, since he continually compared himself to Apollo and even called himself the "Sun King."

I know that Louis XIV was a incredibly selfish person that did a lot of horrible things to upkeep his vanity and image. But I have to admit, I think this guy is absolutely fascinating. Who can't be fascinated with someone who wears outfits like this?

Bacchus/Dionysus in Classical Art

I was recently asked a question something like, "If you had to choose a favorite god or goddess from ancient Greek/Roman mythology, who would it be?" I quickly answered Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine. It's not because I'm into bacchanalian parties (I don't even drink!) or Dionysiac cults, but Bacchus just seems like he'd be a really entertaining friend. I bet that guy can be funny-on-command.

Anyhow, I started to think of all of the depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in art. Since my speciality is in 17th century art, it's not surprising that I first thought of art created in the Renaissance/Baroque periods: Michelangelo's Bacchus (1497), Caravaggio's Bacchus (c. 1596), Caravaggio's Sick Bacchus (c. 1593), Velazquez' The Triumph of Bacchus (c. 1629; see detail above), and Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne (1520-22). While researching for this post, I also came across a fun depiction of a hefty Bacchus (1638-40) by Rubens. I think it might be my new favorite Bacchus painting, partially because the god's face and girth remind me of a physics teacher from my old high school.

But what about ancient art? What about depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus by the Greeks and Romans themselves? I had a hard time thinking of many examples, which is partially because it's outside my realm of expertise. I did think of three examples, though. Praxiteles' Hermes and the Infant Dionysus (marble copy after an original of 340 BC, shown right) would have been fun to see in its pre-damaged state, since Hermes was originally dangling a bunch of grapes to tease the infant god of the vine. I also thought of the Dionysiac Mystery Frieze (Villa of the Mysteries, Pompeii, Italy, ca. 60-50 BC) and figure from the Parthenon which might be Dionysus (ca. 438-432 BC). These depictions are are a little disappointing though, since they are both damaged. (P.S. Can anyone identify the head with the bulging eyeballs on the left of the Dionysiac wall? I can't figure it out.)

With only those few examples in mind, I began a quest to familiarize myself with depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in classical art. I ended up finding a couple of fun examples that I thought I'd share:

Dionysus (2nd century AD; Roman copy after Hellenistic model, Louvre, Paris)

Dionysus (460 BCE; Louvre, Paris)
This is thought to be one of the earliest depictions of Dionysus as a young man (see here)

Exekias, Dionysus in a Ship, Sailing among Dolphins (Attic black-figure kylix; ca. 530 BC; Vulci)
I actually remember seeing this vase in a course on ancient Greek art. It's a good example of how early Christians picked up on the reclining figure of Dionysus and reused that imagery in the figure of Jonah (see bottom scene from the ceiling painting in the Catacomb of Saints Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, Italy, early 4th century)

Bacchus, (3rd century, Roman mosaic, El Jem Museum, Tunisia)

The Birth of Dionysus (ca. 405-385 BC, Greek, National Archeological Museum in Taranto, Italy)
According to mythology, Dionysus was born out of Zeus' thigh. I love this vase painting - check out Dionysus' cute lil' postnatal wreath!

There are a lot more depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus than the few I've shown here. Do you have a favorite depiction of the god of wine? If you had to pick a favorite god or goddess from classical mythology, who would it be?

Caravaggio's Left-handed Subjects?

Today I came across an article that discusses a new theory regarding Caravaggio. Researcher Roberta Lapucci argues that Caravaggio used light sensitive substances (in essence, a very primitive form of photography) in order capture his figures on canvas. You should read this article and Lapucci's arguments - it's quite interesting.

But although I think that this is a really novel and fascinating idea, I have my doubts. Part of Lapucci's argument rests on the fact that Caravaggio used an "abnormal number" of left-handed subjects in his early works, since a light sensitive image would have been projected on a canvas backwards. (According to Lapucci, Caravaggio later depicts right-handed subjects in his paintings, which indicates that the artist used improved darkroom technologies in his later career). My problem with this argument is that I can only find three Caravaggio paintings with (possible) left-handed subjects, even in his early works. Just about all of the sitters appear to be right-handed (for example, see Judith Beheading Holofernes, Boy Peeling Fruit, Lute Player, and The Musicians). Here are the only lefties that I found:

Caravaggio, Bacchus, c. 1597
(A discovery regarding this painting was recently in the news - see my thoughts here)

Caravaggio, Catherine of Alexandria, c. 1598
Does Lapucci consider this subject to be left-handed, since
her left hand is closer to the handle of the sword? Hmm.

Caravaggio, Saint John the Baptist, 1610
This is a late work (in terms of Caravaggio's career), but the sitter is using his left hand to hold a staff. (Does that mean, though, that he is left-handed? Or that light sensitive technology was used? Hmm.)

And...that's it. From what I could find, those three are the only Caravaggio paintings that possibly manifest left-handed subjects. Feel free to try and find others - I'd love to see if anyone finds more lefties in Caravaggio's work. For now, though, I feel like this part of Lapucci's argument is pretty weak. You can decide for yourself, gentle reader, whether the number three constitutes an "abnormal number" for left-handed subjects.

Vasari and Female Artists

I'm in a state of shock. Vasari is best known as the biographer for the great (male) artists of the Italian Renaissance - Michelangelo, Donatello, Raphael, Leonardo, etc. But did you know that Vasari mentioned four females in his Lives of the Artists? I had no idea, until I discovered Vasari's chapter on Properzia de'Rossi the other night. I seriously was dumbfounded - I stared at the word "sculptress" for at least ten seconds.

But don't get too excited, my feminist art historian friends. Vasari only mentions Rossi in a few paragraphs, and then taps on a few short sentences about three other female artists: Sister Plautilla, Madonna Lucrezia, and Sofonisba Anguissola. You've never heard of these artists, you say? Let me show you a sampling of their work:

On the right is Properzia de'Rossi's Joseph and Potiphar's Wife (1520s). Vasari mentions that the subject matter of this panel can parallel the unrequited love that Rossi experienced in her own life. I think this comparison is telling about Vasari's views on women and feminine nature. The editor of my Lives edition also echoed my thoughts, saying that "while male artists execute works without regard to their personal feelings throughout the Lives, Vasari seems unable to imagine a woman creating a work of art without sentimental or romantic inspiration."¹

On the left is Lamentation with Saints (16th century) by Sister Plautilla (Plautilla Nelli). Vasari mentions that Plautilla was an extremely prolific painter, but surprisingly (or perhaps not-so-surprisingly), only three works are definitively attributed to her today. In an effort to bring public awareness to this artist, the Florence Committee of National Museum Women in the Arts paid to have Lamentation restored in 2006 (see news article here).

I think it's especially interesting that Vasari doesn't make any statements about Plautilla's divine role as an artist or God-given talent (which he makes about the male artists in his book). Instead, he stresses that Plautilla and the other ]female artists learned and acquired artistic skill. Futhermore, Vasari wrote this about Plautilla: "But best among her works are those she imitated from others, which demonstrates that she would have created marvellous works if, like men, she had been able to study and work on design and draw natural objects from life."² Plautilla was alive when Vasari wrote her biography, and I wonder if she cringed to know that Vasari thought her best works were those that she copied from the divinely inspired, male artists.

Sofonisba Anguissola is the only female artist with whom I was familiar before reading Vasari. I read about Anguissola when I was doing research on Caravaggio's Boy Bitten by a Lizard. Several scholars think that Caravaggio's two versions of this subject were influenced by Anguissola's Boy Bitten by a Crayfish (also called Boy Bitten by a Crab, c. 1554, on right). Mary Garrard has discussed Anguissola's drawing in depth. She mentioned how Anguissola painted a picture of a laughing girls, which Michelangelo saw and commented that "the image of a crying boy would have been better."³ Garrard finds that Michelangelo's statement implied that boys are better artistic subjects than girls, and tragedy is better than comedy.⁴ Upon hearing this, Anguissola sent Michelangelo the drawing of Boy Bitten by a Crayfish. However, instead of showing the crying male in a tragic, noble position (and follow Michelangelo's inferred suggestion), Anguissola shows the boy in an ignoble state with an amused female standing nearby. Wasn't Anguissola a little sassy? I wonder what Michelangelo thought of the drawing.

Madonna Lucrezia is the other female artist mentioned by Vasari. Unfortunately, there isn't any (known) surviving art by her. In fact, we know little about Lucrezia beyond that she was active around 1560 and her teacher was Alessandro Allori. It's sad to think that her work and life is lost to history, most likely because she was a female. I'm glad that Vasari made the effort to mention her and these other females in his Lives, but also disappointed that most females didn't receive artistic opportunity or art historical attention at the time. It makes me wonder what other female artists have been unappreciated and obscured by historical biases.

Is anyone else shocked that Vasari mentioned female artists in his text?

1 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 565.

2 Ibid., 342.

3 Mary D. Garrard, "Here's Looking at Me: Sofonisba Anguissola and the Problem of the Woman Artist,” Renaissance Quarterly 47, no. 3 (Autumn, 1994): 611.

4 Ibid., 612.