Titian, Mulvey, and Lacan

I've been on a Renaissance kick lately, haven't I? For several weeks I have been wanting to write a post about Titian's Venus with a Mirror (c. 1555, shown left). I think this painting is so interesting, especially because it can be applied to a few theories that are popular in art historical analysis.

I often feel a bit unsettled when looking at this painting, and it has to do with Venus' mirror reflection. The reflection of Venus' eye captures my attention the most. For one thing, only one eye is reflected in the mirror, causing goddess of love's reflection to look a little bit like the Cyclops! Ha! The eye also seems to stare out of the picture plane towards the viewer (perhaps as a way to invite the viewer into the painting, as was suggested by Obridge in a comment for an earlier post of mine). This direct gaze makes the viewer extremely aware of his (the pronoun is intentional) voyeuristic gaze. (And although I don't bring a "male gaze" to the painting, perhaps I feel unsettled because I'm a heterosexual woman; I don't want to be accused as a voyeur while gazing at a female form!) One perceives that Venus is completely aware that her nude body is on display, since her reflected eye acknowledges the viewer's presence.

But it's not only the direct gaze in the reflection that captures my interest. It's the fact that only part of Venus' body is revealed in the reflection. Through the "cropping" of the mirror frame, Venus' eye and shoulder become fetishized for the viewer. This reminds me so much of Laura Mulvey's discussion of women in film. Mulvey discusses how the film camera crops and fetishizes the female form, particularly with camera close-ups on specific parts of the female body.¹ It can be argued that Titian is doing the same thing, by having the mirror highlight certain parts of Venus' body.

I wonder what psychoanalyst Lacan would say about Venus with a Mirror. Lacanian theory discusses how the mirror stage is the most important stage of development for a child (and the child's ego) - it's the point in which an infant recognizes himself/herself in the mirror.² Lacan also is interested in the idea of the gaze, particularly how one develops awareness through looking.³ Given the usage of a mirror (and gaze!) in this painting, can anything be related to the mirror stage? Does the viewer feel compelled to recognize his own eye (and, perhaps by extension, his role as a spectator) when gazing at the reflected eye? Perhaps this is one reason that I feel a little unsettled; I am accustomed to seeing my own eye when I gaze at a mirror, and not the direct gaze of another person's eye.

Lacan discusses how a young infant experiences elation during the mirror stage, for the child imagines the mirror image to be more complete and more perfect than the child experiences his own body. Obviously, the viewer can't get a sense of completion and perfection in the mirror image that Titian has created, since Venus' body is fragmented from the viewer's perspective. The viewer expects to see (and anticipates that Venus also sees) a more complete reflection of the goddess in the mirror, but in actuality the more complete image of Venus (for the viewer, at least) is displayed on the left side of the canvas. Hence, I feel unsettled; the mirror has failed my expectations, yet paradoxically I am still given a "complete image" of Venus within the picture frame.

Does anyone else feel a bit unsettled by looking at this painting? Why or why not?

1 Laura Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," in Screen 16, no. 3 (Autumn, 1975): 21-22. I've written a little bit about Mulvey's ideas in a previous post.

2 Ibid, 17. See also "Lacan: The Mirror Stage" for further information and resources.

3 Jacques Lacan, The Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (New York: W. W. Norton, 1981), 67-78.

My Week in Assorted Thoughts

This week I've been thinking about several random art historical facts and ideas. Several of you might have seen some of these links on my Twitter feed, but I wanted to flesh out a few ideas here:

• Norman Rockwell included a portrait of Grandma Moses in his painting Christmas Homecoming (1948, see right). You can see Moses on the left side of a painting, wearing an old-fashioned dress. The two artists were friends who lived relatively close to each other at one time. (In fact, you can read parts of a story about Norman Rockwell at Grandma Moses' surprise 88th birthday party here.)
• I really don't know that much about Grandma Moses. She never was discussed in any of my art history classes, but I didn't focus on American art from the 20th century. But could she have been excluded from courses and textbooks because she is a folk artist? Out of curiosity, have any Americanists studied Grandma Moses' work in an academic setting?
• I was surprised to learn that Johann Winckelmann, one of the early scholars of art history, was murdered in 1768. He was fifty years old. What if Winckelmann had lived a full life? I wonder if he would have retracted any of his ideas about unpainted classical sculpture, "good taste," or how Greek art has "noble simplicity."¹ (For example, scholars in the early 19th century were able to document the traces of paint on certain Greek statues after their excavation. If Winckelmann had lived longer, would he have learned this news and changed his ideas about white marble and beauty?) Maybe it's a stretch, but I like to think about how the Western canon might have been different if Winckelmann had not been murdered.
• I've been reading about the Laocoön statue lately, partially because I want to know more about the theory that Michelangelo created the Laocoön (which is a rather far-fetched idea, in my opinion). I've also enjoyed looking at this annotated chronology of the statue: this piece has a pretty rich history!
• A comment from a student also led to me to look at a pre-20th century restoration of the Laocoön statue. This restoration depicts the arm of the priest as being fully-extended. (The restored arm (now lost) was the work of Renaissance artist Bandio Baccinelli. For those interested, Vasari wrote a little bit about Bandio Baccinelli's work on the Laocoön here.) It appears that has been a lot of debate regarding how Laocoön originally appeared. As recently as 1989, one scholar argued that the whole composition needs to be more compact and pyramidal in order to be historically accurate.²

How was your week? Were your art historical thoughts as assorted as mine?

1 Johann Joachim Winckelmann, "Reflections on the Imitation of Greek Works in Painting and Sculpture," in The Art of Art History: A Critical Anthology by Donald Preziosi, ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 31-39. For an interesting critique on Winckelmann's theories, see also Kenneth Lapatin, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Materials: Toward a Historiography of Greek Minor (?) Arts," from Ancient Art and its Historiography by A. A. Donohue, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 69-91.

2 Seymor Howard, "Laocoon Rerestored," in American Journal of Archaeology 93, no. 3 (July 1989): 417-422.

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?

"Masculine" vs. "Feminine" vs. "Androgynous"

This quarter I have been peppering my lectures with some discussion about women in the visual arts, following some of the ideas that Christine Havice presented in Women's Studies Quarterly. ¹ Although art historical practice and publications have changed since Havice published her article in 1987, I think that many of her suggestions are still appropriate in the classroom today.

Recently I've been talking with my students about Akhenaten and the Amarna period in Egyptian art (on the left is the colossal figure of Akhenaten, c. 1353-1336 BC). This topic easily segued into a discussion (prompted by Havice) about the problematic nature of the labeling an artistic style or work of art as "masculine" and "feminine." We discussed how our 21st century idea (i.e. construct) of "masculine" and "feminine" differs greatly (or likely didn't even exist) in prehistoric and ancient times, and by using those labels we are superimposing our cultural ideology on a work of art. All in all, using such adjectives in art historical discussions implies that a similar "masculine" or "feminine" construct existed at the time the art was created.

Sigh. And such is the challenge for art historians. I think it is often difficult to find correct (i.e. objective) adjectives and phrases to describe works of art, because we always interpret works of our through our own cultural lenses. I'd like to think that Michael Ann Holly would agree with me on this subject, since she has much lamented the melancholic separation between historians and the objects of their scholarly discussion.

So, what do we do? Search for different adjectives? Continue to describe works of art in the best way that we know how, yet recognizing the surrounding culture from whence our biases spring? We obviously can't ditch adjectives altogether; the discipline of art history revolves around the limited translation of images to words.

I don't know the answers to solve such conundrums regarding adjectives, but I have formed one opinion about adjectives for the Amarna style. I think it is just as problematic to try and neutralize ground between the "masculine" and "feminine" terms by saying that Akenaten's colossal statue "suggest[s] androgyny" (sorry, Marilyn Stokstad).² Do we know if Akhenaten was trying to appear androgynous in his art? No! Even without using the "masculine" or "feminine" label, Stokstad is trying to define this statue on sexual grounds, in this case suggesting the lack or combination of sexual characteristics as a definition. (Besides, do we even know if the concept of androgyny existed in ancient Egypt?) I think it would have been more appropriate for Stokstad to say that the sculpture may suggest androgyny to the modern viewer.

1 Christine Havice, "Teaching about Women in the Visual Arts: The Art History Survey Transfigured," Women's Studies Quarterly 15, no. 1/2 (Spring-Summer 1987): 17-20.

2 Marilyn Stokstad and Michael W. Cothren, Art History, 4th edition (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2011), 71.

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).

What if Sculptures Were Painted?

This week I have been reading Colin Cunningham's essay "The Parthenon Marbles" (a preview of which is available here). Cunningham spends much of this essay examining how the bringing of the Parthenon marbles (by Lord Elgin) to the British Museum has affected the Western canon of art. (When using the word "canon" I am referring to the artistic standard and aesthetic value that has been determined by Western culture over centuries.)  The bringing of original Greek statues to England was huge, especially in the 19th century, since many artists had only known Greek art through Roman copies.  After the marbles were brought to the British Museum in 1816, thousands of artists began to study these works for their aesthetic properties.

I was most intrigued by Cunningham's discussion of how classical sculpture continues to be left unpainted.  We know that Greek and Roman sculpture used to be painted, and many sculptures have left behind traces of paint (including sculptures on the Parthenon). Modern techniques have enabled exhibitions (such as this one and this one) to show reconstructions of how these sculptures appeared originally, such as this example of Augustus of Primaporta (right, original dated ca. 20 BC).

However when ancient sculptures were discovered, most of the paint had usually come off.  Obviously, people decided to leave the works unpainted.  On one hand, no one wanted to risk damaging the original works of art.  Plus, at the time no one knew how the paint originally appeared.  In time, though, the idea of unpainted sculpture began to be propagated by art historians as correct/beautiful/preferred, particularly Winckelmann (1717-1768), who declared that "color ought to have a minor part in the consideration of beauty."¹

So, what do you think of painted sculpture?  Does it weird you out? Cunningham points out, "If the idea of coloured sculpture seems strange to you, that shows the influence the western canon has had on all of us."² Personally, I like looking at painted reconstructions of ancient sculpture, because it reminds me how much the Western canon and my own artistic preferences have been constructed.  I'm sure that ancient Greeks and Romans would think it bizarre that later cultures left their sculptures white and unadorned.  And the funny thing is, we've continued to create unadored, unpainted sculptures for centuries, all in the name of classicism!

What if classical sculpture had still been painted when it was discovered?  That could have changed the face of the Western art - quite literally, in fact, if you think about painted faces!  Consider if Michelangelo's David had been painted. You can get an idea of what it might have looked like from this sculpture created after Michelangelo's David (left, by a German artist, displayed in Cologne as part of the Museum Ludwig collection).  Or what if Bernini's sculptures had been painted?  Or neoclassical sculptures, like Canova's Cupid and Psyche?

Art and art history could have been totally different than how they have turned out.  How do you feel about that?


1 John Hooper, "The Ancients: Now Available in Color," in The Guardian, 22 November 2004.  Available online here.

2 Colin Cunninghman, "The Parthenon Marbles," in Academies, Museums and Canons of Art, Gill Perry and Colin Cunningham, eds. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 70.

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.

Loggia dei Lanzi and Subjugation

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

Giambologna, Rape of a Sabine, 1581-83

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

Pio Fedi, Rape of Polyxana, 1866

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

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

I really recommend that you read Even's article.

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

2 Ibid.

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.

Linda Nochlin Lecture at SAAM

Last night I watched a live webcast of Linda Nochlin's lecture at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Nochlin is one of the forefront feminist art historians today (she practically created feminist studies in art history with this article). She has influenced a lot of my thinking in regards to feminism and postcolonialism, and I was really excited to hear her speak. Nochlin spoke about female American artists, ranging from Mary Cassatt to the contemporary period. (On a side note, don't you think it's interesting how both the Americans and French want claim the ex-pat Cassatt as belonging to their country/art movements? Is she a French Impressionist or an American Impressionist?)

There were two things in Nochlin's lecture that I thought were especially interesting. I liked how Nochlin compared Mary Cassatt to the compositional devices in Little Girl in a Blue Armchair (c. 1878, shown above on right). Nochlin pointed out that Cassatt was extremely aware of childhood and its discontents, as is evidenced in the painting and subject matter. The little girl is slumped in her chair - it's obvious that she is annoyed with the convention of portraiture and having to sit still (for a long time!) while her portrait is painted. The girl's resistant attitude is emphasized by her angular body within the composition: there's an interesting contrast between the angular body of the girl and the soft, circular body of the dog.

Nochlin paralleled this painting to the discontent that Cassatt felt in her own life. Like this little girl, Cassatt was also resistant to convention and tradition. As a suffragist and avant-garde artist, Cassatt defied the standards that were upheld by 19th century society. Cassatt's disregard for the tradition of painting is even emphasized in the unconventional perspective of Little Girl in a Blue Armchair; the viewpoint has been lowered so that the scene is viewed from the perspective of a child, not that of an adult.

Nochlin also made a passing comment that I thought was interesting. She was discussing Dorothea Lange's Migrant Mother (1936, shown on right) and mentioned that she liked that the photograph was black and white. Nochlin feels like there is a true feeling of "documentation" when a photograph is black and white - there is a refusal of the decorative, emotional quality that comes with color. In terms of facts and documentation, the idea of "black and white" is extended to the newspaper and media paradigm, since people say "I read it in black and white." Interesting, huh?

Did anyone else have a chance to hear Nochlin's lecture? What do you think of the two ideas I mentioned?

Found Objects and Conceptual Poetry

The idea of taking found objects and creating "ready-made" sculptures began with Marcel Duchamp in 1913 with his Bicycle Wheel. Duchamp's most famous "ready-made" is his Fountain (1917, shown left). It's no surprise that this piece (yep, that's a urinal!) was rejected for exhibition.

I think found object art is really interesting. It's fun to look at an everyday object as art - it gives the object new meaning and interpretation. I also like that found objects often can cause someone to look for aesthetic value and beauty in something that is ordinary. Granted, I don't find a lot of aesthetic beauty in Duchamp's Fountain, but I do like to think about how the sculptural form and physical presence of the urinal parallels sculptures which follow a more Classical tradition. (The white urinal even mimics the white marble of Roman/Renaissance statues! Ha!)

Artists still make pieces from "ready-mades" and found objects. I've already written about the contemporary artist Jean Shin, who uses old castaway objects for her artistic projects. Another interesting artist is Stuart Hayworth. The original prototype for this chandelier on the right (Millenium, 2004) was created out of party poppers that were used for the New Year's celebration for the year 2000. You should look check out Hayworth's other work on his website - he has a lot of interesting, fun, and beautiful stuff.

I like thinking about how other art forms have picked up on the idea of found objects. For example, conceptual poetry (a relatively new trend) takes something that has already been written and reuses the material to generate a new poem. This podcast by the Poetry Foundation discusses how conceptual poetry is similar to Duchamp's idea of "ready-made" art, but poets are about a hundred years behind visual artists when it comes to this artistic trend (listen at 34:44).

For an example of a conceptual poem, listen to the one at about 23:17 on the podcast. This poem was written from words that were used for the September 11, 2001 edition of the New York Times (the edition that was written before the attacks took place that morning). It's interesting to listen to words that are so mundane and ordinary, but also charged and poignant due to the impending disaster.

If you're interested, you can read more about conceptual poetry here.

What do you think of art from found objects? Isn't it interesting that poetry is following this same trend? I love to compare how different artistic ideas develop within various art forms. For example, musicians also latched onto the idea of taking existing sounds and turning them into music - John Cage is probably the quintessential example for this musical trend. (And check out this relatively recent article of a musician that's turning street sounds into music!) Conceptual poetry is a century late in following what visual artists and musicians already have done, but I wonder if Hegel would still view conceptual poetry as part of the Geist of the 20th century. Or maybe not? Perhaps poetry is moving along with its own Geist? :)

Women Who Read = Dangerous

My mother-in-law owns a really great book called Women Who Read Are Dangerous. The book is a compilation of artwork (mostly paintings) that depict women reading (or holding books). I think that the idea of this book is really fun, and it made me (jokingly) think about the plausibility of creating a Washer Women Are Dangerous book!

I particularly am struck by how many of these paintings fit into the idea of rejecting the male gaze. There are so many paintings that depict women actively involved in the act of reading. Instead of inviting a (male) viewer of the painting to look at them, these women are completely absorbed in their books. They deflect the gaze of the viewer and move the focus of the painting to the book or letter. Curiously, a lot of the reading women appear in profile view, which is similar to Barbara Kruger's Your Gaze Hits the Side of My Face (I've written more about Kruger's work and the male gaze here). Fun stuff. It's also fun to think about the male gaze and think about another photograph in this book: Eve Arnold's 1952 photograph Marilyn Monroe Reading Ulysses (yes, Marylin actually was reading that classical piece of literature!). In some ways, I think one could argue that the pin-up actress was rejecting the male gaze in this photograph.

Anyhow, here are a couple of fun pieces that also appear in the book:

Carl Larsson, Karin Reading, 1904
(Not only is she rejecting/deflecting the male gaze by being in profile, but her hand is covering part of her face!)

Pieter Janssens Elinga, Woman Reading, 1668-70

Tomb of Eleanor of Aquitaine, c. 1204

Johannes Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1663-64

Edward Hopper, Hotel Room, 1931

Rembrandt van Rijn, The Prophetess Anna (Rembrandt's Mother), 1631

Walter Launt Palmer, Afternoon in the Hammock, 1882
(FYI - The greens in this painting are a lot more vibrant than in this reproduction)

There are a lot of other great paintings in this book that don't have reproductions online, since they belong to private collections. You should get this book and check these paintings out, whether you are or aren't a "dangerous woman" that likes to read!

What do you think about the idea of the male gaze in connection with these paintings? Do you have other favorite works of art that depict women reading?

Alberti and Narcissus

The Renaissance theorist Leon Battista Alberti is well-known for his treatise On Painting.¹ It is in this three-book treatise that Alberti wrote his seminal discussion on composition and perspective, discussing how a (framed) painting should be treated as a window on the world.² (See where I got the title for my blog?) According to Alberti, painting was intended to be illusionistic, realistic, and mimetic.

Alberti wrote a lot of ground-breaking information about painting in his treatise. I recently became aware that Alberti also took some interesting liberties in his treatise, particularly his creation of a new myth that Narcissus was the father of painting.³ At the beginning of Book II, Alberti writes, "Consequently I used to tell my friends that the inventor of painting, according to poets, was Narcissus, who was turned into a flower; for, as painting is the flower of all arts, so the tale of Narcissus fits our purpose perfectly. What is painting but the act of embracing by means of art the surface of a pool?"

Cristelle L. Baskins points out that Alberti doesn't actually recount a "tale" of Narcissus, but allegorizes the account instead. She writes, "Alberti conflates two aspects of Narcissus' transformation; the flower and the reflection in the pool both seem to signify the mimetic surface of painting."⁴ She goes on to explain, "The canonical interpretation of the Narcissus trope in Alberti takes the reflection of the pool to be analagous to the imitation of surface appearance, stripped of narrative components and concentrating on the physical property of water to reflect an image in the real world, Narcissus' reflection corroborates our understanding of the naturalistic, illusionistic goals of early Renaissance painting."⁵

I would recommend reading Baskin's article "Echoing Narcissus in Alberti's 'Della Pittura.'" I'm still thinking about some references she made to the gaze of Narcissus. She mentioned how Narcissus' reflection is only available to his own gaze, whereas Narcissus-as-a-flower can only receive the gaze of another person.⁶

It is interesting to think about these gazes in conjunction with what Lacan has said about narcissism and the mirror phase. I don't know if one can superimpose Lacanian theory over Alberti's allegory without difficulty, but if it were possible, what would that mean? Can the ego or self be recognized when one looks at a painting? Are paintings mimetic reflections of the ego? Hmm.

1 There are two early versions of this treatise. De pictura was written in Latin in 1435, and the vernacular Della pittura was written in 1436.

2 Alberti writes, "First of all, on the surface which I am going to paint, I draw a rectangle of whatever size I want, which I regard as an open window through which the subject to be painted is seen." (De pictura, 1.19).

3 Narcissus was a vain, ego-centric figure from Ovid's Metamorphosis. You can read a little about the Narcissus mythology here. Caravaggio's Narcissus (c. 1597-99) is shown above.

4 Cristelle L. Baskins, "Echoing Narcissus in Alberti's 'Della Pittura," Oxford Art Journal 16, no. 1 (1993): 25.

5 Ibid., 26.

6 Ibid., 25.

The Cyclical Nature of Art

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michelangelo, David, 1501-04

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

Bernini, David, 1623

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

Antonio Canova, Pauline Borghese as Venus, 1808

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

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

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

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

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

W. J. T. Mitchell Lecture

Last night I went to Seattle University to hear W. J. T. Mitchell speak. I remember studying writings by Mitchell as a grad student, and I was intrigued by his lecture title, "The War of Images: 9/11 to the Present." The lecture was interesting and I was struck by Mitchell's persona; he was approachable and seemed to be constantly thinking and reviewing new ideas.

A large part of Mitchell's work revolves around the discussion of words and images - how words and images are different, what words are used to describe images, etc. I was not surprised in this lecture, therefore, to see that Mitchell was interested in the examining the word "terror" and the metaphoric war that is currently being waged on the emotion signified by that word. (How are you supposed to fight an emotion?)

During the lecture Mitchell showed many pictures that have been distributed and displayed as a result from the "war on terror." I was living out-of-the-country when the Abu Grahib photos began to emerge, so I had to read a little more about them after the lecture. These images of prisoners being tortured and abused led to an internal investigation within the US Army. It is thought by many that this "Hooded Man" depiction will always be remembered as the iconic photograph for the war in Iraq:

Mitchell showed different places and instances where this Abu Ghraib photograph has emerged and reemerged as part of the discourse on the war. As a counter-message, reproductions of the "Hooded Man" appeared in a silkscreen format that parodies the current iPod ads:

Mitchell briefly suggested that in addition to decrying the war in these iRaq posters, another counter-message is created by referencing the iPod - the iPod is related to self-pleasure. Although we didn't end up discussing any narratives or ideas created by this contradicting image of self-pleasure and torture, I think it's an interesting idea. (Does anyone want to further this idea or suggest a narrative?) In addition to self-pleasure, I think that the iPods also embody self-absorption; one seems to shut out the world when iPod buds are in their ears. It's interesting to think about this poster in regards to the criticisms of self-absorption that have been heaped upon the Bush administration and America since the inception of this war.

I was surprised that Mitchell showed only a few pictures of Saddam Hussein, not for political reasons but for historical comprehensiveness (my bias as a historian is apparent!). The first photograph, shown right at the beginning of the lecture, was an equestrian statue of Hussein. As a historian, I think of the equestrian statue tradition as connected with antiquity. I wondered if by selecting this photograph Mitchell was historicizing Hussein's role in the war, perhaps suggesting that Hussein's role in the war is dated and passé, like this statuary tradition. I also thought this equestrian statue seemed very irrelevant and out-of-place with the other images shown in the presentation; the other images were more contemporary and often used Photoshop technology. It was interesting to think about what kind of statements about the war and Hussein's role could be derived from a "dated" and perhaps "irrelevant" image. Interestingly, though, the last image in the presentation was also of Saddam Hussein, this time a photograph of the leader soon after his capture. By depicting Saddam's medical examination by an Army doctor, I think this photograph was supposed to show the concern of the Americans for their prisoner. However, Mitchell pointed out that this photograph actually a degrading and humiliating depiction of Saddam:

It didn't take long for people to criticize the American government through this photograph. In Mitchell's presentation, a caption included with this photo (no doubt found by Mitchell on the internet, but I can't find where), said "The search for weapons of mass destruction continues..."

I felt like this was a fitting photograph for the end of the lecture. Since I felt the inclusion of the equestrian statue dated and historicized Saddam, I liked that Mitchell included an active, more contemporary photograph of Saddam at the end of the presentation. Although Saddam was not responsible for the 9/11 attacks, I felt that his historical role with the (ongoing) Iraq invasion was better represented with this final photograph. To me, it was appropriate to view this photograph and caption while Mitchell explained that the war on terror (and the war of images) still continues today.

Juxtaposition of Images

Mieke Bal's book Looking In: The Art Of Viewing has forever changed the way that I look at exhibitions in art museums and galleries. In her chapter "On Grouping," Bal discusses how the juxtaposition of different images on a museum wall can create meanings and connotations which never would have existed otherwise. She discusses a grouping of three paintings in a Berlin museum: Amor Vincit Omnia (Caravaggio), Doubting Thomas (Caravaggio, shown above) and also Heavenly Amor Defeats Earthly Love (Baglione). Specifically, she argues that the placement of Doubting Thomas between these two images of nudes creates a new dynamic within the first painting. For Bal, she feels like "Jesus' barely visible leg at the lower left becomes slightly coquettish" when placed alongside Caravaggio's nude Amor (whose sprawled legs cover a good portion of its canvas).¹ If you're interested, you can read parts of Bal's argument and see a grouping of the three images online.

Since reading this article a few years ago, I am constantly looking for new meanings and connotations which come about because of the juxtaposition of images in a museum. A few years ago I helped hang an exhibition which featured work by the artist Sean Diediker. Due to the size of the paintings and the space of the museum, it ended up that a large painting of a female nude was placed to the left of a painting of Joseph Smith (the Mormon prophet) receiving a vision. Joseph Smith was kneeling down in semi-profile, looking at a vision that was placed to the left of the picture frame. If the picture frames between the nude and Smith were invisible, then the boy prophet would have been looking right at the nude woman. All of the sudden, the look of surprise and awe on Joseph Smith's face began to look a little more embarrassed, as if he wasn't supposed to be staring at a nude female!

As Bal points out in her book, every viewer brings their own personal experiences ("cultural baggage") and past to a work of art. Therefore, we all have our own personal reaction to what kind of dialogue and connotations are created by a work of art. The writer of this article reacted to a past installation at the Whitney Museum (shown below), saying that "the juxtaposition of Urs Fischer’s Intelligence of Flowers (holes in the wall) and Untitled (hanging shapes) with Rudolf Stingel’s black & white photorealistic self-portrait creates an impression of crushing despondency in the face of a wrecked world."

I agree that such a reaction to this exhibition of art is possible. Personally though, having just seen a recent episodes of LOST that involve swinging pendulums and abandoned Dharma Initiative stations, I can't help but think of anything else when I look at these hanging shapes, circles, and gaping holes.

Have you ever found interesting connotations or dialogue that was created by the juxtaposition of artwork? What kind of personal "cultural baggage" has affected your reaction to a work of art?

1 Mieke Bal, Looking In: The Art Of Viewing (New York: Routledge, 2000), 184.

Isabella Stewart Gardner

The Women's Studies Journal recently posted a call for article submissions regarding female art collectors. Here are some of the questions listed in the posting:

"Paintings and sculptures of women have long been objects of the collector's desire: what happens to this gendered dynamic when the collector is a woman? Is the drive to collect necessarily a masculine quality? What, if anything, is it to collect like a woman? Can collections be distinctively feminine? To what extent does a collection reflect its collector? What ethnic or feminist lenses may be applied to our understanding of these collections?"

(For anyone interested, the rest of the posting is found here).

I would really like to submit an article about Isabella Stewart Gardner. She was a fine art collector in the 19th-early 20th centuries and opened a museum of her collection in 1903. Today, the museum remains essentially unchanged since Isabella's death in 1924.

There are many aspects to Mrs. Gardner's life and collection that can be interpreted through a feminist lens. I think that the practice of art collecting is characteristically male, and it seems that Isabella also adopted (and perhaps flaunted?) some masculine characteristics aside from art collecting. She loved masculine sports like baseball and horseracing; the local newspapers were scandalized (and intrigued) by her behavior. Furthermore, Isabella's appellate was also masculine; she was referred to as "Mrs. Jack" ("Jack" was her husband's nickname).

However, for all of the masculine characteristics that Isabella exhibited, I think that the display and maintenance of her art collection lends itself to feminist interpretation. Specifically, I would argue that Gardner's museum (and consequently Isabella Stewart Gardner herself) resists outside control and change, which I think can be extended to a rejection of the controlling "male gaze." (I have written a little more about the "male gaze" here). Isabella stipulated in her will that the museum needs to be permanently exhibited according her aesthetic vision. I think that because the museum remains unchanged, Gardner still remains part of the female "subject" that visitors see when they come to the museum. If her art collection was to be moved around and changed, Gardner would shift from being a powerful female "subject" to a female "object" - and consequently all of the paintings in the room would become "objects" instead of embodiments of Gardner and her aesthetic taste.

Because of Isabella's will stipulations, the museum has remained unchanged since her death. Even when several masterpieces were stolen (a loss that amounted between $300 and $500 million - the biggest art heist in history!) from the museum in 1990, the museum maintained the same display (with empty frames where the stolen paintings were once located). Today, these empty frames still remain, since the crime was never solved. (You can read a little more about the crime here).

Even with these absent paintings, I think that the frames still function to represent the "subjecthood" and female control of Isabella Stewart Gardner.

What do people think about female art collectors and Isabella Stewart Gardner? How would you respond to some of the questions put forth by the Women's Studies Journal?

Original Intent

I've been thinking a lot lately about if art should be displayed and conserved to follow the "artist's original intent." The phrase "original intent" is used a lot by conservators, specifically in terms of describing how the conservator aims to preserve and restore exactly what the artist originally created. However, Steven W. Dykstra argues in his article The Artist's Intentions and the Intentional Fallacy in Fine Arts Conservation (found online here) that this term is ambiguous. There are several different definitions of the word "intent." For example, the original intent of the artist could refer to the artist's aims for a work of art, or it could refer to the artistic outcome (which may or may not be the original artistic aim). In addition, "intent" could refer to biographical motives - the artist could be seeking fame, emotional catharsis, or the satisfaction of patrons by creating a work of art.¹ Often, we don't even know what any of the possible intents of the artist may have been.

The art historian Gombrich discussed original intent in connection with a controversy that happened at the National Gallery. Before an exhibition in 1947, conservator Ruhemann and his team used new positivist scientific methods to clean some paintings. There was a mixed reaction to the results of the cleaning. Gombrich and his followers felt that a scientifically driven method for cleaning did not allow for artistic or historical consideration.² Ruhemann, however, felt that conservation techniques naturally followed artists' intentions as a guiding principle.³ Gombrich disagreed (which I think ties into the ambiguity of the word "intent"). In an indirect reference to the cleaning of Titian's painting Virgin and Child with Infant Saint John and a Female Saint or Donor (c. 1532, shown above), Gombrich mentioned, “One should have thought it is common ground that Titian is dead and that we cannot ask him what his intention was.”⁴ To finally retalliate to Gombrich's accusations, Ruhemann's followers came up with a mocking (and clever!) pun, accusing Gombrich's camp of having a fascination with "dirty" pictures.⁵

What do you think about the phrase "original intent"? Can conservators (or connoisseurs, for that matter) determine the original intent of an artist? Is it important to try and learn about or follow the intent of the artist, whatever it may be? Does the artist's intent even matter? (Postmodernists likely would argue "no" to that last question, but I'm not sure how I feel about that.)

I guess I'm thinking a lot about this lately because of my last post, where I complained that reproductions of Monet's water lily paintings are used as decoration in college girls' bathrooms. I still think that's inappropriate; I would never do it. But now I'm starting to wonder what Monet's specific "intent" may have been.

1 Steven W. Dykstra, "The Artist's Intentions and the Intentional Fallacy in Fine Arts Conservation," Journal of the American Institute for Conservation 35, no. 3 (Autumn-Winter 1996) : 205.

2 Ibid., 202.

2 Ibid., 201.

3 Ernst Gombrich, "Dark Varnishes, Variations on a Theme from Pliny," The Burlington Magazine 104 (1962): 54.

4 Sarah Walden, The Ravished Image, (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1985), 118. This book specifically deals with the Gombrich and Ruhemann debate.

Still Life and Van Gogh

Today I finished reading Still Life by A. S. Byatt. I didn't like this book nearly as much as Possession, but it still was fairly interesting and engaging. I particularly liked this book because one character is fascinated with Van Gogh and several excerpts from Van Gogh's writings are quoted and discussed. I also could relate quite a bit to one character, Stephanie. At the beginning of the book, Stephanie was the mother of a new baby that would spend her time dreaming up hypothetical Ph.D. dissertation topics. Yeah, I can relate to that.

Although Byatt wrote this book about a decade ago, the novel is mostly set in the 1950s. Throughout the book, Byatt suggests a postmodern critique of some of the modernist theories and ideas that her characters uphold.¹ For example, Raphael, a modernist poet and scholar, explains why he dislikes Van Gogh:

"And [Van Gogh] obtrudes himself all the time-" Raphael's carved upper lip curled in perfect scorn -"he has one of the most personal styles in major art. He lacks that final clarity and selflessness."²

According to Raphael, anonymity is a factor which determines great art. This is such a modernist way of thinking! Modernist sculpture (think of the Minimalists) and architecture (like the Seagram Building) refuse to recognize the sculptor or architect which masterminded their creation. They also exude "clarity" and "selflessness" in their sleek, industrialized design. As a postmodern reader and art historian, I think this rejection of personal style is rather silly and extreme (although, granted, I do like the modernist aesthetic). Obviously, though, I feel this way because I have been trained and educated to celebrate individual thought and contribution. Today, most art history survey courses are constructed to follow the career of one great artist after another. These artists become recognizable by their distinct stylistic characteristics and "personal styles" which can then be recognized as influences on lesser (dare I say anonymous?) artists.

I love Van Gogh's style. He has a great use of color which makes his paintings very striking. My favorite thing about Van Gogh, however, is his use of impasto. His paintings are so tactile and tangible - I adore it! One has to see a Van Gogh in person in order to appreciate the sculpturesque quality of some of his paintings. In this reproduction of The Yellow Chair (1888) some of the paint buildup can be seen on the brick tiles, but it really isn't the same.

In Byatt's book, a playwright is obsessed with this painting and writes a play about Van Gogh and The Yellow Chair. The play stage is set up with a lot of different colors which reference Van Gogh's brightly painted canvases (and also some of his darker paintings, like The Potato Eaters). It was so fun to read about the play; I wish that it really was on the stage! Even though there really isn't such a play, I do know of a good substitute. There is a brightly colored Van Gogh segment in Kurosawa's film Dreams which can be seen here and here. Watch it. The cinematography is lovely.

1 There is some interesting literary analysis of Still Life found here.

2 A. S. Byatt, Still Life, (New York: Collier Books, 1985), 338.