Just a quick post to tell you about my second Venetian project:
SARRA, YELLOW VEIL. The story of Sarra Coppia Sullam.
The highly educated poetess, writer, musician and salonnière of the ghetto. Intelligent, witty, beautiful Sarra from the first half of the 17th century. Who had a long lasting correspondence with Ansaldo Cebà, a Genovese monk thirty years her senior. In many letters he tried to get her to convert to Christianity, which once made her suggest he would convert to Judaism (ouch!). In spite of their different religions, the fact that she was married, and that he was sworn to celibacy, their letters sometimes got quite steamy. But they never met.
Although she experienced great sadness in losing her baby daughter and suffering several miscarriages, socially life was good. Sarra surrounded herself with intellectuals, scholars, artists, teachers, who frequented her house and further educated her.
Until one of them, Baldessare Bonifacio, inexplicably turned against her and published a tractate: ‘Immortalità dell’Anima’, in which he accused her of denying this immortality of the soul. This would have been a mortal sin in both Christianity and Judaism. Sarra was recovering from a serious illness, but in only two days she wrote a scathing reply. She also sent a letter to Cebà for support. It took him months to reply, and then he only told her to . . . convert.
Trouble didn’t end there. Another of her regular visitors, her poetry teacher Numidio Paluzzi, turned against her too. With the help of Sarra’s servants, he devised a plan to rob her, ridiculously enough claiming it was the work of spirits.
We don’t really know how all this affected Sarra. She died in February 1641, after a three-month illness.
The question is, of course, what triggered the men surrounding this exceptional woman to behave in the way that they did. The answer probably lies within the question – the mere fact that she was a woman, and Jewish to boot, is more than likely at least a big chunk of the reason.
With very special thanks to Nyncke Beekhuyzen, ‘my’ wonderful, gorgeous Sarra.
On Sunday, January 30th I will be giving an online lecture about this project, in cooperation with The Poorters (Burghers) of Venice. The English version will be held at 5 pm CET. If you would like to attend, book here.
It will set you back € 15, which is more than our usual talks, but that’s because it’s a charity thing – next time we’ll be back to half that amount. Promise.
. . . or so says 17th century art theorist André Félibien. Now he was the same guy who felt the need to categorize different types of paintings with his very strict hierarchy, claiming that the painter of for instance an Arcadian landscape is a more elevated soul than the painter who paints a bowl of fruit. So I will take his remark with a grain of salt. But, Félibien’s BS aside, there’s no denying that the frame has a huge influence on the image. It leads your eye to the picture, it shields it from outside influences, it supports it, it enhances it. And sometimes it becomes an integral part of it.
Frames often are pieces of art themselves. With or without a work inside – apparently a famous icon of the Madonna went on tour in Communist Poland, traveling from one rural village to the next. Then rumor spread that the police had ‘arrested’ the Madonna, which prompted the people to start praying to empty frames.
In the 13th century frescoes were adorned with painted edges, and many articles about the history of frames start there, but they are probably just echoing each other (hey, that’s ok – all knowledge of history is second-hand, after all). It so happens the frescoes of ancient Greece had those edges, too. This is Hades with Persephone, storming towards us on their chariot. Fourth century BC.
Aawwww, look at this dog. A guilty looking cutie, His Masters Voice avant la lettre. This is a second century mosaic from Alexandria, Egypt, with its own round frame mosaicked in. Flanked by a couple of strikingly human lions.
This is an illustration by the ‘Master of James IV of Scotland’ – a so called emergency name because nobody knows for sure who the artist was. He definitely was a Flemish miniaturist, a maker of illuminations in books. This incredibly beautiful image comes from a Book of Hours, a prayer book, that he made for the Scottish king and queen. Look how he painted that frame around St. Dominic – who has, by the way, a few very weird pets: a dog chewing on some sort of rocket, and a mutant ninja crocodile. It was made around 1515, executed in tempera (pigments in an egg yolk base), ink and gold leaf. The latter is probably where the term ‘illuminations’ comes from – the images reflected so much light that they literally illuminated things.
Madonna and Child between Two Angels. Yes, titles can be very accurate descriptions of the work. This amazing glazed terracotta relief was made by Luca Della Robbia in Florence, ca 1450. Terracotta, literally cooked earth, is a pretty heavy and vulnerable material, but still this ‘tondo’ – round image – has a diameter of a 100 cm. He obviously made the frame out of six identical pieces, using a mould. Every time I look at this, it strikes me how modern their faces are.
Jean-Etienne Liotard, Lady with a jonquil, ca 1755. A typical Rococo frame, with much less symmetry than you’d think at first glance – if you closely compare the left and the right, you see tiny differences on either side. Nifty! And very 18th century, when the most influential decorative motif was the sea shell, and of course there is no such thing as symmetry in nature.
Charles Allston Collins, Convent Thoughts, ca 1850. A quintessential Pre-Raphaelite painting, although Allston Collins was never formally a member of the group. Look, she is holding a book of hours – with a framed illumination! And also a passion flower, apparently to symbolize her union with Christ. Lots of lilies, the symbol of the Madonna, in- and outside of the painting. It is a botanical Bonanza. The famous critic and Pre-Raphaelite patron John Ruskin wrote in a review of this: “I happen to have a special acquaintance with the water plant Alisma Plantago … and I never saw it so thoroughly or so well drawn […] For as a mere botanical study of the Water Lily and Alisma, as well as of the common lily and several other garden flowers, this picture would be invaluable to me.”Unfortunately for Ruskin, experts have figured out there is no Alisma Plantago in this picture.
Here, too, the frame is closely related to what’s inside it. This time more subtle, echoing the architectural forms. This is Fernand Khnopff’s painting of his sister Marguerite, from 1887. It has been rumored that there was something incestuous going on between them. Whatever the case, in this painting she is decidedly unapproachable. And to underline that, he has also stuck her in a box-like frame. Wow. His motto, written over the entrance of his house in Brussels was: ‘On n’a que soi’, ‘you only have yourself’.
Gustav Klimt, Love. 1895. Even though he might very well have been a bit of a weirdo, I. LOVE. KLIMT. His father was an engraver, so he had pretty much unlimited access to gold leaf. And boy! Did he know how to make use of it. The difference between a reproduction and the real thing is bigger with Klimt than anywhere else. And if you want to see how paintings and frames become one, look no further. This is a fairly early work, but very Klimt-esque: with a couple of spooky figures, notably Death, Youth and Old Age, looking down on the lovers. Are they doomed? Is all love doomed? What’s with those pretty but thorny roses on the frame?
Largo, 1898. Ludwig von Hofmann was a German painter, son of a Prussian statesman. He went to study in Paris, where he met Pierre Puvis de Chavannes – whose influence is highly visible in his paintings, balancing between symbolism and Art Nouveau. Much of his work was deemed ‘entarted’ – degenerate – by the Nazis. And yes, folks, that is pretty much all I can tell you about him. But just look at this painting! Or rather: look at this frame! It’s mad, 1.20 m wide splendor.
Franz Stuck, 1900. Portrait of Frau Feez. Ohhh, ahhh, the turn of the century really is the golden age of framing, isn’t it? Stuck was incredibly famous in his day. In 1892 he was one of the founders of the Münchener Sezession, the inspiration for the more famous Wiener Sezession. And a whole load of more Secessions globally. This was after all the era of the ‘brotherhoods’, of artists getting together in rebellion against stuffy conventions. His name always sends a shiver down my spine, even though I love his work – he was Hitlers favorite painter, you see. But don’t hold that against him – he died in 1928.
Pablo Picasso often used elaborate Renaissance-style frames around his shockingly modern cubist paintings – more than likely in a rebellious move, almost like an obnoxious son standing up against his father. Although in this case he applied a piece of rope, which, together with the word Jou, adds to the playful, outdoorsy feel of this ‘Still life with chair’, from 1912.
Howard Hodgkin felt that “the more tenuous or fleeting the emotion you want to present the more it’s got to be protected from the world.” One of his trademarks is the way his paintings ‘overflow’ onto the frames. This is Red Bermudas, 1980. An intriguing title, especially if you know that his titles always had to do with the moment, or the occasion, that inspired the painting. There’s something really moving about his work, I can’t pinpoint exactly what. Maybe it is because when I see his paintings, in my mind I also see his face. He had the most gentle gaze.
Frederic Brenner, Installation, Ellis Island 1996. This ah-ma-zing French photographer published an equally amazing book with (group) portraits of American Jews: Jews/America/A Representation. In it, there is a series of portraits he did of famous Jews who contributed to American society and culture. They all posed with the same frame. Also in the book is an essay by Simon Schama, who is not exactly gushing with praise for the portraits. But then he describes what happens when they are put together in Brenner’s installation on Ellis Island, the place where the sitters, or their parents and grandparents, entered the country. It all comes together. It becomes symbolic. Profound. Even more so now, because the original World Trade Center looms in the background. Little did we know.
And, finally, a recent image, from 2020. Hassan Hajjaj’s portrait of DJ Jamie Jones. The word ‘recent’ might be slightly misleading here, because Hajjaj has been doing this for years – framing his portraits with cans, ketchup dispensers, etc. It has gained him the nickname ‘The Andy Warhol of Marrakesh’. Hajjaj divides his time between Morocco and the UK, and is a sought-after chronicler of pop culture.
16th, 17th and 18th century frames are everywhere. I’m leaving most of those out since we are all pretty familiar with them. It is a vast subject, boundless (!) in fact, and I would much rather show some stuff that might be less well-known. If you want to know, see and read more, I can wholeheartedly recommend https://theframeblog.com.
I feel a little guilty for not blogging since April. And for not showing more women on beds, in spite of my promise ages ago. I guess the only way to make it up to you is to present you with lots of naked chicks today. All in excellent taste of course, and in art with a capital A. Here are some more examples from my ever growing collection. Picked and ordered rather randomly.
Jules Joseph Lefebre, 1874. French painter, teacher and, as far as I’m concerned, the King of Kitsch. Compared to other stuff he did, this painting is relatively kitsch-free. Except maybe for the incense burner, which is there to underline the mysterious, exotic atmosphere. He had a magnificent technique, I’ll give you that, and a string of famous and talented students:
Like Felix Vallotton, 1896. This is one of his most famous woodcuts (a technique he more or less resuscitated single-handedly) called La Paresse – in the collection of my local Van Gogh Museum.
Paresse, laziness, was a much-loved subject: this is Paresse Matinale, by Louise Breslau, 1910. (I wonder if she and I are related? My maternal grandmother’s name was Breslau.) Maria Louise Catherina Breslau was German-Swiss but spent pretty much her entire adult life in France, together with her colleague, muse, lover(?) Madeleine Zillhart.
The Austrian artist Johann Baptist Reiter, 1849. Most paintings by him that I found were portraits of women and girls, all with the same slimey smile. But this is stunning. Look at that light! It hangs in Vienna’s Belvedere, which has just landed at the top of my bucket list.
Isaac Israels, Nude (Sjaantje van Ingen) ca. 1900. In 2009 this painting was voted the most beautiful nude in Dutch art, in an election organized by the magazine of the Rijksmuseum, leaving candidates like Rembrandt behind. It is privately owned – by one very lucky SOB . . .
Another one of my heroes: Pierre Bonnard, La Siëste. 1900. Now hangs in Melbourne’s national Gallery of Victoria. They supply an interesting provenance: apparently it was acquired from Bonnard by the art dealer Ambroise Vollard, who sold it to Gertrude Stein, only to get it back from her a few years later in exchange of a Renoir. Ms Stein, I dare say that swap was a big mistake. Big. Huge.
Otto Schmidt, Viennese Nude on the sofa of Siegmund Freud, 1900. Otto Schmidt published a book, ‘Der Wiener Akt’, with photos of nude women. Officially it was an educational work, but it found its way into many collections of erotica.
Victor Pasmore, Reclining Nude, 1942. Pasmore is known for his abstract art primarily (which is beautiful and worth checking out). But this painting, too, is stunning – it gently, lovingly, catches the vulnerability of a sleeping person. And it reminds me of a sleeping cat. (In my book that’s a plus.)
Imogen Cunningham, Phoenix on her side, 1968. The photographic answer to Pasmore’s painting. These two women also collaborated on ‘Navajo Rug’, probably Cunningham’s most famous photo. I had a hard time choosing, but in the end decided on this one. I might show you more of Cunninghams work in due course.
Saul Leiter, Inez, 1947. Leiter was a fashion photographer, a painter, an experimenter. He was also trained as a rabbi. The beautiful, intimate, tender photographs he took of the women in his life, weren’t published until after his death – in a book called ‘In My Room’.
Bert Stern. The famous ‘Last Sitting’ with Marilyn Monroe. Of which Stern said: “I was preparing for Marilyn’s arrival like a lover, and yet I was here to take photographs, not to take her in my arms, but to (…) turn her into an image for the printed page.” Stern was pretty much the same age as Monroe, handsome, a new dad. In the book he later compiled about that photo session, he admits to having confusing, less-than-professional feelings for her. The shoot, at least the fashion part of it, was commissioned by Vogue magazine in June 1962. Six weeks later – days before publication – Marilyn Monroe died.
And lastly, let’s have a look at the Odalisque, one of the staples of art history.
An odalisque was a concubine – often enslaved – in the harem of the Turkish sultan. The word probably stems from the Turkish ‘odalik’, which means chamber girl (oda means room).
Western painters, particularly those of the nineteenth and early twentieth century, could not get enough of them. Together they painted thousands of lush, sexy women, often reclining on exotic furniture, relishing their own voluptuous bodies, doing absolutely nothing. The artists of that period were fascinated by the Middle and Far East: the fashion of Orientalism was everywhere, and not just in the visual arts.
This trend, too, has its roots in colonialism, which makes it sort of difficult to look at. These images are highly romanticized – the painters seized the opportunity to transport us all to some delectable fantasy, disregarding the true circumstances of these women. And totally ignoring the fact that they were appropriating a different culture, turning it into an unsavoury pick-and-mix. Which I guess puts those images level pegging with our holidays to faraway places, where we lose ourselves in Dolce Far Niente, basking in the sensuousness of the afternoon sun – not thinking of anything else, least of all of underlying injustice in the countries we are temporarily usurping.
Allright. Time to climb down from my soap box and show you the pictures.
Henri Matisse, Odalisque Couchée aux Magnolias, 1923. Matisse painted his odalisks over and over and over again, many with lavishly decorated backgrounds. His model here, as in many other paintings he made between 1920 and 1927, is Henriette Darricarrère. Matisse praised her for her ability to model for hours on end with her arms raised in the air. Due to her training as a dancer, no doubt.
Another of Matisse’s odalisks, from the Stedelijk (municipal) Museum in Amsterdam. This painting originally belonged to a Jewish collector, who perished in WWII. (Apparently, he gave it in safe keeping to either the museum, or a private person, the articles I’ve been reading contradict each other.) Like countless other artworks, this was confiscated by the Germans. The Dutch Restitution Committee is still working to return the pieces to the heirs of the original owners, I’m not sure what is going to happen to this particular painting. The girl, the concubine, has a slightly pained look on her face, which I guess fits her circumstances – and maybe the painting’s circumstances, too.
Henri Adrien Tanoux, L’Odalisque, 1913. Back to where we started: in the realm of kitschy academism. Tanoux painted this when he was in his late forties, ten years before his death. Not that it makes any difference – his painting remained the same throughout his life. It just became more and more old-fashioned, I suppose. No surprise then that he was a regular at the Paris Salon.
Is it beautiful? I guess. But there’s something in it that bothers me, in spite of the excellent execution. It’s the jewelry she wears – the chain around her ankle, the slave-band bracelets. She’s just too subjugated.
Just as I can sometimes crave a chunk of milk chocolate, I sometimes enjoy watching this type of romantic, smooth, sugar coated art. Although, like with the chocolate, I usually end up nauseous.
After seeing works by Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres (1780-1867) recently, in a virtual visit to the Louvre, my confusion about the painter flared up again: how is it possible that someone who is capable of painting fabrics and materials with such stunning precision, so messes with the human form?
The anatomy of the men he paints is always spot-on. (Except for the hands, but more on that another time.) The women though, are all over the place. His poor distorted Odalisques of course, but also many others – especially their arms spin mercilessly out of control. How is that possible? What is going on? What kind of man was that Ingres anyway?
He was an amazingly talented young man, who had a hard time choosing between the violin or the paintbrush for a career. Painting won, but he never gave up his music. In French, the expression “un violon d’Ingres” means a hobby performed at a (semi) professional level. That explains why Man Ray, the experimental photographer from the 1920’s, gave this photo that title – his high end hobby was the female body.
But I digress. Back to Ingres, who considered himself a truly classical painter, in the tradition of Nicolas Poussin and Jacques-Louis David. However, to our eyes his history and mythology paintings often seem camp and over the top. He is better remembered for his portraits, which he made primarily to earn a living – he rather looked down on portraiture.
Thetis, a sea nymph and mother of Achilles, throwing herself at mighty Jove (Zeus in Greek). It is as if she’s holding up a spare left arm. Her right arm is about the length of her leg, by the way. But look at the way he painted the fabric! Those draperies! That bas-relief! And – ugh, gross – the misshapen small toe of the Supreme Being.
Madame Marcotte seems to have an arm lying loose inside her dress. And what a dress it is, too! The collar leaves something to be desired, I’d have a word with the dressmaker on that, but the fabric is to die for. I have looked at this portrait endlessly with my photography students and we’ve come to the conclusion he must have had the dress in his studio – propped up on the sofa, without anybody inside it.
Ah, yes, those Odalisques. Naked girls in Eastern bath houses. Ingres painted them throughout his life, in exactly the same manner – with those stretched out backs and funny buttocks. I’ve read that he was ‘looking for ideal beauty’, and that his paintings were the ‘first steps towards abstraction’. But I can’t help thinking there’s something else going on. Could it be that he was afraid to look at women? His work is often classified as Erotica. Now I’m no expert on the male gaze, but I can hardly imagine that life-threateningly elongated spines turn men on.
Maybe the mere fact that they were naked was enough for the stuffy bourgeoisie of the time, maybe no one dared to look at nude women then. Or was Ingres simply more into men?
Ingres used models of course, possibly several within one painting, for various details. He also used a camera obscura, which contributed to the accuracy of the backgrounds and the precise rendition of the materials.
Still, I’m puzzled – did he not care? Were the anatomical glitches a hidden referral to his disdain for portraiture? Did he think we wouldn’t notice? Were such details considered unimportant? Or could it be that he really was experimenting with proportions after all?
And possibly Ingres studied this, a copy of a lost Michelangelo. No offence meant, but Leda here is an anatomical disaster. As if being violated by a swan isn’t bad enough! (Zeus, aka Jove, at it again.) One boob smack in the middle, an endlessly long body, ditto thighs . . . jeez.
Another Leda and the swan, painted this time by Paolo Veronese, 1585. Luckily her breasts are pretty much where they should be, but just look at those shoulders! And she has no hips. You know what? I think a guy modelled for this, and Veronese added a pair of boobs later. That swan looks a little rough around the edges by the way – you wouldn’t think there was a Deity hiding in there.
I guess Ingres could also have studied this portrait, by Antoni van Dijck, of the British Stuart brothers, 1638. I’ll say nothing about the expression on their snooty faces, nothing about their decadent hands (later, promise). No, it’s the arm. Again. What on earth is going on under that gorgeous blue-and-silver outfit? Between that arrogantly thrust out elbow and the shoulder? There’s something seriously wrong with that upper arm. And isn’t his body terribly long for his legs? Van Dijck must have had an off day, he usually gets his proportions just right. By the way, did you notice the guy’s boots? Very elegant, wedge/heel thingies. With both spurs pointing in the same direction. I dare say that’ll have precious little effect.
Proserpine, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1874. Ingres certainly cannot have seen this, he’d been dead for 7 years when this was painted. The model is Rossetti’s lover Jane Morris. She did have the most astonishingly striking looks, but that upper back is just weird. I read an article which drew a parallel between her bulging neck, the tragic story of Proserpine, and their complicated romance. AND Rossetti’s depressions. Actually it sort of makes sense, even though initially it sounds like ramblings. Her contorted neck, her twisted hands, subconsciously give you the feeling that things aren’t right.
And then there was André Kertesz (1894-1985). A Hungarian photographer who lived in New York most of his life, with a long stopover in Paris. There the (satirical, slightly risqué) magazine Le Sourire commisioned him to make ‘something’. He got hold of two funhouse mirrors, found models who were willing to get undressed, and shot close to two hundred pictures in a couple of months: Distortions (1933). He himself considered the result funny, and sometimes a little scary. It took him fourty years to get the book published.
Maybe all these artists were looking for the effects of a body in images, investigating to what extent you can mess with it before it loses its appeal – and what happens when you do cross that line. Who knows? I can definitely see the connection between Kertesz’ Distortions and Ingres’ Odalisques.
But loose arms? Men’s shoulders on female bodies? Still weird. Sorry.
“Do not touch me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”
So spoke Jesus to Mary Magdalen when she came to his grave after his crucifiction. To her horror the grave was empty, but there were people all around it and one of them turned out to be Jesus himself.
I wasn’t brought up with the New Testament, and I’m having trouble trying to figure out what this story means. Why shouldn’t she touch him, when he’s standing there in front of her, seemingly alive and kicking? After all, doesn’t rumor have it that they were lovers? Is it because, now that he is on his way to heaven on such a very special ticket, she’s no longer clean enough for him? After all, rumor also has it that she was a prostitute.
Another translation is ‘don’t cling to me’, so possibly he meant to say: I am dead, you should let go and live your life without me. Which would be rather sweet of him.
Maybe it’s because he has been dead for a few days, so he could be carrying all sorts of nasty bacteria that might make her sick? That could very well be it, I have heard many Bible stories explained in such a pragmatic way. Although, it could also be ten months of social distancing messing with my brain here.
In any case, this story captured the imagination of generations of painters. Noli me tangere is also the title of a famous book about the Spanish colonisation of the Philippines and its film version. There’s an opera with the same name, apparently Petrarca used it as a metaphor in a poem, medical students are warned with it that they should leave certain bodyparts and ailments alone.
There’s even a theory that the Gadsden flag – that yellow one with the rattlesnake and the text ‘don’t tread on me’ – harks back to Noli me tangere. It was the symbol of various American military divisions and has nowadays been adopted by extreme right movements in the US – which explains why it was all over the place at the storming of the Capitol on January 6th.
One of the exciting things of such a recurring theme, is that you can clearly see the changes and developments in art. Let’s start with Giotto. This is one of the frescos at the Scrovegni chapel in Padua. As soon as I can go back to Venice, I’ll get on a train. I will book a double time slot, and tell you all about it! I meant to go last year, but then the floods put a spanner in the works.
Giotto di Bondone, ca. 1306. Thir-teen-o-six! Isn’t that amazing? Yes, to our eyes it still seems a little stiff, but it is such a huge leap forward from the flat renditions of Byzantine art. He is the first to add depth to his models, literally and figuratively speaking. And the first to paint sleeping soldiers – aren’t those guys supposed to keep watch?
Fra Angelico, more than a hundred years later, ca. 1442. His background is much more detailed than Giotto’s. Near Jesus he painted tiny red flowers in the grass. They look like drops of blood, echoeing the stigmata on his feet. He is also carrying a scythe or something over his shoulder – initially Mary Magdalen mistook him for the gardener, you see.
Juan de Flandes, ca. 1500. This John was Flemish, but in his twenties he left for Castille, where he was appointed court painter. That is why he is known as a Spanish painter, although it seems to me that his Jesus and Mary M. look decidedly Flemish. Luckily he ditched the clumsy halos of his predecessors.
Titian, 1514. Things are beginning to move and there really is something going on between the two. I’m sure I can actually see their bond. The way Jesus is trying to dodge her tells me he is doing so purely out of love for her. They are so beautiful, both of them! That tree seems to go through his head in a slightly awkward way, but it also sort of lifts him up, as a prelude to his ascension, while she stays close to the ground, literally down to earth. It is a gorgeous tree, a real Titian-tree. The foliage, by the way, is brown because of the discoloration of the originally green paint, not because of acid rain.
Paolo Veronese, ca. 1530. One more halo, but certainly not a clumsy one – Jesus really is the light here. A hundred years make a huge difference in this case. Veronese applies his stunning pastels, plays with light and shadow, adds a group of flustered angels in the background, and his Jesus is toned and muscular. It’s the height of the Renaissance. Almost all Veronese’s figures have gigantic hands – he probably considered that beautiful.
Hans Holbein the Younger, ca. 1530. Holbein was German by birth, but he started his career in Switserland. From there he travelled to France, possibly in the hope of becoming court painter there. That didn’t work out, but in 1526 he went to London and there, at Henry VIII’s court, it did. Big time. It is tempting to make fun of his Noli me tangere – Jesus looks as if he is about to deliver a karate chop, MM seems to think he is after her flask of oil, and one seriously wonders where that sea of light comes from, in a pitch dark tomb. But that’s not fair because it really is a beautiful painting that tells the entire story in a very clever way.
Lavinia Fontana, 1581. Jesus as the gardener again, with an outsized shovel and with a weird, rustic hat that hovers over his head like an off kilter flying saucer. He’s quite cute – chubby, a bit of a dad bod. Half cuddly hubby, half maffioso. Maybe Lavinia’s husband, Gian Paolo Zappi, was her model here. He was a painter himself, but he gave up his career in order to look after the kids and the household, so she could attend fully to her art. Wow! Gentlemen, do you hear that?
Abraham Janssens and Jan Wildens, ca. 1620. Two painters from Antwerp collaborated on this – Janssens did the figures and Wildens the landscape (he was considered the landscape specialist and painted backgrounds for many of his contemporaries). If I wouldn’t be familiar with the story, I would have given a totally different meaning to this – I’d have thought that the woman’s vegetable stall had been wrecked by a naked jerk with a shovel. And I would feel terribly sorry for her.
Rembrandt, 1638. ‘Christ and St Mary Magdalen at the tomb’. The only painting in this post that officially has another title. Typically Rembrandt again: with that light, that fierce landscape, but especially because of the expression of the characters – you can see the confusion in their faces and in their body language. And look at that angel, the way he sits! Don’t think I’ve ever seen a more approachable angel. The couple walking away in the bottom left hand corner is much more mysterious.
Simone Cantarini. Or is it Daniel Seiter? I can’t figure out who painted this, but I know it was around 1648. Cantarini was a pupil of Guido Reni, he studied and worked with the master in Bologna. Until they fell out, massively. Daniel Seiter was a Venetian who was very succesful and raked in commissions everywhere, from Tyrol to Rome. This Noli me tangere is now in the Schloss Schleissheim Museum in Bavaria. Whoever painted it, I think it is stunning. He so caring, she so full of anticipation – it is so intimate, lovers on their way to bed. Of course we know better – on account of the title, and a couple of subtle hints: the stick in his hand, undoubtedly the handle of some gardening tool, her flask – the symbol of Mary Magdalen, his blue robe (because blue pigment was so outrageously expensive, it was more or less exclusively used for divine figures, predominantly for the holy virgin). And then there’s that hand . . . in almost every painting Jesus has those ballet hands. The story tells he blessed MM, that’s why. I did notice that she often holds her hands that way, too – though not here.
Jules Valadon, second half 19th century. I came across this in the catalogue of a French art dealer. It is small, about 20×35 cm. Oil on a wooden panel. I can’t tell you much about the painter. He doesn’t seem to be related to Suzanne Valadon. I did read though, that he took a rather unpleasant stance in the Dreyfus affair – that horrible matter where French army officer Alfred Dreyfus was sentenced to lifelong imprisonment based on false accusations that turned out to be triggered by blatant anti-semitism. It pretty much split the country in two, and Jules here was a so called Anti-Dreyfusard. Not good, but this painting is breathtaking (there’s that dilemma again). I’m wondering – who is who? Is Jesus sitting and Mary Magdalen standing? Is that how he rejects her? Or is it the other way around: she sitting, bound to earth, and he upright, ready to ascend? With a bit of a halo?
There are hundreds of Noli me tangere paintings, all with something special, something unique. From the images in this post I like the Valadon best. Who knew? Maybe it’s because the landscape reminds me of the Negev desert near Arad, in Israel. The painting wasn’t even that expensive . . . I wonder if it is still for sale?
First things first: the book ‘Giuseppina della Laguna’ is out! In a limited edition of ten, it tells the story of that mysterious little girl who lives in the Venetian lagoon. You can watch the series here. This charity edition, which sells for € 275, holds five extra photos. The net proceeds (€ 225) will go towards restoring the damages caused by the horrific flooding of Venice, exactly one year ago.
If you feel a connection with this city-unlike-any-other and consider making a donation, why not do so now? A unique book, hand-printed, numbered and signed, will come your way – in sincerest gratitude. Drop us an email and we’ll sort it out.
That was the commercial break. Now back to our regular program.
THE CITY IN ART
“There was neither the symmetry nor the richness of materials I expected,” a disappointed British visitor of Venice remarked in 1774. He had seen the paintings of Canaletto (Giovanni Antonio Canal, 1697-1768), and to his dismay he realised that the painter had been rather nonchalant about reality.
Canaletto was a star in 18th-century England. In his hometown of Venice, he had met John Smith, an English art collector, who acquired most of Canaletto’s works and sold them on to the British king, George III, in 1763. (Consequently, the municipality of Venice only owns two Canalettos, while the Royal Collection has loads, as does the Wallace Collection, also in the UK.) Canaletto was invited to London where he made many more cityscapes, aka ‘vedute’ – veduta means ‘seen’ in Italian.
Canaletto’s nonchalance is a hot topic with art historians. There’s a lot of discussion about his work method: did he use a camera obscura to accomplish his astonishing lines and perspective? Or did he make an underdrawing with pencil and rulers? The latter we know for sure, it is visible with IR-research. But why should one exclude the other? The camera obscura seems to be a bit of a touchy subject, as if it is something improper. I don’t really get that. I’m going to devote a separate post to that. But first back to the vedute and the (un)realistic representation. I for one don’t mind at all that the vedutisti took those liberties – it’s a great way to practice close-reading an image.
These two Canalettos, both from the 1820’s, clearly show the liberties he took. We see the same area, but in the image below he pasted the steps of a bridge against the building – I suspect it is the bridge ‘behind’ us, on the other side of the Doges palace. Hey, minor detail. The church with the white domes is the Santa Maria della Saluta (St Mary of Health), built after a horrific outbreak of the plague. That building with the ball on top is the Dogana, the customs office. Both feature heavily in nine out of ten vedute, and in reality they are further away from each other. But this works wonders for the composition.
Francesco Guardi is the other famous Venetian cityscape guy. Fifteen years younger than Canaletto, part of a large family of painters. This is his rendition of the Tre Archi bridge, across the Canale di Cannareggio (ca 1770). I used to cross that bridge almost daily, my apartment was pretty much next to it, and I can assure you the water isn’t nearly as wide as here in Guardi’s painting. And the bridge isn’t curved, it is straight as an arrow. It crosses the also-straight canal in a straight line.
Bernardo Bellotto, ca 1738. Canal Grande. The palazzo on the left, with the wooden pointed roof, is Ca’ Rezzonico being built (it’s much higher now). In the background you see the tower of the Basilica dei Frari, in front of it is Palazzo Balbi, nowadays home of the regional government. So far, so accurate. But the light? Totally inaccurate yet again. Is it coming from the right (the east) or from the front? He did paint it beautifully, with that stormy, sort of impressionistic sky and all those highlighted details. The boat on the right is fabulous, it has a little roof terrace!
James Holland (ca 1840) has probably done his sketches sitting on a boat. The mooring post on the right suggests he’s on land, but then that would be Giudecca and that can’t be, that’s much further away. The fact is, there are mooring posts everywhere in the middle of the lagoon, but this one certainly isn’t there anymore – they deepened the whole Canale di Giudecca to accommodate those stupid cruise ships. True to life or not, he gives us two exemplary colors of Venice – that peachy pink and the turquoise. Although the Doges palace, on the right, isn’t really peachy but more beigey. Oh well.
JMW Turner (ca 1841). Same spot, but seen from the other side. An art critic said of this painting: “Venice was surely built to be painted by Turner”. How very true. Turner added some inexplicable details here – that unit in the middle, it looks like a quotation of Saint Mark’s basilica. No idea what it is. And there in the lower righthand corner, the things in front of those teeny tiny dogs, what are those? A revolver? A giant orange? A Chinese vase?
Another Turner (1840). The lagoon at sunset. Those colors again. So beautiful, I could weep. And, at least to me, so very Venetian. The first time I flew into Venice, the sky was full of enormous pink, orange and red flames. Turner to the max. Later I would often sit at the waterside in the north-west of the city, watching the lagoon at sunset, seeing this.
John Singer Sargent, 1904. Again, those colors! Again, one of my heroes! And the same spot again, though from a totally different position this time. Apparently tourism is on the rise – it is starting to become pretty crowded near the Doges palace. On the right you see the infamous pillars of the Piazzetta (the small square on the waterfront). A Venetian will never walk in between the two. That would bring bad luck, since the spot originally was an execution site.
Singer Sargent also saw different colors of the city: ‘Venice in grey weather’, ca. 1880. Actually, those dates don’t really matter – hardly anything changes there. Check this live webcam.
James McNeill Whistler makes us turn 180 degrees. ‘Nocturne in Blue and Silver. Also from 1880. Breathtaking.
Walter Sickert, 1935. ‘Variations on Peggy’. You immediately think of Peggy Guggenheim and her famous art collection, but this refers to Peggy Ashcroft, the actress. That Sickert fellow I need to write some more about. Stunning work, rather shady character. Possibly even very shady – but you don’t notice that here, just a beautiful, intriguing image, clearly influenced by photography, and yet again, those colors . . .
To finish, back to Turner once more. This is his hommage to Canaletto, the partiarch, the supreme deity of anyone who ever depicted Venice. He’s standing there behind his easel, by the wall on the left.
Signore Canaletto, Turner, Sargent et al – grazie. Grazie mille!
Years ago I bumped into an aquaintance who wanted to know what I was working on. I told her it was a series about Potiphars wife. “Oh, that bitch!!!” was her reaction. I nearly burst into tears. “She is not a bitch!” I always get terribly attached to the characters I photograph. And they are never bitches.
It’s a nasty story, that of Zuleika. For that was her name. She was married (arranged, of course) to Potiphar, a fat old flabby – I imagine – top dog in Pharao’s court. When Joseph appeared there, she fell hopelessly in love with him. The boy was such a conceited, spoiled little brat that his brothers had thrown him into a well. They meant to teach him a lesson – they even considered killing him. In the end they sold him to a passing caravan, which is how he had ended up at the Egyptian court. Officially as a slave, but it wasn’t long before he landed a job as confidant of the pharao. A whole year long he paid daily visits to Zuleika, flirting like crazy probably, but never touching her. One unlucky day it became too much for her, and – according to the horribly moralistic tale – she threw herself at him. He fled the room and forgot his cloak (you know, Technicolor Dreamcoat and all that). In her despair, Zuleika accused him of sexual assault, and he was thrown into jail. Only to be released again in no time – after which he was appointed court dreamologist and eventually making it to viceroy. Poor Zuleika was completely stuck.
Potiphars wife has long been a highly desirable subject for artists. Undoubtedly because it gave them an excuse to paint a hot (naked) broad, in the meantime hiding behind morality. After all, no one spoke about female sexuality – that was something to be savored in secret and denied in public. It was solely for ‘bitches’.
I know a Hebrew scholar who, as a student, was instructed to skip the story of Zuleika (Genesis 39). Good thinking, university! That way you make certain that each and every student reads it.
Master of Affligem, ca 1500. A painter we basically know nothing about, except that he came from Flanders and that he painted six tondi, round paintings, about the life of Joseph – which is why he is also known as ‘Master of Joseph’. Here he tells the the entire episode with Zuleika in one image: she grabs him (with an extremely motherly look in her eyes), on the right she points at ‘exhibit A’, and behind that we see Joseph being captured.
Pieter Coecke van Aelst, 1540. It looks like William Blake! But it was made three hundred years earlier. Mrs. P . has a really modern hairdo – actually they both have very modern looks. It is an incredibly dynamic painting. Here too, the course of the story is depicted in the background.
Anonymous artist, slightly later than Coecke van Aelst, and painted in a slightly clumsier manner. But it’s hilarious to see how the entire household goes into disarray. And those jugs in front of the bed, all the time? Yup, you got it. Sexual symbols.
An engraving by Harmen Jansz Muller, after Maarten van Heemskerk, ca 1600. Man, is she ugly, this particular mrs Potifar. And the place is swamped with creepy monsters. In this case, I’m with Joseph.
Ludovico Cigoli, 1610. Italian Baroque painters could not get enough of our story. They have all made multiple images of it, over and over again. With models who all had the same, slightly slimy expression on their faces. I’ve chosen Cigoli on account of those crazy shoes.
The lustiest Zuleika is by Rembrandt (1634). And his Joseph is visibly in two minds. In other words, they are by far the most human. This etching truly is another shining example of Rembrandt’s genius.
Costume design by Léon Bakst for the ballet La Légende de Joseph. Staged in 1914 by Les Ballets Russes, Sergei Diaghilev’s company, with music by Richard Strauss. Speaking of crazy shoes! These are cothurni, originating from the ancient Greek theater, later often worn by Venetian hookers, but hardly ever used in ballet performances. Dancing in them sucks.
India, 1888. In the Qoran, Zuleika is mentioned by name, and the story is told more extensively there. It describes how she introduces Joseph to her girlfriends. The women, who are peeling oranges, are so dazzled by his beauty, that they collectively cut their fingers. Apparently the scene turned quite bloody. I really appreciate that their feelings were taken into consideration!
And finally, my own Zuleika, portrayed by stunning Dutch actress Anna Drijver (2005). Persistent rumors have it that Potiphar was a eunuch. What a crappy life that girl must have had – and then going down in thousands of years of history as a bitch, too . . .
Brave, beautiful Zuleika, I think you are fantastic!
It’s been awful quiet here, sorry. I’ve been working hard on my project about the mysterious Venetian little girl (read more here). It is finished!
During the month of November a special edition of the book will be available, for the benefit of the restoration works in Venice, in cooperation with a Dutch charity that deals with Venetian preservation, restoration and educational projects. By the way – if you are aquainted with similar international organisations please let me know.
I will explain more nearer the time. For now, here’s a taste of what’s to come.
And in the next few days I’ll write a decent post. Although, the subject this time is slightly less decent. In other words, fun. Watch this space!