Bite 116: Salvador Dali - Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers, 1936

Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers, 1936, oil on wood, 25 x 43 cm, K20, Düsseldorf

Frail hand extended, rejecting the outside world, a disjointed figure - a chest of drawers for a chest - looks within itself, head down. Drawers pulled out, darkness within, the exterior world represented in the top right corner (it appears to be Cologne with its double-spired cathedral), seems to retreat, casting an ethereal light on the disconcerting figure.

A small oil painting on wood with a large frame, the work typifies Dali's approach as a skilled painter referencing the style of the old-masters, while the subject matter sits is stark contrast to this technique, showing a woman simultaneously opening up and withdrawing.

A manifestation of Freudian internalisation and reclusion, the woman (with draw-handles for nipples) is engrossed by the drawers that have spontaneously opened from within her, threatening to disclose their contents - her interior world -, a white cloth protruding from one. In this sense the anthropomorphic cabinet becomes a symbol of psychoanalysis. This motif appears in other forms in Dali's work such as the sculpture/furniture piece Venus de Milo with Chest of Drawers (1936/64) which stands near Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers in Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen (K20).

Archive Bookstore

Five minutes walk from my apartment, on Bell St, between the Marylebone and Edgware Rd tube stations, there is a small bookshop with a basement: Archive Books and Music.

It is just as second-hand bookshops should be: cramped, messy, disorganised, books pouring out onto the street, and with that 'old book smell'. 

With a fantastic array of art books, philosophy tomes and novels, all very reasonably priced, floor to high-ceiling shelves and teetering piles of boxes hold endless promises of hidden gems. "A browser's delight!" indeed.

Down a flight of winding stairs is the basement where a plethora of used sheet-music - vocal, orchestral and otherwise - towers around a wonderfully old, out-of-tune piano. Music is heard from this dark basement as you browse away the hours upstairs, overhearing the owner and his assistant (dressed in a thick apron as if he were a carpenter) as they natter away with regulars on an assortment of topics. I will surely become one of those regulars, before too long.

Image:

www.archivebookstore.co.uk

Break

"Art is the only way to run away without leaving home."

                                                 - Twyla Tharp

I am taking a short break this week. I am going to Germany. Posts will resume after the long weekend.

Bite 115: Jan van Eyck - Portrait of a Man (Self Portrait?), 1433

Portrait of a Man (Self Portrait?), 1433, oil on oak, 26 x 19 cm, National Gallery, London

A head, almost certainly that of the artist, emerges from darkness. His piercing eyes and ambiguous expression confront the viewer from beneath a red headpiece, light accentuating red detailing. 

The frame, also by the artist, is inscribed, trompe l'oeil - to give the illusion of carving - with the words "Als Ich Can," a pun in Greek meaning "As I/Eyck Can," and below with, "Jan van Eyck made me on 21 October 1433." These references, along with the slight turn of the man's head and his penetrating gaze, strongly suggests at the painting being a self-portrait.

Bite 114: Jan van Eyck - The Arnolfini Portrait, 1434

Portrait of Giovanni (?) Arnolfini and his Wife (The Arnolfini Portrait), 1434,
oil on oak, 82 x 60 cm, National Gallery, London

Redolent in symbolism, this mysterious painting has been the subject of much conjecture among art historians.

The woman, thought to be Giovanna Cenami, is not believed to be pregnant here, despite appearances. This, along with the dog, fruit and bed, can be seen instead as indicative of fertility, in what many scholars believe to be a marriage or betrothal portrait. Whether this be the case or not, an oath is none-the-less seen to be taking place - Giovanni raising his hand and Giovanna lowering and opening hers. Extravagantly attired in highly expensive winter clothing the couple stands in the front room of their house, on the second story, with cherry blossoms outside suggesting early spring - further adding to the confusion surrounding this Early-Netherlandish work (a very early example of oil on wood instead of tempura).

Thoroughly justifying the extraordinarily fame of this work, however, more even than its remarkable realism and painstaking illusionistic technique, is the convex mirror and inscription in the centre of the painting, on the far wall behind the couple. In the round glass can be seen the backs of the Arnolfinis and a man in front of them holding up his hand, widely accepted to be the artist himself. Above this is transcribed (some even believe legally notorised): "Jan van Eyck has been here." This gesture of authorship attests to the role of the artist as witness, while also being a bold statement on consciousness and the human ego. 

Bite 113: Do Ho Suh - Staircase-V, 2008

Staircase-V, 2008, polyester and stainless steel tubes,
staircase: 108 x 261 x 76 cm, Tate Modern

Korean artist Do Ho Suh uses the delicate medium of fabric to recreate, in life-size, interior domestic spaces. With his ongoing work Seoul Home/L.A. Home/New York Home..., where the artist transports a recreation of his childhood home in Korea with him as he relocates, showing it in galleries all over the world. With Staircase-V he brings the staircase from his Chelsea, New York apartment into a London art museum.

The ceiling above becomes fabric. The intricate staircase, with detailing - balustrade and light-fixtures - falls, life-size, into the empty space beneath. Translucent and oddly comforting, parred-down yet homely. Zen and minimal while remaining refreshingly personal.

Image:
No Balance Palace

Bite 112: J.M.W. Turner - Sun Setting over a Lake, c. 1840

Sun Setting over a Lake, c. 1840, oil on canvas, 107 x 138 cm, Tate Britain

"Turner lived in a cellar. Once a week he had the shutters suddenly flung open, and then what incandescence! What dazzlement! What jewels!"                  

                                                         - Henri Matisse, 1943

Bite 111: J.M.W. Turner - Self-Portrait, 1799

Self-Portrait, 1799, oil on canvas, 74 x 58 cm, Tate Britain

At 24 Turner has just been made an Associate at the Royal Academy. He paints himself, almost life-size, confident and dapper, standing tall - yet with perhaps a hint of self-doubt. He gazes, front on, directly at the viewer, head protruding from a tight jacket, willing himself to be undaunted. 

He is tremendously present in a bold statement of who he believes he could be.

Contained and silent. Yet brimming just beneath the surface: a violent energy - like that in his later marine paintings; his billowing white scarf even prophetic of this. With thick, confident brushwork, he bristles with potential and possibility - and the lingering fear that he may in the end amount to nothing.

It is this paradox of ambition, in an expertly understated and transcendent work, which reaches across centuries to confront the viewer as if to say: "You may be young and a little scared, but dare to believe you have something unique to offer the world."

Turner certainly did. He went on to become the dominant figure in English Romanticism, and the key forerunner to Impressionism.

Bite 110: Francisco de Goya - Pilgrimage to the Hermitage of St. Isidore, 1819-23

 Pilgrimage to the Hermitage of St. Isidore, 1819-23, oil mural transferred to canvas, 139 x 436 cm, Prado

Over 30 years after Festival at the Meadow of San Isadore, when Goya is deaf and isolated, at the end of his career and near the end of his life, he paints, on the wall of his house, a scene from the same theme. Yet, could two works from the same artist be more contrasting?

Here the pilgrimage becomes a terrifying nightmare. A pilgrim in the front of the procession plucks on strings, mouth gaping more in a silent scream than a song, his head twisted, maniacal eyes rolled back. Behind him faces contort in pain and bow in melancholy, others smile sinisterly. The great mass of people under the dark sky speaks powerfully of the futility of the human condition.

This is a procession of death, a vision of hell on earth, Apocalypse.

Bite 109: Francisco de Goya - Festival at the Meadow of San Isadore, 1788

Festival at the Meadow of San Isadore, 1788, oil on canvas, 44 x 94 cm, Prado

Painted as a sketch for a tapestry which was never completed, Festival at the Meadow of San Isadore shows festival goers and pilgrims celebrating the the feast day of St. Isidore the Labourer, patron saint of Madrid. The festival is the most popular in the Spanish calender, still celebrated today on May 15th each year.

The background, one of the best examples of Goya's landscape painting, shows the panorama of the city of Madrid with several recognisable buildings. The foreground exemplifies his skill in character studies, presenting Spanish people from all walks of life, brought together in joyous celebration on a warm spring day. The crowds of people draw us into the composition as they celebrate their city and their country.

Bite 108: Francisco de Goya - Two Old Men Eating Soup, 1819-23

Two Old Men Eating Soup, 1819-23, oil mural transferred to canvas, 49 x 83 cm, Prado

Thick, loose brushwork, paint expertly applied by a highly experienced hand conveys a nightmarish scene with minimal form. Yet it is all the more sinister for it. 

The gender of the subjects appearing out of the darkness is only supposed. They could very well be witches (a common type throughout Goya's oeuvre). The right figure however, barely there at all with its dark skull-like head, is most likely the apparition of death itself; pointing, along with the other sinister grinning figure, at a spoon, inviting someone - you - to dinner.

Bite 107: Francisco de Goya - Saturn Devouring His Son, 1819-23

Saturn Devouring His Son, 1819-23,
oil mural transferred from canvas,  143 x 81 cm, Prado

Imagine looking at this painting everyday, on the wall of your house. Piercing wide eyes maniacally peering back at you through the darkness from behind a half eaten corpse.

Saturn Devouring His Son was among the so called Black Paintings found on the walls of Goya's house, Quinta del Sordo (Villa of the Deaf Man) - named for a previous resident, although Goya was also deaf when he lived there.

The subject here, taken from Greek mythology, is Titan Cronus (romanitised as Saturn), who, fearing that his children would overthrow him, ate each one at birth. He desperately grasps his child, possessed and demented, its gory stump of an arm protruding from the creatures wide, black mouth.

As with all of the Black Paintings - particularly The Dog - their intended meaning can only be guessed at. None-the-less, largely due to this enigmatic quality, they continue to haunt and inspire.

Bite 106: Francisco de Goya - The Dog, 1819-23

The Dog, 1819-23, oil mural transferred to canvas, 132 x 79 cm, Prado

Appearing to sink into the sand behind a dune, a dog, only its head showing above the surface, pleads desperately with its eyes, gazing up ominously. Filled with human emotion the animal is the epitome of helplessness, lost and alone, silent in its agony. 

The empty space above, minimal, a precursor to abstraction (Rothko before Rothko), further emphasises the fate of the animal, and, it its sublimity, the work is a powerful comment on the human condition. Have we not all been where this simply but effectively painted dog is, at some point in our lives?

Bite 105: John Singer Sargent - Paul Helleu Sketching with His Wife, 1889

Paul Helleu Sketching with His Wife, 1889, oil on canvas, 66 × 81 cm, Brooklyn Museum, NY

Paul Helleu sketches en plein air, his wife at his side. An artistic collaboration as well as marriage, their bright hats mirror as they sit close on the grass. Yet Paul, head down, regards his canvas, deftly applying paint from his palette, while Alice, almost deathly pale, looks meditatively into the distance. They appear content to sit in silence, within their own worlds.

Painted by their good friend John Singer Sargent, the complex composition and framing reflects the influence of the invention of photography on 19th century painting. The cropping of Alice on the right and the canoe at left transforms the intimate scene into a vignette of a larger scene, adding dynamism and realism to the representation.

Bite 104: Paul César Helleu - Madame Paul Helleu, 1894

 Madame Paul Helleu, 1894, pastel on blue paper, 48 x 31 cm, Musée d'Orsay, Paris

A women of the utmost elegance and grace, Madame Alice Helleu (the artist's wife) reclines on a chair. Perhaps after a long evening among the Parisian aristocracy, she stills wears her fashionable evening dress and gloves. 

This intimate portrait is exquisitely drawn with a pale averted face, dark contours and expert, loose colouring. The result is a small but captivating image of a tender moment at the end of a day.

Bite 103: Arman - L'Heure Pour Tous, 1985

L'Heure Pour Tous, 1985, bronze, 700 cm tall, Gare St. Lazare, Paris

"Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life."

                                                  - William Faulkner

Outside a train station in Paris (the Gare St. Lazare to be exact) there is an accumulation of bronze clocks. 

L'Heure Pour Tous (Time for All), with its many faces, looks down on hundreds of Parisians and tourists everyday, rushing by. All with somewhere to go, a train to catch, a deadline to meet - a clock to beat.

To stop and look up at these clocks you see that they do not move. They are all stopped on different times. It becomes a silent memorial to lost time.

Bite 102: Pierre Bonnard - Back of a Nude at Her Bath, 1934

Back of a Nude at Her Bath, 1934, oil on canvas, 107 x 74 cm, Pompidou

Marthe disappears against the wall of her bathroom, bright yellow. She is in her element, within herself, turned from the viewer. 

Bonnard paints his obsession, his muse. His art is a manifestation of their intimacy, painting as tender caress. 

Bite 101: Pierre Bonnard - Woman Lying on a Bed, 1899

Woman Lying on a Bed, 1899, oil on canvas, 96 x 106 cm, Musée d'Orsay

The bed - a landscape, tilted toward the viewer, with post-coital sheets bathed in soft late afternoon light.

The woman - Marthe, the artist's bath obsessed, highly-strung muse (and later wife), dozes, tautly, her left leg at a right angle to her right, exposing her sex.

Smoke from a pipe rises before her, evidence of the the artist (and voyeur), Bonnard.

This is the distillation of a moment, filled with intensity in its atmospheric portrayal.  A domestic world, layered with private meaning.

Bite 100: Anish Kapoor - When I am Pregnant, 1992

When I am Pregnant, 1992, fibreglass and paint, 198 x 152 x 15 cm

"The idea that if I empty out all the content and just make something that is an empty form, I don't empty out the content at all. The content is there in a way that is more surprising than if I tried to make a content."

                                                         - Anish Kapoor

Standing before the wall of the gallery (top image) there appears to be a skillfully painted aberration. The work only reveals itself when seen in profile - it consists of a perfectly executed bulge protruding seamlessly from the white gallery wall.

In a sentence: Kapoor recontextualises the idea of 'the painted surface', in the language of architecture, through a witty visual pun on the mythologised 'white wall' of the contemporary gallery and the clichéd idea of the artist 'pregnated' in the service of 'Art'.

Yet this is art that to be understood must be experienced.

An all-encompassing art experience, the work has no beginning and no end - it is nothing and it is the entire wall, the entire room (All of this and nothing). Altering the viewers perception of the space, it is a radical inversion of the 'art object'; art as absence, void. Pure concept actualised in being viewed.

This is art that to be strictly 'understood' is to miss the point entirely.


Currently installed at Manchester Art Gallery as part of the exhibition Flashback.

Images:
Made By Gemma

Bite 99: Dante Gabriel Rossetti - Astarte Syriaca, 1875-77

Astarte Syriaca, 1875-77, oil on canvas, 183 x 107 cm, Manchester Art Gallery

"Mystery: lo! betwixt the Sun and Moon
Astarte of the Syrians: Venus Queen
Ere Aphrodite ever was."

                - Rossetti (poem on frame)

This claustrophobic painting presents a goddess, bathed in golden, lightflanked by angels gazing heavenward. "One face looks out from his canvases," Christina Rossetti, the artist's sister wrote, "Not as she is, but as she fills his dreams." This frank line eloquently sums up Rossetti's art: A glimpse into his private world, his interior passions, and dangerous sexual fantasies and anxieties.

The 'one face' Christina speaks of is Jane Morris, his muse, his lover, his obsession - the wife of his friend William Morris - and the restrained Venus here. The painting may be somewhat overworked and awkward in execution (he in fact preferred poetry), as much Pre-Raphaelite work can tend to be. But with her held gaze and elegant pose, cloth sensually against her skin and falling from her shoulder, Astarte Syriaca maintains a profound, bewitching presence.

Sources:

Michael Howard, Upclose: Manchester Art Gallery, Scala, 2002.

Bite 98: Sir. John Millais - Autumn Leaves, 1855-56

Autumn Leaves, 1855-56, oil on canvas, 104 x 74 cm, Manchester Art Gallery, UK

"Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hold, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise
The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory,--when distant lies
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve."

                      - William Allington, Autumnal Sonnet

"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking on the days that are no more."

                       - Tennyson, from The Princess  

Bite 97: Francisco de Goya - The Third of May 1808, 1814

The Third of May, 1808, 1814, oil on canvas, 266 x 345 cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

An almost exact contemporary of David, Goya, particularly in his later work, could not be more contrasting of an artist. Working with looser brushwork, he stresses the realistic at the expense of the idealistic or classical. Although Goya defies categorization, in this sense at least, he is a Romantic artist, with elements of the Neo-Baroque. 

The Third of May, 1808 is a key example of this with blazing colour, broad, fluid brushwork, and dramatic nocturnal light illuminating the terrified figure of a kneeling man about to be executed. 

Painted in 1814 after Spain’s liberation from French occupation by Napoleon in the Peninsula War, Goya received funding from the newly restored Ferdinand VII for this and another picture, The Second of May, 1808.

“It is my ardent wish,” Goya explained, “to perpetuate by means of my brush the most notable and heroic actions and scenes of our most glorious insurrection against the tyrant of Europe.” The work commemorates the arrest and execution of madrileños (people of Madrid) on May 3rd 1808 by the Napoleonic invading army following a civilian revolt. 

The dark scene is lit only by a lantern, bringing dramatic contrast to the non-triangular compressed composition and highlighting the focal point of the kneeling Spaniard – “The light in his work is merciless for the simple reason that it shows up cruelty,” John Berger explains.

In the background the Church remains in darkness just as it remained largely silent in the face of cruelty by French invaders. The bare hill in the mid-ground mirrors the shaven head of a monk clenching his fists, while also leading the viewers eye down right to the anonymous figures of the Napoleonic army, backs turned to the viewer to face their victims with bayonets drawn. 

However, the focus of the composition is not the invaders, who, in their anonymity, remain archetypal of the tyrant of Europe. The disproportionate size and glowing chest of the main figure draws the eye immediately. He throws his arms out and up as though he were “throwing his whole life, in extremis, in the face of his murderers,” writes Robert Hughes. He is in the posture of a crucified man “linking the figure of the anonymous political martyr to that of Christ”, and this analogy is reinforced by the stigmata on at least one of his hands. The eye that we can see is bulging in terror with white surrounding the big back of his dilated cornea.

The man immediately to his right has a face of pure terror while others must look away or cover their faces. The ground is stained with the blood of those already executed; the raw red of the pigment more realistic than a licked finish, looking like already clotted blood. 

It is hard to believe from this that Goya did not witness this event – he almost certainly didn’t – and this cannot be taken as a completely accurate rendering of the scene. It is perhaps more powerful for that though. The French author Malraux points out that Goya paints “the absurdity of being human” and is “the greatest interpreter of anguish the West has ever seen.”

Goya has distilled the horrors he has witnessed throughout the occupation into a monumentally breathtaking image of the reality of war. Goya is riveting our eyes, as if saying, “Look at this! Look what we are capable of!” This is the prototype for all modern depictions of conflict and it still wounds with intensity 200 years after its creation, with all of the images of conflict we see today.

Sources:

Honour and Fleming, A World History of Art, 644.

H. W. Janson, History of Art, 5^th ed. (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1962/1995), 660.

30,000 Years of Art. (London: Phaidon Press Ltd., 2007), 857.

J. Berger, “The Honesty of Goya.” in Selected Essays. (ed. by Geoff Dyer). (New York: Vintage, 2001), 57.

R. Hughes, Goya. (London: Vintage, 2004), 314.

A. Malraux quoted in Berger, Selected Essays, 56-57.

Bite 96: Jacques-Louis David - The Death of Marat, 1793

The Death of Marat, 1793, oil on canvas, 165 x 128 cm, Musées des Beaux-Arts, Brussels

Following the assassination of the radical revolutionary journalist Jean-Paul Marat by Charlotte Corday on July 13th 1793, a deputy of the National Convention (along with David) proclaimed “He sacrificed himself for liberty. Our eyes look for him amongst us. O terrible spectacle, he is on his deathbed! Where are you David? You have transmitted to posterity the image of Le Pelletier, dying for his country, there remains a picture for you to do.” To which David called out in the Convention: “I will do it too.”

The resulting work, The Death of Marat was presented to the Convention to be exhibited alongside The Death of Le Pelletier (original since lost) just four months later. It is considered by many art historians to be the single greatest political painting ever conceived. A triumph of the Neoclassical style its simplicity and distillation of feeling is profound considering the haste in which it was painted. The design has an air of concentration and finality usually resulting from a process of prolonged elimination and a pondering of every detail – David’s usual practice. 

Although murdered in his bathtub, where he regularly worked due to a painful skin condition, David has managed to imbue Marat with an idealised dignity and saintly air where other lesser artists would have been embarrassed by the circumstances. Somewhat reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Pieta, particularly with the elongated arm over the side of the bath, and Zurbaran’s St. Serapion from 1628, from which David has been influenced by the pale colouring and the solemn tilt of the head; the figure of Marat seems cast in porcelain, the grisly scene reduced to a ‘ladylike’ stabbing and some dashes of blood. 

David is bringing all of the might of his great skills as a painter to the role of airbrushing a tyrant of history. Holding a pen in one hand and the letter by which Corday was admitted entrance in the other, the viewer is simultaneously reminded both of David's role as journalist, ‘extoller of liberty’, and the ‘conniving, treacherous’ method by which the ‘Angel of Assassination’ murdered the ‘Friend of the People’. The solid box with Marat and David’s names immortalised, pronounces an unyielding truth while the dagger nearby still glistens with the blood of a martyr. 

The result is a masterpiece – understated, stark and profoundly poignant - not least due to David’s Winckelmannesque decision to remove all distractions from the background - including the crossed muskets on the wall - merely painting a faint light coming from the top right into the darkness of the picture conveying a sense of eternity and immortality.

 As successful as it is, however, the image is still no more than propaganda, if moving and deeply disturbing propaganda at that - using subject matter to convey an exceptionally morally-questionable idea. For the truly disturbing thing about this image is its service of art in the intense communication of a great lie. 

Charlotte Corday proclaimed “I killed one man to save 100,000” and this is easily the case. Marat was a radical tyrant who, as an orchestrator of the Terror, ordered the guillotining of any and all ‘detractors’ of the revolution. In an image of propaganda like no other David has presented this malevolent man as a Christ-like dying hero, Marat the martyr. To put it simply, as Simon Schama does, the image is “shockingly, lethally beautiful.”

Sources:

K. Clark, The Romantic Rebellion: Romantic versus Classic Art. (London: John Murray (Publishers) Ltd., 1973), 30.  

D. Irwin, Neoclassicism (Art & Ideas), (London: Phaidon Press Ltd., 1997), 252. 

Simon Schama, Power of Art, 235.

Bite 95: Eugene Delacroix - Liberty Leading the People, 1830

Liberty Leading the People, 1830, oil on canvas, 260 x 325 cm, Louvre, Paris

Painted to commemorate the ‘July Revolution’ of July 28th 1830 Liberty Leading the People is a true icon of French Revolutionary art. A new kind of history painting in which allegory is brilliantly combined with the portrayal of an historical event - the ideal and allegorical with the contemporary and real - the subject matter is used to convey a sense of patriotic solidarity, the idea of a necessary violence in the name of Liberty. 

“I have undertaken a modern subject, a scene on the barricades,” Delacroix explained, “and if I haven’t fought for my country at least I have painted for her.” Somewhat reminiscent of the corpses in Gericault’s The Raft of the Medusa the foreground shows a mass of fallen bodies clearly indicating Delacroix’s understanding that ‘The People’ is nothing more than a mass of individuals caught up in historical events. 

The German poet Heinrich Heine in his review of the Paris Salon of 1831, where the painting was a clear standout, described the painting in detail and exclaimed “And there we have it! A great thought has ennobled and sainted these poor common people, this rabble, and again awakening the slumbering dignity of their souls.” 

At the apex of the compositional triangle is the allegorical ‘Lady Liberty’, bare breasted and determined, flourishing a bayonet and the tricolour, advancing towards the spectator whilst turning to rally her supporters. She is a personification of the Idea uniting the People, who are represented by a tenacious miscellany group of followers including, perhaps surprisingly, a man in bourgeois dress complete with top-hat, previously believed to be Delacroix himself. 

Delacroix’s female personification of Liberty has become a potent symbol for the idea of liberty and has carved its own niche in popular culture.

Sources:

D. B. Brown, Romanticism (Art & Ideas), (London: Phaidon Press Ltd., 2001), 116. 

P. Pool, Delacroix (The Colour Library of Art), (London: Paul Hamlyn, 1969), 32. 

H. Honour and J. Fleming, A World History of Art, revised 7th ed. (London: Laurence King Publishing Ltd., 1982/2009), 651. 

Bite 94: Diego Velázquez - Prince Baltasar Carlos as a Hunter, c. 1636

Prince Baltasar Carlos as a Hunter, c. 1636,
oil on canvas, 154 x 91 cm, Bristol Collection, Ickworth

Philip IV was never able to firmly secure a royal lineage and his last legitimate son, Charles II of Spain grew to be a sickly man who died at age 38 having never fathered an heir. In the 1630’s however, Prince Baltasar Carlos (who died in 1646 at age 16) was the heir apparent and was thus celebrated in many portraits by Velázquez including Prince Baltasar Carlos as a Hunter. A companion piece to that of Philip IV as a Hunter it was painted when the Prince was only six.

The exercise of hunting was seen as an essential element of a Prince’s education; a contemporary commentator explains: “In it youth develops, gains strength and lightness, the military arts are practiced, the lie of the land is understood…the sight of the spilled blood of wind beasts…creates generous spirits which constantly scorn the shadows of fear.”

The innocence of the child’s angelic face sits in contrast with the wild terrain of the Sierra de Guadarrama and the long firearm, a harquebus, he holds away from himself. Two dogs are present: one an alert golden greyhound, the other a sleeping white and cinnamon pointer.

It can be argued that Velázquez is able to rely on less to convey the stately regality of the Crown Prince than Van Dyck does. His charming innocence is that much more convincing as a portrait of a young child in the role of a man. At the same time this takes nothing away from the portrait’s role as the depiction of an heir, with the tradition and royal dignity that goes with representing such a role.

Sources:
Saavedra Fajardo, 1640, trans. Mena Matques 2005, p. 354, quoted in Carr, Dawson W., Velázquez, p. 198.
Kathleen Howard (ed.), Velázquez, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1989.

Bite 93: Anthony Van Dyck - Charles II as Prince of Wales, in Armour, c. 1637




Charles II as Prince of Wales, in Armour, c. 1637,
oil on canvas, 154 x 131 cm, Royal Collection, Windsor Castle

 Wearing a gleaming suit of armour much like that worn by his father in Charles I in Armour (c. 1639), the young boy is attired like a military commander, holding a newly fashionable wheel-lock pistol. It was likely painted before his installation as a Knight of the Garter on May 21st 1638 as he is not shown wearing the Lesser George as his father is. Similar in pose to that in The Five Eldest Children of Charles I (1637), likely from the same sitting, his left hand sits on a helmet sporting flamboyant plumes.

The painting conveys - albeit eloquently - the absurdity of a 7 year old being portrayed as ready to lead a military simply because of his royal lineage. This, as with images of Charles II’s father, were part of an elaborate propagandist campaign to justify the legitimacy of the Stuart line.

Van Dyck’s portraiture played a significant role in this campaign and portraying Prince Charles II, not as an infant but as a young man, one day to be king, conveys the assurance that the noble power structures of the Caroline court are stronger than any one man. Charles I may not have been a king beyond reproach, but he can be seen as a good father, capable of producing a suitable heir.

Sources:
Karen Hearn (ed.), Van Dyck & Britain, Tate Publishing, London, 2009.
Christopher Brown, Van Dyck

Bite 92: Diego Velázquez - Philip IV as a Hunter, c. 1636

Philip IV as a Hunter, c. 1636, oil on canvas, 189 x 124 cm, Prado

Van Dyck’s almost self-conscious display of royal grandeur sits in stark contrast to Velázquez open and deceptively simple composition Philip IV as a Hunter, painted for the Torre de la Parada. Historian Jonathan Brown sees Van Dyck’s portraiture as essentially “programmatic” while Velázquez portrait is “almost off-handed… refusing to insist on the royal majesty.” 

The entire scene around Charles, as well as his pose and elbow, clearly keeps the viewer at bay. Philip on the other hand relies only on his gun and protective dog. His self-possession is decidedly more convincing than Charles’ and, although the landscape, inspired by the area near Pardo, to the North of Madrid, certainly indicates his dominion as a source of his power, its representation by Velázquez is far less symbolically loaded, the canopy of trees, and stoic canine, inherently referencing his power without the need to bow literally. 

Philip looks down at the viewer with a relaxed stance and hand on hip, the dynamic composition completed with the use of a long firearm extending diagonally from outside the frame on the left to the bottom right corner. As with many of his portraits of Philip IV, Velázquez has successfully established a careful balance between solidity and ease. 

Sources:

Fernando Checa, Velázquez: The Complete Paintings, Harry N. Abrams, Inc., Publishers, New York, 2008 

Jonathan Brown, ‘Velázquez, Rubens and Van Dyck’ (1999) in Collected Writings on Velázquez 

FernandoCheca, Velázquez: The Complete Paintings

Bite 91: Anthony Van Dyck - Le Roi à la Chasse, 1635

Le Roi à la Chasse, 1635, oil on canvas, 272 x 212 cm, Louvre

The king turns his head toward the viewer, his body facing the wide landscape which he has been surveying, looking out over the sea, the Isle of Wight in the distance. He looks relaxed and good-humoured, having dismounted to take a healthy stroll in the fresh air of the English countryside, seemingly oblivious to the presence of his two grooms. 

He is dressed with casual elegance in a white satin jacket and a carefully positioned cavaliers broad-brimmed hat framing his face, which would otherwise be lost in the sky behind. One hand nonchalantly holds one long leather kid glove within the other while his right hand is outstretched toward the landscape over which he holds dominion, proudly grasping a walking stick before him, a symbol of his royal authority. Van Dyck has ingeniously presented the entire scene, with all of its detail, to centre attention on the king, thereby establishing him as having absolute control over his realm and subjects. 

The viewer is on a low viewpoint, looking up at the king. Likewise the customary low horizon emphasises the king’s high stature despite a short frame. He is divinely lit, separating him further from the rest of the scene. The obedient horse, interpreted as a symbol of passion controlled by reason, as exemplified by the king, appears to bow to its owner, as does the canopy of trees above, compositionally mirroring the rim of his hat. The gentleman groom, looking into the forest in protection of the king, is Endymion Porter, a close friend of Van Dyck’s featured in a self-portrait of c. 1635. 

Belonging to a long tradition of hunting portraits, Le Roi à la Chasse is nonetheless exceptional in its complexity of meaning and composition with the king daringly placed to the left. Every element of the picture conveys the king’s majesty, down to the inscription on the rock in the bottom right corner.

Sources:
Alfred Moir, Van Dyck, 1994.
Brown, Christopher, Van Dyck, Phaidon Press Ltd., Oxford, 1982.

Bite 90: Diego Velázquez - Philip IV in Armour, c. 1628

Philip IV in Armour, c. 1628, oil on canvas, 58 x 45 cm, Prado, Madrid

“Habsburg rulers of Spain conceived of portraiture as a way to represent the appearance of the sitters, not to disguise or improve it. As a consequence, portraits made for the Spanish court rarely deployed an elaborate allegorical or symbolical apparatus. The image of the king was the image of royal majesty; no further elaboration was required.”

                                                                   - Jonathan Brown

The understated approach of Spanish portraiture can be clearly seen in Philip IV in Armour. One of the most realistic portraits of Philip IV, among it's few elements, it prominently shows the characteristic ‘Habsburg lips’, present in all royal Habsburg portraits and a consistent articulation of Philip’s royal lineage, a major source of his legitimacy as king. 

His reserved expression contrasts with a sash, draped decoratively over the gold and black armour, expertly painted in many shades of red and taking up a large portion of the canvas. The uncluttered composition mirrors the king’s broad shoulders with his golilla collar, much simpler than the lechuguillas lace collar previously worn by his predecessors, which he prohibited by sumptuary law in 1623. 

Whereas with Charles I’s armoured portrait numerous symbols are presented to reassert his royal position, with Velázquez’ portrait it is assumed that the visual presence of the monarch alone is enough to convey power and regality.

Sources:
Brown, Jonathan, ‘Velázquez, Rubens and Van Dyck’ (1999) in Collected Writings on Velázquez

Bite 89: Anthony Van Dyck - Charles I in Armour, c. 1639

Charles I in Armour, c. 1639, oil on canvas, 103 x 81 cm, private collection

Anthony Van Dyck depicts King Charles I in opulently shining black armour surrounded by various symbols of his kingship and military power. He is presented as an armoured knight, complete with gold sword at the ready, subtly reflected off the armour plating. 

He stands beside his crown firmly holding his commander’s baton before him diagonally, compositionally underscoring the bright reflection on his chest and the position of his arms. Behind the crown his knight’s helmet, complete with plumage, indicating his duel role as monarch and military commander. Opposite, handsome burgundy drapery falls behind the king offsetting the still life. 

Around his neck a thick gold chain displays a gold medallion with the image of Saint George and the Dragon, symbolic of his role as Sovereign of the Order of the Garter. Known as the Lesser George, Charles wore the medallion constantly as he saw in the prominent military saint, St. George, the Patron Saint of England, many of his own ideals of chivalry integral to his concept of kingship. His relaxed yet alert expression further reflects these ideals. 

Van Dyck has subtly and skilfully widened the eyes and extended the mouth to portray an open countenance exuding the compassion and strength of a man in whom immense trust is placed. His eyes glisten in a direct gaze reinforcing this response. 

Jonathan Brown points out, “Van Dyck’s formal portraits of Charles I are justly considered to be among the most beautiful, persuasive images of monarchy ever painted. Imbued with grace and created with apparently effortless execution, they express an image of court governed by the ideals of kingship.”


Over the next week I will explore and compare the 17th century royal portraiture of Van Dyck and Velázquez.