Have you seen...The Honey Thief?

Lucas Cranach the Elder, Cupid Complaining to Venus, 1526-7, oil on panel, NG

The subjects of paintings fascinate me: I always want to know what is going on, who the people are, where they are and why they are. I want to know why the work was made, whom for and whom by. Paintings make me want to ask questions, and the finding out of the answers is one of the things I enjoy most about art. 

Take this painting for example.  What on earth is going on here?  In the background on the right there is a craggy hill topped by a castle and with a lake beneath whilst on the left, wild deer peer out from a dark forest. This landscape may be imaginary, but the artist, Lucas Cranach the Elder, often depicted places he knew or that belonged to his patrons in Saxony [1]. In the foreground and dominating the scene, a beautiful and, for this period, unusually slim, lady stands next to a tree, while a small boy looks up at her and swats bees.  The lady is wearing a magnificent hat and intricate necklace, but absolutely nothing else and the little boy is sporting a pair of wings.  A curious and intriguing image…there must be a story behind it! 

And there is.  The lady is Venus, goddess of love, and the boy is her son, Cupid. Cupid has just stolen a honeycomb from a hole in the tree and the angry bees have stung him.  His expression of pain and bewilderment is clearly depicted by Cranach in the furrowed eyebrows and parted mouth.  Cupid asks his mother how something so small, such as a bee, could cause so much pain, and Venus answers, that it is similar to the wounds inflicted by Cupid’s own arrows of love [2].  We know that this is the theme of the painting due to a Latin inscription in the sky at the top right:

Young Cupid was stealing honey from a hive when a bee stung the thief on the finger.  So it is for us: the brief and fleeting pleasure we seek comes mixed with wretched pain to do us harm [3].

The original idea was written in Greek, by the third century BC poet Theocritus and Lucas Cranach may have been introduced to the text by the German humanist Melancthon [4]. The poem, Idyll number nineteen, is very short:

When the thievish Love one day was stealing honeycomb from the hive, a wicked bee stung him, and made all his finger-tips to smart.  In pain and grief he blew on his hand and stamped and leapt upon the ground and went and showed his hurt to Aphrodite, and made complaint that so little a beast as a bee could make so great a wound.  Whereat his mother laughing, ‘What?’ cries she, ‘art not a match for a bee, and thou so little and yet able to make wounds so great?’ [5]

Cranach entitled his work, Cupid Complaining to Venus and I think he has fully captured that moment, both in Cupid’s pained and surprised expression as in the amused, almost sly look of Venus which is completely lacking in compassion.  She does not even look at her son, but directly out at the viewer.

This work was exhibited in the National Gallery’s recent Strange Beauty Exhibition, but the Gallery holds this work and it can normally be viewed, so do go and take a look.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...the One Without the Dragon?

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[1] Dunkerton (et al), Durer to Veronese, Sixteenth-Century Painting in the National Gallery, National        Gallery Publications, London, 1999, p.179

[2] Bugler C, Strange Beauty, German Paintings at the National Gallery, 2014, p.80

[3] Bugler C, 2014, p.80

[4] Dunkerton (et al), 1999, p.96

[5] http://www.theoi.com/Text/TheocritusIdylls4.html#19 [accessed 03/05/14]

Have you seen...Two Portraits in One?

Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, Self-portrait, 1790, Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery,
Florence (Photo: Andy Barker)

I will never forget the moment that I first saw this painting.  It was the subject of my Master’s Dissertation and I had been longing to see it ‘in the flesh’ for some time.  It hangs in the Vasari Corridor, a passageway linking the Uffizi Gallery and the Pitti Palace in Florence.  This passageway was built directly over the Ponte Vecchio by Vasari himself on the orders of the then Duke of Florence, Cosimo I de Medici. Cosimo needed a covered route between his palace and his office that would be private and uncluttered by the everyday person.  He was also amassing a collection of artists’ self-portraits, and this Corridor was the ideal place to hang them.  Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun’s image has since joined that illustrious group.

My husband and I visited the Uffizi Gallery on a day trip from Rome, specifically to see this portrait.  The problem was, that unbeknown to us, the Vasari Corridor is generally locked to the public and can only be visited when booked in advance and in a group.  Everyone in uniform that we asked simply shook their heads, and I got more and more desperate.  In the end we left the Gallery and found the Superintendent, a lady who had a smattering of English and a very kind heart!  She made phonecalls, spoke to security people and eventually, took us through the back door of the Uffizzi Gallery, up some steps and under an official-looking security tape.  Another lady unlocked a door, pushed us gently through it and locked it behind us!  

Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery, Florence,
(Photo: Andy Barker)

 We were on our own at the top of a steep blue-carpeted staircase and there was complete silence.  A man then appeared at the bottom of the stairs and beckoned for us to follow him.  He was the caretaker and jangled a huge set of keys as he walked.  He led us into a narrow corridor with a curved ceiling set with dim lights.  There was the occasional window, circular, like a porthole and with a grill across it. Lining the walls on both sides were paintings, all self-portraits.  Our guide had one word of English, “photo”, which he kept repeating, telling us to take pictures of the masterpieces surrounding us.  As we walked we felt the hairs stand up on the backs of our necks and neither of us spoke.  It was rather like a dream.  We kept walking until we found her. 

Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery, Florence, (Photo: Andy Barker)

She sat there, serenely, gently smiling out of the canvas, paintbrush in one hand and palette in the other.  The intriguing thing about this work is that Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun is allowing us to see what she is painting.  In many of her self-portraits, she shows herself simply looking out of the canvas, or holding the tools of her trade, or sometimes wearing a fancy dress costume.  There are two main portraits where she explicitly shares her work with us, this one and its twin, which hangs at Ickworth House in Norfolk.  They are in fact, not entirely identical, as you will see if you examine the image on the canvas on which Vigée-Le Brun is painting.  The Ickworth portrait (below) shows the face of a young girl who seems to emerge out of the canvas and into the room.  This girl is Julie, Vigée-Le Brun’s daughter.  However, the Uffizi self-portrait shows an entirely different face, a shadowy, indistinct and altogether less ‘real’ image, the haunting features of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.

Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, Self-Portrait, 1791, Ickworth House, Norfolk 
(photo: Alison Barker)

Vigée-Le Brun lived during the French Revolution of 1789 and painted portraits for many of the French aristocracy who ended up losing their lives on the guillotine.  She herself, managed to escape Paris and wandered Europe, painting and writing her Memoirs.  She was proud of her images of the doomed Queen, many of which were large and imposing and have ended up in Vienna.  This one however, an intimate portrayal demonstrating Vigée-Le Brun’s own close connection to the Queen, has ended up here, in a quiet and atmospheric corridor over the River Arno and seen by very few.

As Andy and I left the Vasari Corridor and re-entered the sunlit world, we could not quite believe where we had been and the huge privilege we had been granted.

If you are visiting Florence, before you go, book a tour of the Vasari Corridor and experience not only the hushed feel of centuries of artists watching you as you pass by, but also the wistful gaze of Marie Antoinette.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...the Honey Thief?

Have you seen… …the Kiss of Betrayal?

Giotto, Kiss of Judas, The Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

It is an arresting image in more ways than one.  A forest of spears, clubs and flaming torches break the deep blue of the sky.  The foreground is crowded with figures, some with angry, worried faces, fists raised and clutching their weapons.  A bugler winds his horn and countless black helmets hide the anonymous soldiers.  Amidst this crushing rabble, One face is intensely calm.  Jesus gazes directly into the upturned eyes of his betrayer, who is about to kiss him.  This is the signal.  This is what they have been waiting for.  He is the One.

The event of Jesus’ betrayal and arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane recorded in the Gospels, has been depicted in art on many occasions, but if I had to choose my favourite, it would be this one.  It captures the drama, the anger, the shock, even the noise of the moment, but at the same time displays Christ’s absolute serenity and willingness to surrender Himself to death.  His smooth profile face contrasts dramatically with that of Judas whose hooded eyes are held fast by those of Jesus. Nearly all other eyes are on this scene in the centre, as if mesmerised, waiting to see what will happen next.

detail, Giotto, Kiss of Juda, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

Giotto, the creator of this fresco, was responsible for decorating the entire series of scenes that cover the interior of the Scrovegni Chapel. The Kiss of Judas is one of forty-two frescoes telling the stories of Joachim and Anna and Mary their daughter, both of which are taken from the Apocrypha, and the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, taken from the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in the Bible.  It has been said that this scheme “…is one of the most highly regarded ensembles in the history of art” [1]. 

Giotto, Scrovegni Chapel, 12.80 x 20.82 x 8.42 m, Padua

Why is it so highly regarded?  Well, having had the privilege of actually seeing these frescoes I think I can see why.  For anyone studying the Renaissance, Giotto is inescapable. He is regarded as the start, the father of modern art [2], the one without whom everything would be different, inconceivable.  I studied him and his wonderful Scrovegni Chapel frescoes back in the late nineties, and I was completely hooked.  I wanted to see them ‘in the flesh’ from that moment and although it took me nearly fifteen years, I finally saw them in July last year.  The Chapel is in Padua, in an area known as The Arena due to its use in Roman times. The tickets need to be booked well in advance and viewings are tightly controlled.  Twenty-five people are allowed in for fifteen minutes only, a time so short that it almost seemed like a dream.  We had to be conditioned to the environment in a special room for ten minutes first and then we were allowed into the hallowed space.

The thing that hit me first was the colour.  It is blue and beautiful and dreamlike.  Pastel is everywhere creating a feeling of ‘pretty’ colour, even in the Last Judgement at the far end, a far from ‘pretty’ subject.  The deep blue ceiling is studded with gold stars and roundels, and the rectangular scenes themselves are actually much bigger than I had imagined.  The Kiss is on the lower register on the left between two windows.  Taking this image as our example, we can see the stunning colour palette used by Giotto: the golden yellow of Judas’ cloak, the bright red of the soldier’s uniform, pastel pink of the pointing figure in the foreground and the azure blue of the night sky, with red and yellow flaming torches cutting through it.

Giotto was not only clever with colour, but innovative with his use of gesture and facial expression.  That is really the key to Giotto and why he has been hailed as so important in the history of art.  Look at the expressions of the people in the crowd, mouths open in shock, eyebrows knitted together in anger, and the calm intensity of Jesus’ own eyes.  The gestures too, speak volumes: fists balled, a cloak being pulled from a fleeing figure to the left, hands wielding weapons, a finger raised in admonishment and a hug, a treacherous, all enveloping hug.

I could go on…but I won’t.  Go and see them for yourself, they are worth the effort, even though you only get fifteen minutes!  It is fifteen minutes of wonder and awe and for me, a dream come true.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...Two Portraits in One?

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[1] Norman D (ed), Siena, Florence and Padua: Art, Society and Religion 1280-1400, The Open University, 1995, p.75

[2] Ibid p.73

Have you seen...a Small Sign of Peace?

The Sandon Pax, c.1500, beechwood, watercolour on vellum, (Photo: A Barker) 

Tucked away in a corner of rural Essex there is a tiny bit of exquisite history.  In fact, it is relatively unknown and will not have been seen by many.  It is almost unique, being one of only two extant in the country.  Five hundred years ago, however, it was one of hundreds that were known by all.  Every Sunday it would be first kissed by the Priest, then passed reverently from hand to hand and kissed by each member of the congregation in turn as a sign of peace.  It is the Sandon Pax.

I was given the rare privilege of seeing this beautiful object, safely kept in the place where it was used all those years ago. It is a small wooden rectangle, of twenty-six by twenty-three centimetres.  The frame is finely carved and was originally gilded, although this has, to a great extent, worn away.  Recessed in the centre is a miniature work of art, smaller than a playing card and painted in watercolour on vellum.  It shows Christ on the cross, head bowed, with the Latin sign above declaring him to be Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.  On his right stands Mary, his mother, and on his left, stands John, into whose protection he gave his mother.

The style of the watercolour has been pronounced as Gothic [1] with decorative pastel colours and highlights in gold, picking out the folds of Mary’s robe, the waves of John’s idealised hair and the rays of Christ’s halo.  There is some similarity here with the intricately wrought illuminated manuscripts and Books of Hours of the thirteenth and fourteenth century, the Luttrell and Ormesby Psalters being two such examples.

Luttrell Psalter, c.1320-40, British Library, London

  

Ormesby Psalter, c.1290-1340, Bodleian Library, Oxford

Although this comparison firmly places the Sandon Pax in the Gothic tradition, I would argue that some small flowering of Renaissance form can be seen. The sidelong glance of Mary, her head inclined downwards but subtly turning towards John, shows some understanding of anatomical realism.  This is not simply a full frontal, flat image, but one with shadow and depth.  Furthermore, Mary’s slightly parted lips seem to me to display emotion, something that Renaissance artists were striving to represent at this time.  Mary’s eyes have been painted non-symmetrically, one slightly larger than the other, a technique used by artists such as Holbein to give character to a face [2].  Although these are small points, they are worth noting. It has been suggested that the artist was French [3] and certainly England received some Italian Renaissance ideas through a French filter. 

detail of Mary, The Sandon Pax, c.1500, (photo: Alison Barker)

The Sandon Pax was created during the reign of Henry VII, a self-pronounced Renaissance Prince and man of letters and culture.  His mother Margaret Beaufort was a humanist who founded colleges, patronised art and helped establish chapels.  Catholicism was firmly established as the religion of the country, a situation unchanged for hundreds if not a thousand years meaning that the Sandon Pax is, in fact, a Catholic object.  It would no doubt have been used throughout the next King’s reign too, as Henry VIII was staunchly Catholic on his accession in 1509.  Although in 1529, Henry broke from Rome and declared himself to be Supreme Head of the Church, that Church was still Catholic in doctrine and the King, Catholic in belief until his death. 

Protestant rumblings began to be felt, however, and at the new King’s accession in 1547 everything changed.  Edward VI, son of Catholic Henry had nonetheless been tutored by humanists with Protestant leanings and the nine year old boy was a devout Protestant.  The Pax had now become a sign of Papist belief instead of peace and was at risk:  Iconoclasm had arrived.  Maybe it was at this moment that the precious Sandon Pax was smuggled into the home of a Catholic parishioner to preserve it from the wholesale destruction of idolatrous images.  It lay undisturbed for three hundred and sixty years when it was rediscovered in 1910 by the downstairs fireplace of a Tudor cottage in Sandon [4].

Looking at it now and seeing the wear from the fingernails of hundreds of hands, the evidence of faith from fifty years unbroken use, it strikes me how precious this small sign of peace really is.  I cannot entreat you to go and see it for yourself as it is not, as yet, on public display.  However, measures are being taken to ensure just that, and I will let you know when this happens.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...the Kiss of Betrayal?

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[1]Marks R & Williamson P(eds), Gothic Art for England, 1400-1547, V & A Publications, 2003, p.415

[2] Foister, Holbein in England, Tate, London, 2006, p.54

[3] Marks R & Williamson P (eds), 2003, p.415 

[4] Bush R, Sandon - A Village History, 1999, p.26

Have you seen...the Set of Deadly Playing Cards?

Hans Holbein the Younger, The Duchess, The Dance of Death Series, c.1526, British Museum, London

These cards are quite intriguing but I don’t think you would want to play ‘snap’ with them!  Here, a skeleton with flowing locks pulls a blanket from a startled woman who sits up in bed, whilst another skeleton, half in shadow, plays a violin. It is a macabre little scene and represents the death of the woman, a Duchess, when she least expects it.  The skeleton personifies Death who is there to escort her from life.  

Hans Holbein the Younger designed this illustration along with forty-one others, making a complete set [1] called The Dance of Death which now resides in the British Museum. They are actually smaller than standard size playing cards at 6.4 x 4.9 cm and although their original purpose is unknown [2], it has been suggested that images like these were intended to teach moral principles [3].

Another card shows Death removing a man’s valuables before removing the Rich Man himself. On the table a candle has just burnt down indicating the snuffing out of life.  The moral can be clearly seen: the hoarding of wealth and the attempt to secure them behind iron bars and strong walls are no defence against death.

Hans Holbein the Younger, The Rich Man, c.1526, The British Museum, London

The intricate detail, the delicate lines and precision cutting that went into each woodcut is truly incredible.  Holbein designed the images, but another craftsman, Hans Lutzelburger, actually cut the wood to create them.  It may be his signature, HL, that we see on the bottom left of the Duchess picture, carved into the base of the bed [4].

These images were often copied at the time in stained glass windows, murals, carvings and printed books.  We can also see many references in much later works, such as Henry Wallis’ Chatterton, where the smoke of the candle indicates the passing of life from the man on the bed.

Henry Wallis, Chatterton, 1856, Tate Britain, London

Part of this strangely beautiful and intriguing set of woodcuts can be seen in the current exhibition at the National Gallery, Strange Beauty which finishes on 11^th May this year.  If you get a chance, go and examine these tiny works of art for yourself.

Alison Barker

Coming next: Have you seen...a Small Sign of Peace?

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[1] William M. Ivins, Jr.Source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol. 14, No. 11 (Nov., 1919), pp. 231- 235, Hans Holbein’s Dance of Death, p.231

[2] Ibid p.232

[3] https://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight [accessed 14/03/14]

[4] William M. Ivins, Jr., 1919,  Hans Holbein’s Dance of Death, p.231

Have you seen...the Masterpiece that thought it was a Table?

For three hundred years they sat round it and ate, used it as a workbench [1], maybe even played a game of cards.  After all, it was a table and that is what it was for.  Little did they know that on the underside of the humble wooden board beneath their trenchers, tools and Queens of Hearts lay a sacred masterpiece in gold and red and blue. It was not until 1847 [2] that someone looked underneath and realised what it was: an altarpiece of outstanding beauty and workmanship.

The Despenser Retable, unknown maker, c.1350-1400, oil on panel, Norwich Cathedral

It is long, at over two and a half metres and separated into five recessed panels, each displaying a different element of Christ’s death and resurrection.  The first panel shows the scourging and humiliation of Christ by three figures dressed in medieval costume with painted footwear and tights, although these seem to be rolled down on the brutish figure in blue.  His almost laughing expression recalls Hieronymous Bosch’s later depiction of the same event.  The scene is cramped and full of action.  There is even an attempt at perspectival realism with a sense of recession into the room achieved by the angles of the floor and architecture.

The second scene, partly damaged, shows Christ carrying his cross followed by men on horseback, again dressed in medieval contemporary dress.  The bright red tights of two figures and helmet and tunic of another, frame this image.  The central panel depicts Christ on the cross, head bowed and looking down at Mary, half swooning and supported possibly by John into whose care she had just been given by her Son.  The upper part of this panel has been restored, as the entire top section was damaged, possibly when being used as a table [3].

In the fourth scene Christ rises from the dead, stepping out of a coffin onto a pair of slumbering guards dressed in red and blue.  Christ’s wounds can easily be seen as spots of red and He makes the sign of blessing.  In fact, a vivid red has been used in every panel taking the eye through each scene and creating almost a theme of sacrifice and bloodshed.  There are also traces of bright red paint in the wooden frame surrounding each picture.

In the final scene, Christ ascends to heaven, watched by thirteen onlookers composed of the twelve disciples and Mary. The decorative composition of upturned faces creating a pattern across the panel is reminiscent of the adoring saints in the San Pier Maggiore altarpiece by Jacopo di Cione.  This was painted in 1370-1, probably ten years before our altarpiece was commissioned by Henry Despenser (c.1343-1406).

Jacopo di Cione, (detail) The San Pier Maggiore Altarpiece, 1370-1, The National Gallery, London

The reasons behind the commission are disturbing for some twenty-first century viewers [4].  Henry Despenser was Bishop of Norwich at the time of the 1381 Peasants’ Revolt, and he was instrumental in its violent suppression.  The altarpiece was probably commissioned by him in thanksgiving for the end of hostilities and the victory of the authorities [5].  Ironically this vivid and beautiful panel was painted in response to the putting down of protests against images in the Church.  Turning the altarpiece upside down and into a table, saved it from the ravages of iconoclasm that raged during both Henry VIII's 1536-9 Dissolution of the Monasteries and his son's Protestant purge of images in 1549.

Once the table’s true identity was discovered, the altarpiece was returned to its rightful place behind an altar in the Chapel of St Luke in Norwich Cathedral.  I saw it two weeks ago as part of the wonderful Masterpieces: Art and East Anglia Exhibition at the University of Norwich, but by now it will have returned home once again. Pay it a visit, it is well worth it!

Alison Barker

Coming next: Have you seen...the Set of Deadly Playing Cards?

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[1] Plummer argues that the altarpiece was in an annexe of the Cathedral in the ‘plumbery’, due to the traces of white lead and green copper residue found on the back of it when in use as a workbench. Plummer P, ‘Restoration of a Retable in Norwich Cathedral’, Studies in Conservation, Vol.4, No.3 (Aug 1959), pp.106-115

[2] Collins I (ed), Masterpieces: Art  and East Anglia, Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, University of East Anglia,  Norwich, 2013, p.86

[3] Stanbury S, The Visual Object of Desire in late Medieval England, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008, p.77

[4] Collins I (ed), 2013, p.86

[5] ibid

Have you seen… …the Lady in a Railway Station with a Parasol?

Claude Monet, Sketch of a figure in the Open Air: Woman with a Parasol Facing Left,
1886,  131 x 88cm, Musee d'Orsay, Paris

I know what you are going to say, “That lady may be holding a parasol but she is definitely not in a railway station!” and…in one sense you would be right.  She is outdoors on a sunny hillside with scudding white clouds behind her and a fresh breeze blowing.  In fact, Monet painted this deliberately en plein air, or, in the open air, in order to convey the feeling of being outdoors. He wanted to, “…paint the beauty of the air...” [1] that the subject was in, and initially believed that he was attempting the impossible.  The idea was to show the subtle effects of changing light and shade in an outdoor environment where the weather could alter the view at any moment.

I actually think Monet has achieved the effect he was looking for.  It is a fresh sunny day and our lady’s scarf is blowing in the breeze, while the grasses around her bend and her skirt flows out in front of her.  The grass is full of bright colour, yellow, red, white, green and turquoise which changes to darker tones in the shadow cast by the figure. There is so much movement and a real sense of being on a hilltop.  So, why did I suggest that this lady is in a railway station?  Well, if you have ever seen this painting in its home in Paris, you will know what I mean.  The Musée d'Orsay used to be a railway station.

Musée d'Orsay when it was a Railway Station

The Musée d'Orsay today (photo: Alison Barker)

It was inaugurated on 14^th July 1900 and was the first station with electrified tracks, getting rid of the messy problems of vapour and soot.    After only thirty-nine years, however, these beautiful new facilities were outdated and on 23^rd November 1939 the trains stopped leaving and arriving.  The integral hotel that had been built at the same time and boasted a magnificent dining room, continued to do business until 1973.  That very year the station was listed, rescuing it from the threat of demolition.  Georges Pompidou, the French President at the time, agreed to the idea of housing nineteenth and early twentieth century art within the building, and the Musée d’Orsay was born.

When I first visited with a friend last year I was stunned by the space.  It is cathedral-like in its vastness and the stuccoed ceiling can be fully enjoyed quite close up from a purpose-built viewing platform at one end.  We also had fun looking through one of the massive clocks in the façade out to a sun-lit Paris and then enjoying dinner in the opulent surroundings of the original dining room. 

It is a wonderful and unique place and I would urge you to visit, not simply for the magnificent art within, but for the magnificent architecture itself.  The lady with a parasol in a railway station is waiting for you.

Alison Barker

Coming next: Have you seen...the Masterpiece that Thought it was a Table?

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[1] Bolloch J (et al), Musée D’Orsay Visitor Guide, Editions Artlys, Paris, 2012, p.71