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    After only thirty-nine years, however, these beautiful new facilities were outdated and on 23^rd November 1939 the trains stopped leaving and arriving.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

Have you seen...the 'Unacceptable' Last Supper?

Paolo Veronese, 'The Last Supper', 1573, Venice, Galleria Accademia  (photo:Andy Barker)

It is huge.  That was the first thing that struck me when I saw this painting in real life.  It is forty-two feet in length, almost twice as long as our whole house!  That dot standing next to the painting is me, which gives some idea of its magnitude.  The figures are life size and the whole work has a monumentality which is breathtaking.  Having seen this work many times in books and even having taught a lesson on it, I had never fully appreciated its sheer size.

One thing I had always appreciated, however, was the busyness of the painting.  It is absolutely crammed with people.  A fun thing to do is to count them.  I have tried this and come up with forty-eight people.  Let me know if you agree!  It is also not a peaceful picture.  The many figures are doing all sorts of things: having conversations, eating, serving food, pouring wine, climbing, playing the fool and even picking their teeth!

detail of man picking his teeth (photo: Andy Barker)

detail: wine being served and drunk (photo: Andy Barker)

The question is, what is this monumental painting actually about?  This, however, is where the controversy comes in.  Paolo Veronese created this as a Last Supper, showing Jesus with his twelve disciples on the night he was betrayed.  It was commissioned by the Dominican monastery of Santi Giovanni e Paolo in Venice, to hang in their refectory.  Veronese completed it on 20^th April 1573 and the Dominican patrons were perfectly happy with it.  However, the Spanish Inquisition was apparently not!  They summoned Veronese to appear before a tribunal on 18^th July and questioned him about his ‘Last Supper’.  Their main point was about the abundance and the type of figures.  During the actual Last Supper the only people recorded as being present were Jesus and his twelve disciples [1].  Jesus is certainly represented here, seated in the centre and leaning towards one of his disciples, whilst Peter, on Christ’s right carves some meat into a bowl.  It is quite difficult to distinguish all the disciples, although it has been suggested that they are the ones on the same side of the table as Jesus [2]. This would be in keeping with other representations of the Last Supper, such as Leonardo da Vinci’s famous work, also painted for a refectory.  It could be argued, however, that Judas is the man seated on this side of the table within the central arch, cast in shadow and looking shiftily behind him.

detail: Jesus with Peter, John and possibly Judas (photo: Andy Barker)

 Although the disciples and Christ are certainly in this painting, the Inquisition was concerned about many of the other figures and their purpose here.  What on earth was a buffoon with a parrot on his wrist doing at this most sacred meal?  Surely, this type of figure distracted the viewer from the importance of the central scene.  Why were two German soldiers included and why were they drinking wine and eating bread? Was this a concealed Lutheran message about the Eucharist [3]? Finally, why were two dogs, a cat eating a fish bone beneath the table and a man picking his teeth, present at the Lord’s Supper? 

   

detail: a 'fool' with a parrot   (photo: Andy Barker)

detail: two German soldiers drinking (photo: Andy Barker)

Veronese did have an answer: Because there was a lot of space to fill!  He had been commissioned to paint a huge picture and, “…it seemed to me that it could hold many figures” [4].  He pointed out that artists used their imagination and that he had received the commission to decorate it as he “saw fit”, thereby defending himself from the accusation that he had done anything unseemly.  He went on to say that he was following where other artists, superior to himself, had led.  Michelangelo, for example, had painted Christ, his mother Mary, and various saints, without garments, in the Sistine Chapel [5].  The Inquisition was not convinced by his argument, however, and told Veronese in no uncertain terms, to change his painting or face the consequences.

So, Veronese did…well, a tiny bit.  He just changed the name of his painting to the Feast in the House of Levi, thereby allowing for a greater number of figures and not changing his actual work of art at all.

Go and see Veronese’s ‘unacceptable’ Last Supper in the Galleria Accademia in Venice and marvel at the incredible detail of his abundant figures.

Alison Barker

Coming next: Have you seen...the Lady in a Railway Station with a Parasol?

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[1] The Bible, Luke 22:7-22

[2] http://smarthistory.khanacademy.org/veroneses-feast-in-the-house-of-levi.html [accessed 31/01/14]

[3] Black C F (et al), Atlas of the Renaissance, 1993, Andromeda Oxford Ltd, Oxford, p.99

[4] Paoletti J, Radke G, Art in Renaissance Italy, (4^th ed), 2011, Laurence King Publishing, London, p.504

[5] ibid

Have you seen...yourself reflected?

Jan Van Eyck, The Arnolfini Portrait, 1434

What strikes you first: the green gown, the fluffy dog, the abandoned clogs, the rolling oranges, the brass chandelier, the writing on the wall or the convex mirror?

There is so much going on here that one can just look and look.  The figures of course, dominate the scene, particularly the lady with her vivid green gown edged with white fur and an elaborately decorated sleeve.  She holds the front of her dress in front of her stomach, possibly emphasising her pregnancy.  However, a distended stomach was regarded as a beautiful asset in the fifteenth century [1] and Van Eyck painted another female figure, St Catherine in a similar way (below).

                                    

Giovanna Cenami, the lady probably represented here [2] may not, therefore, be pregnant at all, simply fashionably rotund. Holding her hand, Giovanna’s husband, Giovanni Arnolfini wears a luxurious brown cloak edged with fur and raises his hand in an odd gesture of almost Pope-like blessing.  Could he be making an oath or simply greeting guests?

There is some debate as to what is going on here.  Does it show an actual wedding taking place or simply a celebration of one at a later date? [3] It has been pointed out that a dog is a symbol of fidelity and faithfulness in marriage [4] and also that the bed in the background could symbolise the marriage bed [5].  It has also been argued that both the handclasp and the raised hand gesture were part of medieval and contemporary marriage ceremonies [6].  The view that this painting shows a marriage and contains disguised symbolism has, however, been discounted as being untenable, and another opinion put forward, suggesting that the double portrait could be part of a dynastic series, like an illustrated genealogy [7]. 

However, there are often layers of meaning in Renaissance art and I would like to suggest a possible new reading for this image: We could have here a representation of the Arnolfinis as Mary and Joseph.  Mary stands, already divinely pregnant with the Son of God whilst Joseph, who has been told the news in a dream, has, at this very moment, taken Mary home to be his wife [8]. He stands with one hand raised and the other holding her hand, affirming his betrothal to Mary. 

There are various other points within the painting which, I believe, add credence to this interpretation.  Firstly, the carved frame of the mirror consists of ten scenes from Christ’s passion, the uppermost roundel depicting his crucifixion.  Next to the frame hangs a rope of rosary beads, an item linked with the Virgin Mary [9].  Above the mirror, the chandelier bears one lit candle, a traditional and Biblical symbol [10] used both to represent Jesus as the light of the world and the truth about him that should not be hidden [11].  The dog of fidelity, could here perhaps, point to the faith of Mary in her unborn child as Saviour of the world, as promised by the angel Gabriel [12]. Finally, adorning a piece of furniture against the back wall is a carved figure of St Margaret with a dragon.  St Margaret is the patron saint of women in childbirth [13] and her position in the painting near Giovanna’s head, suggests a link with Giovanna being represented as the pregnant Virgin Mary. All these elements, I would argue, point to a layered and sacred meaning for this work.

detail of the Arnolfini Portrait showing the mirror and reflected figures

Whatever the meaning of the painting, the thing that fascinates me the most, is the mirror.  It is a convex mirror showing a fish eye view of the room.  We see the backs of Giovanni and Giovanna but we also see what they see: two figures standing in a doorway and looking into the room.  If this was a wedding these figures could be their witnesses.  Others have proposed that one of the people could be Van Eyck himself, the witty inscription above the mirror, “Van Eyck was here, 1434” being evidence for this [14]. Who then is the other person? Who do the Arnolfinis see? There is a pattern of looking: the viewer is also the viewed.  Thus, when I look at this picture and into the mirror on the wall, I see myself, reflected.

Go and see yourself reflected in Van Eyck’s masterpiece, currently in an exhibition in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery.

Alison Barker

Coming next: 

Have you seen...the 'unacceptable' Last Supper?

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[1] Dunkerton et al, Giotto to Durer, Early Renaissance Painting in the National Gallery, 1991, National Gallery Publications Ltd, London, p.259

[2] Ibid p.258

[3] Dunkerton et al, 1991, p.260

[4] Ferguson G, Signs & Symbols in Christian Art, Oxford University Press, London, 1961, p.15

[5] Murray P, Murray L, The Art of the Renaissance, Thames & Hudson, London, 1997, p.82

[6] Jan Baptist Bedaux, ‘The Reality of Symbols: The Question of Disguised Symbolism in Jan Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait’, Simiolus: Netherlands Quarterly for the History of Art, vol.16, no.1, (1986), pp.5-28

[7] Campbell et al, Renaissance Faces: Van Eyck to Titian, 2008, National Gallery Company, London, p.182

[8] The Bible, Matthew 1:20-25

[9] Ferguson, 1961, p.168

[10] Ibid p.162

[11] The Bible, John 1: 3-9

[12] The Bible, Matthew 1:21

[13] Ferguson, 1961, p.131

[14] Dunkerton et al, 1991, p.260                                                                                                                                                 

Have you seen...the captured moment of clarity?

Caravaggio, The Supper at Emmaus, 1601

It actually looks like a photograph, admittedly, a very large photograph.  There is something about the light and the shadow, the creased brow and the torn elbow patch, that speak the truth of a camera’s lens.  There is also that frozen moment in time, that millisecond where movement is arrested and everyone is caught, suspended, inanimate.

But it is not a photograph.  It is a meticulously wrought, four hundred and thirteen year old oil painting, nearly two metres in length and one and a half in width.

Four men surround a table covered with a Turkish carpet and a white cloth which is laden with food and drink.  A bowl of fruit teeters on the edge and a carafe of liquid creates a pool of reflected light. None of the figures look at us, each has his attention caught elsewhere.  For me, the man on our right is the one I see first.  His outstretched arms just draw me in.  With those arms he spans the width of the room he inhabits, the fingers of his left hand reaching into my world, those of his right almost brushing the back wall in his.  His gesture is one of astonishment, wonder, awe and sudden enlightenment.  What has he understood?  What is the drama?  His friend, on our left with his back to us, is caught in the same intense reaction.  He half rises from his chair, his patched elbow thrust towards us, his gaze on the man in the centre.

But nothing much seems to be happening to cause this reaction.  The man standing to one side at the back certainly does not seem to think so.  He looks on, unmoved, his thumbs in his belt, looking down at the yet uneaten meal and the man in the centre.

Who is this man at the centre of attention, seated serenely, eyes lowered, one hand hovering over a loaf of bread, the other raised in a gesture of blessing?  He is Jesus.  Son of God.  King of Kings and Lord of Lords.  And his disciples have just realised.  That is the moment of clarity that Caravaggio captured on his canvas.  That is the awe inspiring truth.  Jesus who was crucified is alive and blessing the bread.  They had lived with him and followed him for three years.  They had just walked with him for three hours and had not known it was him[1].

The drama of the moment just explodes out of the frame.  The outstretched arms shouting not only, “He is alive!” but symbolising the manner of his death, stretched on a cross.  Symbols abound from every corner: the bread, his broken body, the grapes, his shed blood, the rotten apple, the sin for which he died.

There is more, much more, to absorb from this work: classical allusion in the profile face of the disciple James, the skill of the artist demonstrated in a multitude of different textures, three dimensional effects and touches of pure genius.  But don’t take my word for it.  Come and see for yourself this moment of clarity, Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus, The National Gallery, London, Room 32.

Alison Barker

Coming next: Have you seen...yourself reflected?

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[1] Luke ch.24 v 13-16