Have you seen the Shimmering One?

Gian Girolamo Savoldo, Saint Mary Magdalen approaching the Sepulchre,
c.1530, oil on canvas, 89.1 x 82.4 cm, The National Gallery, London

There is something about that shining, shimmering, incredibly tangible cloak that looks so modern.  It does not seem to fit into the art of 1530.  A brief look at some Mary Magdalen’s from the same period are enough to demonstrate that.  

Adriaen Isendbrandt, The Magdalen in a Landscape, c.1510-25,
oil on oak, 40 x 31.1 cm, The National Gallery, London

Adriaen Isenbrandt’s kneeling and praying figure, Correggio’s lady disturbed from reading and the Northern Magdalen who has just opened her pot, all have a much more familiar Renaissance style to their setting, accoutrements and landscapes.  

Correggio, The Magdalen, c.1518-19, oil on canvas,
38.1 x 30.5, The National Gallery, London

Netherlandish School, The Magdalen, c.1530,
oil on oak, 52.7 x 34.9 cm, The National Gallery, London

It is not even the direct gaze of Gian Girolamo Savoldo’s Saint that is so shockingly up to date.  It is definitely that cloak.

When I first saw this eye-catching work in the National Gallery, I completely misread it.  I thought the lady was seated on the ground, her head resting on her knees, wrapped in satin.  The curve of her back and position of her head do still suggest that position.  It was only when I saw the little section of red material at the bottom left and read the title, that I realised she was in fact, walking.  Of course, the reason for my misunderstanding is the curious way she has one hand curled inside her cloak and drawn up to her chin.  This has the effect of surrounding her face entirely in silvery satin, framing her penetrating and astonishingly direct gaze.

She is walking towards the place where Jesus was buried after he was crucified.  Her journey is recorded in the Bible in the gospel of John, “Early on the first day of the week while it was still dark, Mary Magdalen went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance”[1].  Savoldo has faithfully rendered the time of day, as in the left hand corner we can see the dawn creeping over the horizon, tinging the clouds with pink and highlighting the boats in the harbour.

The light that makes Mary’s “white silk mantle”[2] shine with such brilliance is, however, not the new sun, but, I would argue, the last vestiges of the moon.  It highlights her monumental, almost sculptural, back and casts her arms and face into semi shadow.  The consummate skill with which Savoldo has depicted the light glancing off the draped material is reminiscent of Titian and suggests a great knowledge both of different textiles and how to paint them realistically.  One feels that he has actually seen material like this, touched it, seen how it hangs and understood how light would be reflected from it.  Venice was the centre for trade in fabrics at this time, and although born in Brescia, Savoldo spent most of his time in Venice[3]. The little landscape of boats and harbour in the background probably represent Venice’s lagoon, complete with recognisable covered gondalers[4].

When discussing ‘realism’ people often, and rightly so, point to Caravaggio’s almost photographic scenes where light and dark have been used to dramatic effect, his Supper at Emmaus being one such example.  We can imagine his figures actually inhabiting the world they are in; they are so solid and real and present that we can almost reach out and touch them.  That is how I feel about Savoldo’s Magdalen and I would agree with the suggestion that Caravaggio was greatly influenced by Savoldo’s startling realism and the modernity we see here[5].

Alison Barker

Next time: Have you seen the one with the kiss?

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[1] The Bible, John ch.20 v 1

[2] Dunkerton et al, Durer to Veronese, The National Gallery, London, 1999, p.80

[3] http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk [accessed 19/03/16]

[4] www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/giovanni-giralomo-savoldo-mary-magdalene [accessed 19/03/16]

[5] http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/artists/giovanni-girolamo-savoldo [accessed 19/03/16] 

Have you seen...the one with a dog?

I think he is the cutest dog in art.  He sits there, fluffy and full of expression, eyes fixed on his master, almost audibly asking, "When are we going for a walk?"  Unfortunately, his master seems distracted and not even conscious of his faithful pet, looking at him so beseechingly.

Vittore Carppacio, The Vision of St Augustine, 1502, fresco, Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice

There has been some debate as to his pedigree.  Ruskin had a Spitz and thought that St Augustine’s pet was exactly like him, whereas, others have suggested he is more like a spaniel or a Maltese puppy [1]. I actually would tend to agree with Ruskin on this one.

 

Spitz puppy

Maltese Puppy

In a way, it doesn’t matter what type of dog he is. For me, he adds so much to this interior study scene, that if he was absent it would have a completely different feel. He brings a sense of life into what is essentially a ‘still’ life.  There are books: open and closed, old and new, books in cupboards, books on shelves, books on the floor.  There are astralobes, candlesticks, censors, statuettes, hats, desks, pots, chairs and shells, all intricately described.

Yes, I know there is also a man at a desk, but he is as motionless as the items around him.  The vision he has seen through the window of the dead St Jerome, has spellbound him into absolute stillness.  He gazes, entranced, pen suspended for ever above the letter he is writing; time stands still…waiting.  

And so does the dog, waiting for that walk perhaps.  He waits in such an avid way, his nose in the air, almost twitching with supressed excitement at the thought of getting out of this quiet space and into the outside world.

The question, “why is he here?” is an obvious one, but one well worth asking. Dogs almost always appear in art as symbols of watchfulness and fidelity [2] and certainly here, Carpaccio's 'perky little white dog' [3] looks the picture of faithfulness as he waits patiently for that walk which will never come and gazes adoringly at his master. 

Alternatively, is he here to show the artist’s ability in painting dogs?  Carpaccio seems not to have had much artistic success with domestic cats, as can be seen in the British Museum’s preparatory drawing for this canvas. 

Carpaccio, Vision of St Augustine, c.1501-8, pen and brown ink, with grey wash, over leadpoint on paper, British Museum, London

This study, drawn in pen and brown ink with a grey wash, includes, instead of our fluffy white dog, an unusual and not very convincing cat. Cats were symbols of laziness and lust [4], a rather inappropriate animal to be associated with such an industrious saint as Augustine.  In fact, to me it looks more like an overgrown mouse, and some have suggested that it is more likely to be a weasel or ermine [5].  Perhaps the artist realised that this odd looking animal brought nothing to the scene, or perhaps the confraternity of the Schiavoni, who commissioned the canvas saw the drawing and asked for it to be replaced with something more fitting.

I would argue, however, that the key to the dog’s inclusion is the way he draws our eye, firstly to himself and then through his avid gaze, to the man at the desk.  The title of the work is The Vision of St Augustine, but we see nothing of this vision; it is all outside the window or inside St Augustine’s head.  Our attention is only drawn to what has captured the mind of the saint, by the steady, constant attention of his faithful pet.

Whatever the reason for his inclusion, whether for symbolic reasons, artistic prowess, the patron’s whim or compositional tool, I will be always grateful that Carpaccio decided to paint this little white dog.

Alison Barker

Next Time: Have you seen…the shimmering one?

[1] Morris J, Ciao, Carpaccio! An Infatuation, Pallas Athene, London, 2014, p.59

[2] Ferguson G, Signs and Symbols in Christian Art, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1954 (1^st ed), 1961, p.15

[3] Morris J, Ciao, Carpaccio! An Infatuation, Pallas Athene, London, 2014, p.140

[4] Ferguson G, Signs and Symbols in Christian Art, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1954 (1^st ed), 1961, p.14

[5] www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details/collection_image_gallery [accessed 30/04/16]