Announcing a Little Space in Ognissanti

 

I am now returned from Italy and thought I might continue the mini-series I began there, that is, of short articles concerning something which it takes my fancy to write about. On this occasion, let's have a look at a 'new' fresco, new to me I mean, although this work was made about 1370.

While in Florence, I happened one day to be walking past the church of Ognissanti whose imposing façade faces, across a piazza, the Arno River. I was actually headed for my favourite bookshop (arte&libri), in Via dei Fossi, but I could not resist the temptation (so to speak) to revisit this important building; important because it houses frescos by Taddeo Gaddi, Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, a large painted Crucifix by Giotto, and so on, but as well, in the refectory of the attached convent, a Last Supper, also by Ghirlandaio.

Saint Augustine (1480) by Botticelli, detached fresco, on the east wall of the nave of the church of Ognissanti, Florence. Sandro Botticelli, whose real family name was Filipepi, was buried in the family tomb in this church; the remains however seem to have been lost during later building works.

As it transpired, I did not see the Last Supper but got involved with the works in the church itself. And, as I discovered several times on this trip, parts of the building never before accessible to the public were now opened. And the area which interested me the most was an old sacristy which, as I say, I had not seen previously. This sacristy is situated at the end of the left transept of the church and to reach it, one has to go past Giotto's powerful Crucifix, suspended above the opening of a side-chapel.

In the sacristy were three large fresco remnants, two virtually complete, as well as the 'sinopia' - the painted under-drawing - of one of those, a Crucifixion with Holy Figures, c.1350, by Taddeo Gaddi. But the focus for us today is the other almost intact fresco of an Annunciation attributed to an anonymous artist known as the Maestro di Barberino. At first sight, this picture may seem a conventional image of that important event, the announcing Angel on the left and the compliant Virgin Mary on the right. 

Annunciation, c.1370, by the Master of Barberino; detached fresco, now in the Sacristy but originally in a chapel situated against the inside of the façade wall (controfacciata). Because of the height on the wall, there is some distortion in the photo used here; vertical planes are vertical, not inclined as this image suggests.

A curious eye regarding this image may start to wonder, given the period, about how our painter dealt with perspective (not fully developed or described until about 50 years later). In a booklet concerning the church and its artworks, this painting is described somewhat dismissively as not being of any particular note artistically. I agree that from some points of view, it is problematical and, in terms of the two main protagonists, not especially inspiring. However, this painter's interest in space is worth examining as, although perhaps not so powerfully done as certain things by Giotto (d.1337), he has definitely understood the nature of recession.

The 'staging' of the encounter is conventional in that it takes place in what we may assume to be Mary's study, or something similar. What might strike some observers as especially odd is the miniature figure in the lower centre of the image; in fact, this is also conventional, in two ways: first, this figure represents the 'donor' or patron of the fresco, that is, the (human) person who paid for it, and, although he is pictured conspicuously in the centre of this Annunciation, his presence in and of itself is not unusual for the time. Secondly, the fact that he is so diminutive is due to the convention of hierarchy: in Christian art, God and Jesus were represented as the largest figures, followed by the Virgin and St John the Baptist, followed by the angels, then the saints and finally, smallest of all, any donor or donors who happened to be included 1. Needless to say, only fairly wealthy people or corporate patrons could afford to pay for such a work of art (this one incidentally, quite large).

Another conventional element, although by this time, a little anachronistic, is the painted words of the dialogue which occurred between Mary and the Angel: he greets her - his words are in white just above the yellow back-rest of the large chest in the centre of the painting; her answer appears in gold letters coming from her mouth and directed, not at the Angel, but rather along the shaft of light coming in from the top left of the image (along which descends the Holy Ghost in the form of a small dove), originally the site of the face of God.  

Large parts of the beautiful Angel, with his arms folded and holding the traditional lily, appear to have been added in 'a secco' work, that is, not painted in 'buon fresco', but added after, when the 'fresco' part was dry; this is suggested by the many areas where the paint has clearly dropped off the surface (note the almost vanished wing on the left), and the underlying 'fresco' has become visible. This is extremely unusual as a major figure such as this would certainly have been painted in 'buon fresco', as seems to be the case for the Angel's head and neck and the green parts of his cloak. Naturally though, damage to a fresco can also be the result of many other things, including simple vandalism and carelessness.

However, it is in the representation of the architectural environment, and therefore the space, that this anonymous artist has attempted to move away from convention. The whole composition, excluding the figures, is based on a series of horizontal strata, beginning at the 'front' edge of the image and, as it were, climbing up the wall, to reach the top of the surface. These horizontal planes represent, in a receding series: the floor and carpet as well as the forward edge of the ceiling of the 'room'; the front face of the yellow trunk or bedroom chest; the back-rest of the chest; the green lozenge design of the rear wall; the ceiling of the 'room'; the pale green wall of some further-distant structure pierced by four windows; and then lastly, the sky (whose blue colour - now red - has been lost due to the technical requirements of using a particular blue in fresco). 

Beginning with the carpet, we see that the design, centred on the star pattern, recedes harmoniously - if intuitively - towards some imagined vanishing point; two of the next large areas, the front part of the yellow chest and the green wall with its lozenge shapes, are verticals; the seat or lid of the chest is not a vertical but a receding plane, indicated by fine lines at its right, near the Virgin, and near the centre; note how that latter line recedes from the front of the chest to the back-rest. More evidence of the artist's intention has been revealed - by chance - by the loss of paint on the left side of the yellow chest, in the now-visible space between the Angel's left elbow and left knee, where the receding lines are clearly visible. The two sides of this room meet its ceiling in convincing recession and are already indicating that, at this point, we are looking up; in fact, we do see the ceiling, with its receding boards, as though we had to shift our focus upwards as opposed to looking at the two actors straight on. 

This recession - of the ceiling and its join with the left wall - is carried even further into space by the use of a Gothic arch doorway cut into the left of the green rear wall. Through this arch we gain admittance to another, more distant room where we glimpse a large wooden structure, perhaps a bed of the type common in medieval houses of the wealthy; drawn across our side of the bed is a lace curtain establishing yet another 'layer' of space. This device, of a hole in a rear wall giving access into a further distant space is not unique to this picture 2 and, incidentally, was one taken-up and significantly developed by Piero della Francesca, in the next century, in his painting known as the Madonna of Senigallia (1474).

This is a (not very sharp) detail including the 'back room' with its lace curtain and what appears to be a large wooden structure, possibly a bed. In this detail as well, the loss of paint in various areas is obvious as too is the original perspective drawing of the left side of the yellow chest. Note however, that the face and neck of the angel are in 'perfect' condition compared with the wing and the wine-dark robe.

The area above our 'room' is a pale green wall situated, both by virtue of its less-strong colour and the (badly-drawn) receding lines of the adjacent structures leading to it, at some distance much further back in relation to the front edge of the carpet for instance. The curiosity here is that the separating grey columns of that pale green wall are crowned with statues of Christian saints (amongst whom, one or two martyrs), even before Christ himself is born!

While being able to assure you that this fresco is a lot more arresting than it might seem in a small photograph, and admitting its various shortcomings, I feel that the artist's attempt to comprehend and represent three-dimensional space must be acknowledged, and even that there are one or two subtleties there as well. The artist, rather than being a figure painter per se, appears more to delight in patterns, in which this picture abounds, and therefore in details: a close-up view of the centre lines in the seat of the chest show that on its front surface, a thin yellow strip, he has continued those two lines so as to show the function of the woodwork: in other words, that the top of the chest opens on either side! 

Our fresco does not seem to be a 'great' work, but, at the end of the day, like many such 'minor' pieces, it still contains small 'jewels' of beauty and intelligence and, after all, what more do we need to help us through our day?

Piero della Francesca, c1412-1492: The Madonna of Senigallia, 1474. Tempera and oil on wood panel, photographed in the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche at Urbino. Despite the reflections caused by the glass case in which it is displayed (particularly bad on the right), it is possible to see the 'room' visible through the doorway on the left of the painting behind the Angel in blue. Piero has even included the floating particles of dust made obvious when strong light comes through a window, as in this image.

1 A very interesting example of this is in the apse mosaic of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome. As said, Christ and Mary are by far the biggest figures in the composition; they are surrounded at their feet by numerous angels, much smaller; in an intermediate size, but still much smaller than the two main protagonists, are six saints, three on either side; on the extreme left of this group of saints we discover one of their newer members, Saint Francis of Assisi (canonized 1228). The mosaic dates from around 1290 and was commissioned by the first Franciscan Pope, Nicholas IV; although St Francis is with the other saints, he is the 'new boy' and is somewhat smaller than his companions, Saints Paul and Peter (who were in any case actual apostles); the Pope however, is by far the smallest figure on this side, despite being a Pope! He has a companion on the right side, Cardinal Giacomo Colonna, one of two brothers Colonna who actually paid for the picture. The mosaic is the work of the painter Jacopo Torriti who signed it in the lower left corner. In our fresco, the Angel is apparently the same height as Mary but, notice, he is kneeling; were he to stand upright, he would then be much larger than the Virgin who, at this point it will be remembered, is still a (mere if particular) human being.

2 As a device to suggest further and deeper space beyond the action in the foreground areas (and so too, beyond the surface of the support: wall, canvas or wood), a 'hole in the wall', so to speak, was not uncommon; apart from its use in interiors as here, it was also used to suggest the inner parts of fortified cities for instance, often seen through one of the city gates. Examples from our anonymous painter's time include Duccio - in his stupendous Maestà (1308-11) - and Pietro Lorenzetti in his Birth of the Virgin (1342), both in Siena; and a bit later in Florence, circa 1420, Lorenzo Monaco's version of the same subject in Santa Trinita.

The Calling of Saint Matthew by Caravaggio

 

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 1571 -1610; the name 'Caravaggio', as Michelangelo Merisi is universally known, derives from his family's ancestral home near Bergamo and was long thought to have been his birthplace; he is now believed to have been born in Milan.

The Calling of Saint Matthew by Caravaggio, 1599-1600; oil on canvas, 322 x 340 cm  

The Contarelli Chapel in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome

The photo above was taken by me in Rome in 2022; it shows one of Caravaggio's master-works, the Calling of Saint Matthew. What has prompted this article is a recent re-statement by an art historian of what I believe to be a mis-reading of the dynamics of this picture 1. What follows is the result of having not only read about Caravaggio and about this work in particular, but also - and to some extent, more importantly - of having seen the actual painting, in person, in situ (that is, in the chapel for which it was originally painted). 

To set the scene: the chapel, not large, contains three masterpieces by Caravaggio who was commissioned to fulfil the will of the patron of the chapel (whose first name was Matthew 2) . The paintings therefore concern events in the life of the Gospel-writer Saint Matthew. The three paintings are: Saint Matthew Inspired by the Angel (a second version, altar wall); The Calling of Saint Matthew (left side-wall); The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew (right side-wall). The picture we are interested in represents the event when the Saint, at the time said to have been a tax-collector (for the Romans) and possibly named Levi, was called by Jesus to abandon his current life and to follow Him.

The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew by Caravaggio, 1559 - 1600; oil on canvas, 323 x 343 cm; Contarelli Chapel; begun before but completed after the Calling.

Note that, visiting this chapel as a tourist, it is not possible to stand directly in front of the paintings which, unfortunately, results in somewhat distorted photographs.

The apparently usual reading of the action in this startling image is that Christ, on the extreme right of the painting and almost wholly obscured by Saint Peter and shadow, is pointing his index finger at the man called Levi (or Matthew) whom he is more-or-less commanding to follow him, to become one of his disciples. The presumed object of this gesture is the bearded man seated between two others on the opposite side of the table; this figure appears, in the action of seemingly pointing to himself, to be indicating that he is indeed Levi. And this choice of a bearded older figure conforms with the normal iconography of Saint Matthew, so it appears the obvious and logical one. But let's have a closer look at the internal dynamics of this great painting.

Caravaggio is routinely credited with an outstanding and dramatic use of light, and, as in this case, also of deep shadow. In fact, his accentuation of the contrast between lighted areas and those parts in shadow are the essence of this Lombard painter whose approach went on to conquer Rome, Naples, Sicily and eventually the whole of Europe. The other, earlier, essential development in Caravaggio's art was his high degree of realism: in fact, he got into a bit of trouble with various authorities and patrons (including in our case) precisely because his sacred images were too realistic - or, to put it another way, not otherworldly enough. That however is not our concern at present, but his use of light is.

As with many religious works of art - and non-religious for that matter - symbols play an enormous part in their meaning. Light, which in a technical sense is used to mould forms and create space, is highly symbolically charged and perhaps the most important significance it has is that of divine light. Even in contemporary English, we still use the phrase 'to see the light', meaning to finally understand or get the point. The Bible is replete with passages describing divine light, or being brought out of darkness into the light, and so on and so on. Clearly, in Christian art, light is a powerful tool, both technically and as metaphor or analogy. And it is as metaphor that I believe the function of light in the Calling of Saint Matthew has been overlooked 3.

Looking now at our photo of the painting what we see is, yes, Christ with His raised arm pointing towards the men at the table on the other side of the scene. We see as well the bearded figure there, pointing seemingly at himself, as though to say: 'Who, me?' Now let's have a closer look at what the light is doing. An enormous shaft of light streams in from the top right corner of the image and travels across the space of that environment lighting as it does, not only the face, neck and raised hand of Jesus and the back of Saint Peter, but also all the faces (and many of the hands) of the men at the table - all of whom are looking in the direction of Christ ... except one! The young man - nearly always ignored - seated at the left-hand edge of the table (capotavola in Italian, the head of the table), the figure furthest from Jesus.

The physical attitude of this figure, his demeanour, betrays his mind: his downcast face, his shoulders around his neck, his (lighted) hand abstractedly pushing around the coins in front of him 4 and ... the very minimal light on his face (unlike all his companions); all these suggest a man troubled by his life, unhappy with the world and himself. The Bible tells how Levi, a Jew, was despised by his countrymen because he worked for the Romans, he collected their taxes from his own people! In addition, of all those seated at that table with their heads turned to look at the mysterious figure addressing them so strangely, the only one potentially facing Christ directly, directly in the line of His gaze, is this troubled young man; actually and metaphorically, the only one not seeing the light.         

My contention is that, despite normal iconography, our Levi-become-Saint Matthew is that man seated at the head of the table. Further comments may be made though concerning the figure usually described as the Saint Matthew, that is, the centrally-placed older man. Apart from his seeming a man of rather nondescript character and therefore an unlikely candidate as a saint (!), his much-remarked gesture is, to say the least, ambiguous. It is possible, as mentioned, that he is incredulously indicating himself, but his gesture could just as easily be interpreted as indicating the even older man to his right; or the younger man at the head of the table. 

The history of this commission tells us that already, having begun work first on the Martyrdom of Saint Matthew, Caravaggio had run into difficulties as he was quite unused to working on the large scale required by this commission; as well, he had started by attempting a kind of Renaissance-style composition with which he became unhappy. Temporarily abandoning this, he turned to the Calling and it was here that he 'found his feet', so to speak. He dropped the grand setting and opted for a simple, open theatrical-style 'backdrop' so that it is unclear if we are inside or out. The action occurs in a frieze-like composition although unusually reading from right to left, a decision almost certainly dictated by the source of natural light in the chapel; in fact, in the Martyrdom, the direction of the light is reversed, that is, also in keeping with the source of light in the chapel. Given such adventurous departing from the norm, it does not in the least surprise me that Caravaggio interpreted the Saint - who had plenty to do afterwards - as a robust youngish man; to me at least, he seems quite a bit older than his two younger companions seated on either side of the other end of the table while clearly younger than his obviously senior ones.

To finish, I would like to draw to the attention of the reader the name of a great Italian art historian, Roberto Longhi (1890 - 1970). Apart from crucial studies on such people as Piero della Francesca, Longhi has the distinct honour of being one of a small group of people who rescued Caravaggio from the near oblivion into which he had slipped shortly after his death. In 1951 Longhi organised an exhibition at Milan's Palazzo Reale to celebrate the long-forgotten and oft-maligned artist. Later, in 1952, with additions, Longhi's findings and understanding of Caravaggio were published in a book entitled Il Caravaggio 5. In this re-published book, reviewed last year by Francesca Saraceno, we read (quoting from the Sarceno article): 'E sebbene Longhi individui il San Matteo della Vocazione nel personaggio barbuto al centro, come da consolidata tradizione, tradisce forse il dubbio - sebbene di un attimo - rispetto a quel "giocatore a capotavola che vorrebbe immergersi nell'ombra lurida della propria perplessità"'. (trans: 'And although Longhi identified the Saint Matthew of the Calling as the bearded personage in the centre, following established tradition, he betrays a doubt - if only for a moment - regarding that "gambler at the head of the table who it seems would like to lose himself in the lurid shadow of his own perplexity"'). Some things to note regarding Longhi's quotation: first, the Italian name used here in shortened form for the Calling of Saint Matthew is La Vocazione, meaning the Vocation of Saint Matthew (the same painting under discussion in this article); secondly and importantly, Longhi's apparent doubt, according to Francesca Saraceno, concerning the true identity of the Saint in our picture; and thirdly, Longhi's reference to our man as a 'giocatore'.

In his book, Longhi, as various critics had already suggested, also posits that the future Saint and his companions are actually engaged in a game of chance, that he's gambling; how they managed to arrive at such a conclusion is beyond me as what is on the table in the painting would seem to be the necessaries of a tax collector: account book, ink-well, coins, money bag, etc. Although I cannot see these people as gamblers, the accepted reading of our picture was as an interrupted game of cards (or dice as Longhi insisted), despite the fact that such articles do not appear on the table; this reading also follows a 'consolidata tradizione' (that is, established tradition), probably based on the similarities of the younger men at the table - and their clothing - to similar characters in at least one of Caravaggio's known earlier pictures which deals explicitly with cardsharps (The Cardsharps, in two known versions: at Fort Worth [1595-96] and London [according to Sebastian Schütze - see Note 1 - possibly a copy]).

As said at the outset, it is common opinion among art historians that the bearded figure seated at the centre of the table is Saint Matthew and I have yet to read otherwise, that is, an opinion which frankly supports my own; Francesca Sarceno does seem to intimate that she also sees Saint Matthew in the young man seated at the head of the table and I imagine there may be other critics who concur. In addition, the figures at the table are not gambling but are rather a tax collector and his associates, perhaps finishing off the day's work.

Saint Matthew and the Angel by Caravaggio, 1602; oil on canvas, 296.5 x 195 cm. Contarelli Chapel.

This is the second version of the subject, the first being still extant in Berlin up to 1945 when it was destroyed as a result war.

1 Caravaggio, The Complete Works, by Sebastian Schütze (pub. by Taschen, 2021); Caravaggio, A Life by Helen Langdon (pub. by Pimlico, 1999); Emerging from Darkness (catalogue), pub. by Hamilton Gallery (Victoria, Australia) 2023, various authors including David R. Marshall: Caravaggio and Painting from the Model (chapter, p.131);

2 A French cardinal, Matthieu Cointrel (in Italian, Matteo Contarelli), died 1585. Cointrel had bought the chapel and therefore the obligation to decorate it and had specified that he wanted it painted with scenes from the life of his namesake, Saint Matthew. This project dragged on for some years after Contarelli's death, with the usual accusations of financially inspired delays, until Caravaggio - after several others - was given the job to complete the commission. The fact of it being a Frenchman to own the chapel was perfectly normal, given that the church which houses the chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, actually states in its name (dei Francesi) that it was the church of the French community in Rome; at that time, many foreign communities in Rome had specific churches which served their nationals who were living and working there (ambassadors, businessmen, etc.).

3 In the catalogue of an important exhibition held in Rome in 2010 to mark the 400th anniversary of Caravaggio's death, Italian art historian Maurizio Calvesi has this to say in his catalogue essay on Caravaggio's Basket of Fruit:: "It [the underlying religious aspect] also exalts the value of the light, which in Merisi's paintings is always a light of salvation, a liberation ..." (my italics). Caravaggio, held at the Scuderie del Quirinale, 2010; catalogue in English published by Skira,  ed. by Claudio Strinati (various authors); pp 87-88.

4 Helen Langdon in her book Caravaggio, A Life, on page 170, discusses the desires of the Cardinal Cointrel-Contarelli for the decoration of his chapel, saying that "he wished the saint to be shown in the tax collector's office, busily counting money, ...". Having noted this fact however, Langdon then goes on to refer to the 'usual suspect' as the Saint, that is, the older man apparently pointing to himself. In the present painting, an interesting aspect is that both the older man and my choice, the younger one, have one hand on the table - both in front of the younger man - and both men appear to be involved (although the younger rather abstractedly as mentioned) in counting that money. It at first sight appears that those two hands both belong to the younger man who actually, on closer inspection, is seen to have placed his left hand under his right arm (holding perhaps a money bag).

5 Roberto Longhi, Caravaggio, reprinted (my edition) 2006 by Editori Riuniti with an introduction by Giovanni Previtali. Previtali's excellent and scholarly Introduction traces the development of Caravaggio studies from the 19th century up to the Longhi exhibition in Milan in 1951, as well as the development of Longhi's own critical appraisal of the work of Caravaggio.

* There is nowadays a virtual 'Caravaggio industry' but if anyone is considering buying a comprehensive book on the master, I can recommend the Taschen publication referred to in Note 1.

Why do we make and look at pictures?

 

The Mind, 2023; oil on canvas, 152 x 152cm

Why do we make and look at pictures? By pictures I mean paintings, drawings and artists' prints produced by hand. Why do some of us still enjoy the action of deliberately looking at, of studying face-to-face so to speak, two-dimensional artwork made by other men and women? And, perhaps more to the point, why do some people, I amongst them, want to make these objects in the first place? I have asked myself these questions because ever since I was at art school - and before - painting as a 'valid' activity, that is, the making of pictures, has been regarded in some quarters, by some art movements and theorists, as passé, as redundant, as irrelevant.

Live long enough and one will witness the passing of many 'isms', the ephemeral nature of many contemporary theories and ideas, of many attitudes. All the while, the great art galleries of the world are busier than ever, full of people wanting to do something which, as just said, is seen by some as absolutely redundant; leaving aside the very existence of art galleries per se, as even those have been threatened. And, ever since the unfortunate and, to my mind dreary contribution of Marcel Duchamp, there has been a certain section of the 'art world', those who regard themselves as at the forefront of development, which has attempted to turn people* - artists and public alike - away from the enjoyment of pictures and towards the (often incredulous and perplexed) pondering of bits-and-pieces of this-and-that, the obscure meaning of which apparently lends to such things an air of intellectual sophistication (obviously unattainable by the masses); that is, towards works which, cogitated at such a simplistic level, a level of banality so low, so obvious (especially politically-motivated work) as to be an affront to anyone taking the whole activity seriously. The role played by ego - that of the 'artists' as well as that of the various hangers-on - is nowadays such a part of the whole 'industry' that certain of those involved have reached the level of pop celebrity (I won't say whether that level is upwards or downwards), a dubious and dangerous accolade.      

Large Coffee Pot, 2023; oil on canvas, 51 x 66cm

But, to return to the original question ... why? Why, notwithstanding all the cultural and social changes which have occurred just in my lifetime alone, why do people still want to make and look at pictures hand-made by other people? And here I stress the term 'hand-made', that is, produced by the manual manipulation of 'stuff'  - paint, pencil, ink, etc. - by another human being. One of the charges levelled at people serious about such things, and at museums and art galleries, is that the activity is 'elitist'; elitist is a 'dirty word', a term implying that something is only for the enjoyment or delectation of a select few, a limited group of those 'in-the-know', or perhaps rich enough to participate in such rarefied activities.

Growing up when I did, I could see the reasoning behind such attitudes and, like many of my generation, attempted to accomodate my artistic activity (oh, is that where I should say 'practice?) to such a view. Now things (and I) have changed: I now believe that the true or real enjoyment of art is elitist, but in the sense of being an elitist capacity; it is elitist (if by that term I may signify only certain people rather than certain privileged people) because at a given level, the deep enjoyment of visual art is a possibility for those with a particular turn of mind, with a particular aptitude for the appreciation of such objects. I am not for one moment suggesting that the enjoyment of art is, or should be, restricted to some specific group or other, I am merely stating what I have observed: that deep engagement with art is a natural capacity - as opposed to a prerogative of the wealthy for instance - within some people but not within all. Of course, there are those who choose to inform themselves, to develop a strong interest in, even a passion, for art; but I am referring to those for whom such a passion comes naturally, for whom it is innate.

That said, one can only really talk about one's own enjoyment of hand-made visual artwork. My first experiences of two-dimensional artwork were when I was a very young child and I found myself enjoying enthusiastically the illustrations in various books that were introduced into my home by my parents. These were illustrated story and history books, not art books; but I was, if anything, more captured by the illustrations than by the written content. The next step, one common to many visual artists, was that of copying those same illustrations followed by the desire to invent one's own drawings: that is, to imagine, for example, battle scenes (with lots of gore naturally) and individual particular studies of military dress, weapons and so on (of course, I am describing my own experience and do not presume to suggest that other children, boys or girls, did the same as me). As I grew older, my interest in drawing became an interest in art, that is, I became aware that there was a discipline called Art and that some people spent their adult lives doing what I was doing; I became aware of The Artist!

Night-time, Carlton, 2023; oil on wood panel, 40 x 50cm

In my case, the childhood awakening of the 'visual self' was the first step in a life-long process, one which led me to attend art school and then to a brief formal study of art history. But I suppose I could say that my 'learning' and understanding began much later, when I lived in Italy and was 'tempted' from all sides by one form of art or another; naturally, with some rare exceptions, I am talking about 'old' art: ancient Roman, early Christian, Byzantine, Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque (indeed, the gym I frequented in Florence, situated in an old 'palazzo', had Rococo frescos on the ceilings). Interestingly, it was there, in Florence, that I discovered that a very great deal of important art is not in museums but is, rather, to be found in those places for which it was initially made, the churches and monasteries, and secular public buildings. This discovery was critical for my appreciation of the importance of place for the understanding of the significance of a lot of 'old' art. 

Perhaps more importantly though was what might be termed the 'deep immersion' afforded by the experience of living in Italy. One became aware of the profound importance of drawing - for Florentine art especially - and of the infinite variety of expression: for instance, an extremely common subject, the Annunciation, could have dozens, if not hundreds, of interpretations (that is, in formal pictorial terms). This might seem obvious but, especially for those coming from 'new world' countries, such a theme as the Annunciation may have formed in the mind as a sort of sclerotic image, that is, one may have developed, as it were, a 'standard' Annunciation; in fact, there are as many differences amongst Renaissance depictions of this subject as there are artists painting - or sculpting - it.

Visual phenomena of many kinds feed me as if they were food: all sorts of things-seen stimulate the same or a similar response as that which I experience when looking at pictures. I can't say whether or not a love of pictures led to a wider appreciation of visual phenomena in general - the landscape, the light on particular buildings, incidental shadows or reflections, the effect of the wind on those things, and so on - or whether that more general appreciation is just part-and-parcel of a particular visual sensitivity. Whatever the case may be, a love of pictures is not an indiscriminate love of anything and everything, quite the contrary; for me, much of what finds its way into contemporary public and private art galleries is a modern version of the old Roman pacifier panem et circenses (bread and circuses): keeping people happy, even supposedly cultured people, with ever more novelty, things which illicit the desired 'ohhs-and-ahhs' but which are forgotten as soon as the next one appears, and often well before. Being entertained is quite different from being a lover of pictures!

A Piero (To Piero), 2022; oil on canvas, 152 x 152cm

Needless to say, many artworks in the past were created basically to amuse and perhaps flatter the individual who commissioned them; these are (or were) often to be found in the homes of, usually, wealthy people, and in the palaces of princes, kings and queens; depending on who it was who required such pieces and upon who executed them, their content, the result, might contain more-or-less of the 'art' element - or more-or-less of the purely decorative element. Much Rococo art for example may be regarded as quite frivolous when compared, for instance, to the Disasters of War etchings of Goya; in fact, there is absolutely no relationship between the two, other than the fact that both may be grouped under the heading 'Art'. Goya's deep and personal experience of the French occupation of his country is light-years away from the comfortable, fundamentally aristocratic ability to surround oneself with a kind of painted fantasy-land. Goya's images of the brutality of war deal in hard facts ('hard' in both senses); the depiction of fairy-like mythical gods and goddesses is, however beautifully or skilfully done, a retreat into a superficiality only certain strata of society could permit themselves.

To return to our original question, why do we make and look at pictures? One answer may be that of René Ricard who said: "Pictures are an extension of the artist's need to see them". From a historical point of view, such an explanation can obviously be applied to much 19th and 20th century art although it is a little problematical when we consider the 'craftsman' status of the 'artist' of earlier periods. Earlier artists were tradesmen employed to perform certain tasks, tasks often amounting to no more than the imitation of what others had done before them. Over the course of many centuries, those tradesman (and sometimes women, as in the case of nuns illustrating manuscripts) eventually moved up the social ladder and gained the epithet of 'artist', implying a certain degree of autonomy (and respect), especially concerning the manner in which they depicted or sculpted their subjects. With the decline of their usual 'client base' - the rich and powerful, in particular the Church - and the gradual rise of wealthy professional and merchant classes, artists obtained, de facto, more-or-less complete independence and therefore freedom: freedom to make their own decisions about what to make and how to make it.

It would seem however, that, even in by-gone times when artists were employed to fulfil the wishes of clients and patrons, the type of individual who elected to become a craftsman-artist (Michelangelo being a classic example) was the same type, in a general sense, who might choose to be a painter or sculptor today. That is to say, a person with a strong natural tendency, a passionate desire even, to make tangible objects which are the result of a combination of idea, invention and manual skill; a sort of transactional fusion, a transmutation of conceptualisation into physical existence, resulting in the visual statement (an object) of the relationship between idea and concrete form. Using Ricard's definition therefore, when artists are free to do what they wish, the prime-mover of why we make art is the will of a certain type of individual in society; the reason we look at his or her products is, initially perhaps, a natural curiosity about what this particular type of individual is up to, this then joined to a personal identification with the given work - if not with the maker him- or herself. This desire to see (and possess) such objects has led to the foundation of 'picture galleries' and museums; here we might recall by the way, that the very word itself, museum, derives from the Greek word for the Muses, the sister-goddesses of the arts and learning, that is, inspiration.

Heron, 2001; acrylic on masonite, 122 x 91.5cm

People who have innately the desire to paint pictures or make sculptures can otherwise be described as being inspired to do so; and perhaps, other people who do not see themselves as inspired in this particular way - the visual way - are nevertheless drawn to admire, to enquire into, to enjoy the products of those who are. It should also be pointed out that it is not necessary for everyone to be interested in the arts any more than it is for everyone to be interested in wine or sport. The arts, and maybe painting in particular, are there for those that find them naturally attractive, and that may not be at all times or throughout an entire lifetime. Certainly, the existence, dating back millennia, of cave and rock art in places all over the world would seem to support the notion that art is a natural product of being a human being; that the making of images which reflect the occupations of our minds and bodies is a kind of necessity. If that be true, is it any wonder that 'art' which drifts too far away from that function becomes very quickly tiresome and irrelevant?

An unfortunate recent development in fine art is the need for artists to, as it were, excuse this basic human activity, their own artwork in fact, with 'art-speak' justifications. Currently popular 'concepts' such as 'challenging', 'subverting', 'disruptive' and so on, have found their way into artists' biographies and 'statements'; apparently, the simple desire to paint an image is no longer acceptable 'practice'. In a contemporary exhibition catalogue seen a few days ago, the majority of exhibitors seemingly felt the need to support their visual work, their physical objects, with a certain amount of politically-correct verbiage, establishing thereby it would seem, their social and art-industry credentials! Merely painting a picture is no longer sufficient, it must be accompanied - nay justified - by words, that is, by a different medium. The fact that most of this verbiage is unoriginal mimicking of the currently acceptable ideas is not the point but heaven help anyone who diverges from the present orthodoxy! (Orthodoxy and avant-gardism ... surely that's an oxymoron! Nineteenth-century academicism had nothing on today's gallery hierarchies). For a good part of the 20th century, it was common practice (there's that word again) for painters to hang their paintings on the walls of a gallery and let the viewing public make what it might from looking at the work ... not at the explanation stuck on the wall beside the picture which, in those times in any case, was merely indicative of the subject-matter ('Light-house at Sunset' for instance) together with the name of the artist and the date of the work. A significant aspect of the current malaise is that all sorts of individuals who are not themselves artists (and who often have only a rudimentary grasp of grammar) are, nevertheless, making a career out of precisely this sort of obfuscation; at this point, they are simply writing about writing and are so far removed from actual pictures that the understanding and sheer enjoyment of them is beside the point.

My feeling is that if an 'artist', art commentator, gallery director or curator, art historian or critic wants 'challenging', he or she should take him-or-herself off to various parts of Africa, Asia, the Middle East or Central and South America to find out what 'challenging' means in real life! Surely by now we know that, compared with the real life-experience of many millions of people, to invoke words such as 'challenging', 'confronting' or 'subverting' in an art context - not to say an artistically barely literate, middle-class one - is just so much intellectual (and not very, mind) self-abuse ... as religious people used to call it!

*     This trend has even entered many art schools (universities, I beg your pardon) so that, today, 'art' students no longer learn to make pictures but are, let's say informed (or 'indoctrinated'?; no, that's something which happens at high-school level ... and in totalitarian states) about all sorts of social and political concepts and about the most appropriate ways to express 'their' opinions. Of course this is all nonsense: what students need are the skills and techniques traditionally ascribed to artists (be they painters or sculptors) and to be allowed to observe the world and arrive at their own conclusions about what they want to express and how they want to do it. Contemporaneously, the very word 'artist' has become so debased that some now much prefer to describe themselves using the humbler term 'painter' or 'sculptor' or 'printmaker', rather than the ubiquitous and all-encompassing (thus meaningless) one of 'artist'! To be fair, I was recently surprised on a visit to a local art school (opps, there I go again! university!) to discover that some students at least were actually using brushes and paint on canvas; perhaps there is some hope! On a probably irrelevant historical note, I don't believe that Giotto, Donatello, Piero della Francesca, Leonardo, Verrocchio, Bartolomeo della Gatta, Michelangelo, Raphael, Artemisia Gentileschi, etc., etc., etc. had university degrees; just think how much better their work would have been had they had one!

Note: all images painted and photographed by the author who claims and reserves copyright.

Some Remarks Concerning 'Sinopie'

 

Detail of the sinopia of an Annunciation by Puccio Capanna (or, Pace di Bartolo) in the Pinacoteca Comunale di Assisi (Photo: the author)1

What are 'sinopie'? Sinopie are, to put it simply, drawings made with a particular red paint using a pigment which originated near the Black Sea at a place then called Sinope (now, Sinop), hence sinopia; the particularity of this word is that it refers nearly always to the preparatory drawing made by artists as a step in the process of fresco painting. And why are they, sinopie, of any interest, of any importance? They are important because they reveal to us, after hundreds of years of being 'hidden', the creative thoughts, not to say skill, of the artists who made them.

In Italy, between about 1300 and 1500 2, the painting of frescos was, to all intents and purposes, the principal means of expression for painters, not to mention their principal source of income; frescos are normally painted on walls, very commonly on the walls of churches. But they could be, and were, painted on the interior walls of town halls and private houses for example, as well as on the exterior of buildings, both public and private. The other main way for painters to earn a living was by painting altarpieces - usually for churches - and these, unlike frescos, were painted on wooden panels; there was also a difference in the paint used: fresco uses pigment mixed with water, while tempera is pigment mixed with egg or glue. The especial quality of fresco (a fresco or affresco in Italian) is that the water paint is absorbed into the plaster (the intonaco) while it is still damp and, through a chemical reaction with the lime in the plaster, becomes an integral part of that surface; it does not sit 'on top of' the plaster, it is part of it.

The painting of a fresco requires several steps, each of which is crucial to the physical longevity of the work, that is, to the physical integrity of the work as a manufacture; the 'artistic' result, as always, depends on the character and skill of the artist. The first step was the preparation of the wall to be painted on; this entailed the application of a layer of rough 'plaster', known as arriccio; this layer, rather rough in texture, separated the wall from the painting surface as well as providing a foundation for that surface; this latter, a smooth plaster layer known as the intonaco was the layer on which the actual image would sit - or, better, into which it would be absorbed. It is between these two layers of preparation, the arriccio and the intonaco, that we find the sinopia.

If the sinopie are hidden - under the intonaco - how do we know about them? People involved with the making of frescos (painters and patrons) have, of course, always known about them; however, in modern times, many sinopie have come to light because of damage to the upper layer, that is, to the image itself. One of the most important, and destructive, examples of this was the great flood which occurred in Florence on November 4th, 1966; that flood, which took the level of the Arno River several metres above normal ground level, did untold damage to thousands of works of art, not only to frescos. However, as a direct result of this flood, many frescos, dating to pre-Renaissance times and after, were detached from the walls on which they had been painted and restored, some obviously with more successful results than others. In the process of lifting a fresco from a wall (see below), that is to say, the top layer with the image 'in' it, the arriccio is revealed and with it, the sinopia. Let's have a look at some examples.

The sinopia of  a detail of Buffalmacco's painting (1336-41) the Tebaide  in the

Museo delle Sinopie, Camposanto, Pisa

(Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, photo credit Sailko)

Given the period in which this work was made, the late-Medieval, the drawing is astoundingly 'modern' and of such high quality. For our purposes, the important point is the very existence of the sinopia; not only does it confirm the use of this technique at that time, so long ago, but, as mentioned earlier, it allows us a glimpse into the mind of the artist, of Buffalmacco, as he devises his composition (see the article in this blog entitled Buffalmacco at Pisa). This is because, although compositional drawings on paper do exist from this time, they are extremely rare: and this because normally, the composition and the individual figures were developed there and then, on the arriccio itself. The painter would first sketch his ideas onto the arriccio in charcoal then, once happy with this, go over the drawing with the sinopia, the red paint from which the drawing takes its name. The charcoal would then be dusted off in readiness for the application of the intonaco; the intonaco, an extremely fine plaster, was translucent enough to enable the painter to see his drawing, the sinopia, underneath.

Madonna and Child with Angels, sinopia, early 15th century, by Paolo Schiavo (born Paolo di Stefano  Badaloni), 1397 - 1478; 

in the Church of Santi Apostoli, Florence (Photo: the author)

This superb drawing, controlled with a central vertical line as suggested by Cennino Cennini 3, again demonstrates the extraordinarily high level of skill attained by Italian masters, this time during the Renaissance itself. Like many such sinopie, but not all, there is a relatively high degree of detail, especially in the folds of the garments worn by the Madonna and the Christ Child. Again, as with too many frescos, there is obvious damage to several parts of this work, notably on the left side and along the bottom (the church, Santi Apostoli, is situated only metres from the Arno). Frequently, damage is due to water leaching through the walls on which frescos sit, producing salts which eventually seep through the plaster and destroy the colour. Sometimes though, the damage was deliberate, as when tastes changed and even very important pictures - such as by Giotto - were either hacked off the wall or whitewashed. This latter expedient however has occasionally worked in the opposite direction insofar as certain paintings, such as the Giottos in Santa Croce in Florence, were unintentionally preserved precisely because they were only whitewashed - then to be rediscovered many years later! (As also occurred incidentally with the Byzantine mosaics in Hagia Sophia in what was Constantinople, now Istanbul). Sometimes as well, war is to blame; but sometimes, natural disasters such as earthquakes are the culprits.

Sinopia of the fresco San Girolamo penitente (The Penitent Saint Jerome), c. 1492

by Bartolomeo della  Gatta (born Piero di Antonio Dei), 1448 - 1502. (Photo: the author)

The Penitent Saint Jerome, fresco by Bartolomeo della Gatta, c 1492 (Photo: the author)

Both this fresco and the sinopia above are in the Museo Diocesano di Arte Sacra, Arezzo

The fresco above, a very large work - slightly damaged and once in the cathedral in Arezzo - is quite a bit more developed than its sinopia (also above) might have led one to anticipate. In fact, in this case, especially compared to the two previous sinopie, the drawing is little more than a sketch and seems not to include the smaller 'life-stories' dotted around the top of the finished fresco. The completed painting is a powerful work, beautifully coloured and shows a typical view of Saint Jerome chastising himself in his desert cave; we know who the saint is because of his 'attributes', in this case, the lion and the (anachronistic) cardinal's hat beside him. Bartolomeo della Gatta was a monk as well as, according to Vasari, a polymath (but who wasn't in those days!), being in addition to a painter, an architect, a musician and an illuminator of manuscripts. Quite a lot of well-known artists were in fact monks, friars or priests, including Beato Angelico, Filippo Lippi, Fra Bartolomeo and Sebastiano del Piombo, to name a few.

As far as the fresco technique is concerned, the sinopia was not the only way of working from a drawing, although it would seem to be the oldest. As the 15th century became the 16th, two other ways of preparing a drawing for a fresco were developed. The first was the so-called spolvero technique which entailed making a drawing at the same size as the intended fresco and, placing that drawing onto the arriccio or onto the wet intonaco, the artist would 'pounce' (a little bag filled with charcoal dust) over the previously-made holes in his drawing, thereby creating a type of 'join-the-dots' image, which he subsequently did, to end-up with his newly transferred drawing; if directly onto the wet intonaco, then only the part he was about to work on that day. This is important because, in what's known as buon fresco painting, the intonaco must be damp so that the paint will become one with the plaster; should the painter wish to add details or correct something after the plaster is dry, it is no longer buon (or, true) fresco but rather, a secco, that is, 'when dry'. The problem (with a secco) is, given that the paint is now on the plaster and not part of the plaster, those parts painted a secco tend, over time, to drop off. In fact, many frescos have a secco additions, or rather, had a secco additions! At any rate, the second and related way, a kind of intermediate step, of getting a drawing onto the intonaco, was that of the quadrettatura, or as we say in English, 'squaring-up'; this involves drawing a grid of squares onto a small drawing or sketch - where most problems could be worked out in advance - and then transferring the 'contents' of each square onto a larger grid on a large sheet, or sheets, of paper; this latter is the same size as the intended fresco or part thereof . 

A very large drawing on 19 sheets of paper glued together: A group of Men-at-arms for the Martyrdom of Saint Peter fresco by Michelangelo in the Pauline Chapel in The Vatican. This cartoon (c.1546-1550) is in the Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte, Naples (Photo: the author)

This fantastic work, known as a 'cartoon' (cartone in Italian: heavy paper), already discussed in this blog (see Concerning Borrowings), has visible holes along all the major lines - an obvious sign of the use of spolvero -  and we know that it was utilised for a smallish part at the lower left of the large fresco which Michelangelo painted in the Vatican (Pauline) chapel. This is therefore an example of the spolvero technique being used by a major painter in the middle of the 16th century. A variation of this technique, without the charcoal dust, was the use of a stylus to draw over the lines of a cartoon which had been placed on the wet intonaco; the stylus, applied with some pressure, would leave an imprint of the drawing's lines in the wet plaster and the painter would then proceed as normal. Michelangelo himself used this method in at least some parts of the Sistine Ceiling frescos, the imprint of the stylus still clearly visible in the plaster.

Lamentation over the Dead Christ with Two Angels, c. 1447, by Andrea del Castagno (1419-57); detached fresco. 

Cenacolo di Sant'Apollonia, Florence (both this photo and the next by the author) 

The sinopia of the fresco, in the photo above, by Andrea del Castagno; both photos unfortunately not as clear as they might be.

The two works shown here, and the details which follow, all by the painter Andrea del Castagno, demonstrate the incisive power of expression as well as the emotional depth of this wonderful artist 4. What struck me when I first saw these works in person (Andrea's work does appear in general art history books) was the beauty and extreme mastery of his drawing; having studied at art schools (in Melbourne) in the early 1970s, and being painfully aware of my own shortcomings in this regard, these drawings - not to mention the frescos themselves - came as an enormous shock. A close look at the sinopia reveals not only the beauty and even elegance of his line, but also its precision; the lines 'carry' or intimate the form, not just the shape - even where there is little or no shading - similarly to the way they do in Michelangelo's drawings. And the lines we are seeing here are made with a brush! - albeit perhaps on top of a prior charcoal drawing; note especially the angel on the right, his arm and particularly his face, not to mention the torso of Christ.

The two images above show details of the Lamentation over the Dead Christ by Andrea del Castagno, just discussed (again, not the best photos!)

I have included these two photos so that readers might have a better idea of the work under discussion and to show how such paintings look after having been restored. Contemporary restoration of artworks demands that while lacunae may be in-filled with completely reversible paints, 'corrections' and even 'improvements' are absolutely to be avoided - practices unfortunately very common in earlier times. In the lower photo is fairly easily visible a 'frontier' so to speak between the original part of the painting - the upper part - and the work of the restorer: almost the entire lower portion of the sarcophagus and of the decorative border are restorations. But the photos also reveal what the drawing, the sinopia, has become; in some cases (not this one), from a personal point of view, one might occasionally prefer the exquisite sinopia to the finished fresco! 5

A brief reference now to the actual methods used to remove a fresco from its wall; these are two: the stacco and the strappo. The former removes the pigment layer and a good bit of the plaster while the latter removes only the colour layer with a very small amount of plaster (the decision about which to use depends on the condition of the fresco). Both methods involve glueing layers of material, usually canvas, to the front surface, the actual painting, and, once dried, pulling the now glued plaster surface off the wall; it is at this point that any sinopia becomes visible (still on the arriccio underneath). Again in both cases, excess plaster is removed from the 'back' of the intonaco and another canvas is applied there; after this, the canvas on the front is carefully removed and the now-detached fresco is attached to reinforced masonite sheets. At this point, the fresco is ready to be placed back in its original position, usually of course, after a thorough restoration, or to go into a museum, such as has happened with the della Gatta Penitent Saint Jerome above. 

In conclusion, mention might be made here of an altogether more 'brutal' method of getting a fresco off a wall or, better said, removing a fresco; this because in fact, it is the entire section of wall on which the fresco sits which is bodily removed! This also is a very old technique and involves the careful cutting, around the edge of the picture, of the stones or bricks which make-up the wall itself, and through an obviously very laborious and difficult process, moving that part of wall to another location (where it is inserted into another wall). Perhaps the best-known of this type of transfer is that of the great Resurrection fresco of Piero della Francesca in Sansepolcro; originally situated it is thought in another room of the council building, it was removed - with its wall - to its present site, a fact re-confirmed by the most recent restoration.

The Resurrection by Piero della Francesca, 1458 (?), fresco, 225 x 200 cm - here without the painted columns at the sides. Museo Civico, Sansepolcro 

(Photo: by the author, post the recent restoration)

* Sinopia - singular; Sinopie - plural

1 This beautiful sinopia has been discussed previously in this blog's article entitled 'Bits and Pieces'.

2 Fresco painting has been known since ancient times, not only in the West but also in India and China. The best-known early frescos in the West are probably those at Pompei where many are still in situ while others have been moved, together with those from Herculaneum, to the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (MANN), a wonderful museum worth the visit to Napoli all on its own. Frescos from various periods however may be seen in many museums throughout Italy.

3 Cennino Cennini, Il libro dell'arte (The Book of Art), written towards the end of the 14th century or in the early 15th, is an invaluable 'recipe book' for contemporary art restorers and historians. It is what is sometimes referred to as a 'libro di bottega', or, 'workshop book': in other words, a workshop manual of recipes and procedures for apprentices working in an artist's studio - at the time, and later, a kind of studio-cum-retail shop. Cennino's advice concerning the painting of frescos, and other things, has been a critical, indispensable source of knowledge of late-medieval workshop practice.

4 For further discussion of Andrea del Castagno, please see the article in this blog entitled 'Reflections on the Writing of Art History'.

5 An excellent discussion (with one reservation) of this topic, in English, is to be found in a catalogue - actually a small book - of an exhibition held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in 1968 (later at the Rijksmuseum and in London): The Great Age of Fresco - Giotto to Pontormo (various authors). The one problem I found with this explication of the fresco technique was one which is common: that is, that the specific and critical translucent quality of the intonaco is not properly explained. If the intonaco were not translucent, what on earth would be the point of making such beautiful drawings (the sinopie) if the painter then covered them up in such a way that even he could no longer see them? From a technical point of view, this point is manifestly important but, for some reason which escapes me, art historians and others explain the fresco procedure in such a way that the sinopia is basically rendered useless by the application of the intonaco layer!

Small 'formelle' with low-relief sculptures from the 14th and the early 15th century

 

A view of the city of Florence seen from the church of San Miniato; in the centre is the Duomo, the cathedral, with its famous dome and, beside it, the bell-tower or Campanile. The tower further to the left is the one at the Palazzo Vecchio. (Photo: the author)

Although many art historians have studied the smallish sculptural works (the form itself sometimes referred to in Italian as 'formella') that once decorated the Campanile (or Giotto's Tower) of the cathedral of Florence, it is unclear as to how much attention is paid to these wonderful pieces by the average 'art lover'. In this article, we shall be having a look at some of these as well as two other low reliefs made for another nearby structure, the Baptistry. Today, cleaned and restored, all of the former works can be seen in the museum of the Opera del Duomo (Museo dell'Opera del Duomo) situated just behind the Duomo itself (the ones visible today on the Campanile are copies). The final two to be discussed are in the Bargello museum, only a short distance away.

A night-time view of part of the façade and south side of the Duomo at Florence with, to the right, a partial view of the base of the Campanile in which some of the 'formelle' can be seen. (Photo: the author)

The Campanile is sometimes referred to as Giotto's Tower because it is believed that he designed it and supervised the initial construction of the base. In any case, on the two lower levels of this structure were attached several series of small stone carvings in low-relief, each series placed on one face of the square tower and having its own theme; these include, on the second level, the Planets, the Virtues, the Liberal Arts and the Sacraments and, on the first level - the one we will look at - amongst other things, the arts and crafts: that is, representations of creative activities as opposed to the more esoteric or spiritual ones above.1

Andrea Pisano, The Beginnings of Pastoral Life, c.1334-1343, marble; from the west side of the Campanile. Now, like the next three, in the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo (Photo: the author)

Let's begin with this extraordinary example representing a shepherd sitting in his tent from where he surveys his flock, seen, together with their watch-dog, at the base of the image. First, we may notice that the 'format' is a hexagon and that, ingeniously, Andrea has contrived the cone of the tent and the flock of sheep to fit nicely into that shape. The tent itself protrudes into our 'real' space, increasing the 'reality' of the representation; but, the cleverest element of this creation is the placement of the shepherd just on the 'doorstep' so to speak, of his tent, partly within and partly just without; the 'reality' of this image is here, in the shepherd's act of pulling aside the flap of his tent: looking closely, we see that the sculptor has shown not only the folding back of that flap but also the imprint of the shepherd's hand, inside, as he does so! This opening causes us to see the shepherd fully lighted against the darkness of the interior of the tent. 

The basic apparent simplicity of the frontally-viewed scene is in part what makes it seem 'modern' to our eyes. 'Apparent' because in fact, it is a subtly contrived combination of planes and complex forms, symmetrically arranged to present a straightforward message. The top of the tent catches the light as do, in this photo, the sides, thereby establishing the three-dimensional form of the object. At first sight, a quite static representation which, nevertheless, with the movement of the sheep and the action of the shepherd, contains clear indications of movement. Despite the obvious solidity and stability of the figure of the shepherd (partially damaged due to wear and tear), his one simple action of opening the tent flap is as powerful and convincing as if it were suddenly to happen in real life. With four elements - the tent, the shepherd, the sheep and the dog - the artist has conveyed the entire message, no other 'setting' or background was necessary.

Andrea Pisano, Painting, c. 1348-1350, marble; from the north side of the Campanile

(Photo: the author)

Another exquisite image, this time representing the art of Painting, unfortunately somewhat damaged, particularly on the left side, including the painter's nose; I do not know whether or not the right side is a reconstruction (I think so) or whether perhaps it is part of the original sculpture; clearly there is a major (clean) break in the centre of this work but the image of a polyptych on the right side is appropriate; the 'background' texture though is different from that on the left side, a texture common to many of these works. However that may be, let's focus on what remains of the original work. 

Here we see a bearded painter working in exactly the way painters still work, making this representation wholly 'actual' for contemporary painters, both then and today. The artist leans forward, tilting his stool, and resting one hand on the other as a support - exactly as any painter might do - his legs apparently spread around his easel to allow him to get closer to his work. It is unfortunately precisely in this area that a lot of damage has been done; it seems that the easel and the panel on it have been broken off, leaving us somewhat confused about what we are looking at to the left of the painter. 

One thing which is quite different from what happens today is the state of the 'support' the painter is working on, that is, the panel itself; prior to the advent and wide acceptance of canvas as a support for pictures, artists painted on wooden panels and these were often constructed, together with their frame, by a carpenter who then passed on the whole object, complete with attached frame, to the painter to work on 2. In our low-relief sculpture, both the polyptych on the right and, I believe, the panel the painter is busy with, as well as the smaller one on the wall behind him, all have frames attached.

Andrea Pisano, Sculpture, c.1337-41: marble; north side of the Campanile (Photo: the author)

Another beautiful image, slightly more complex than those above. Here we see the sculptor diligently at work, hammer and chisel in hand, leaning over his small statue. Compositionally interesting are the strong horizontals in the lower portion of the 'formella' which form the base, the stool on which he sits, and the bench (with the carving on it); further horizontals occur to the left of the sculptor and behind him, on  the wall. That said, there is also a clear triangle or pyramid formed by a line moving up from the right (the remains of an ancient type of drill), through the carved figure to the artist's head, and then down from the head, along his back and disappearing into the area of the back of the stool. Later, in the 15th century, the triangle would become one of the fundamental compositional devices of Renaissance artists. It is possible however that Andrea, so as to soften to a degree this 'geometric' quality, has stressed the protruding right leg of his sculptor, making the figure quite definitely the focus of our attention. Notable incidentally, are the small 'gothic' decorative devices below the 'floor' and under the stool. As with the two works already discussed, this one has suffered damage, especially in the fine detail of the object on the wall (a centering device perhaps?), next to the square. We should remember though, as far as these objects are concerned (we are talking about an age of roughly 670 years), that their entire lives were spent (until recently) out in the open and subject to all the vicissitudes, both natural and man-made, that fortune could throw at them! By the way, in view of the subject of this work, it is pleasing to consider that here is an image of a sculptor made by a sculptor, showing within that same image the carving of a carving!

Luca della Robbia, Grammatica, c. 1437-1439, marble; from the north side of the Campanile 

(Photo: the author)

This next work dates from more or less 100 years later than those shown already and, in some ways, the differences are obvious. Again, as with the Pastoral Life relief, we have a symmetrical composition but, unlike that image, this one has a partially empty space in its centre, with the 'action' occurring at the sides; the lower part of that 'empty' space is occupied by the teacher's lectern or desk, upon which his right hand rests. The figure of the teacher and particularly those of his two pupils are also different: here we see the Renaissance desire to show things as they really are, to observe and take from Nature; the pupils especially are easily identifiable as what we may describe as 'real' people, they are no longer 'symbolic'.  In fact, each person has his own personality, suggested by facial expression and gesture, and again, particularly the boys: while one writes and has his attention focused on that, the other holds his book upright and directs his open-mouthed gaze towards his teacher. The most important difference though is in the representation of space. 

In the early part of the 15th century, the 'science' of one-point perspective had finally been codified, in fact, in these same years (1435-36) Leon Battista Alberti had 'published' (in manuscript only) a book for the use of artists, outlining the principles of perspective: Della Pittura. A confident control of perspective defines and controls the space in our 'formella' representing Grammar; the wholly-convincing floor recedes due to the receding bases of the benches to right and left; the lateral walls (not actually represented!) recede due to the receding tops of those same benches. That the space continues beyond this small room is suggested by the open door in its rear wall; and above that door we find a classical tympanum derived from Greek and Roman architecture, that is, no longer the Gothic forms as seen in the Sculpture panel. At this point, references to and imitations of classical art, architecture and theory (Vitruvius) abound in art, not to mention in literature and poetry. At last, space, as represented or imitated on a flat surface, was coherent!

A close view of the Duomo and bell tower - the Campanile - of Florence with Brunelleschi's dome in the background; on the left is a part of the Baptistry - the Battistero di San Giovanni - the oldest building in this complex. (Photo: the author)

I mention the Baptistry because this is where one of the next two works was destined - had it won a competition. In the Florence of the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance, various buildings were under the care so to speak, of the various guilds which at certain times were extremely powerful. It happens that at the very beginning of the 15th century, the Baptistry was under the control of the Arte di Calimala (and had been since the twelfth century), that is, the cloth merchants' guild 3. The Baptistry has three doors, only one of which was in place at that time, the beautiful bronze south door made by Andrea Pisano; both the north and east doors - this latter opening onto the front of the Duomo - were yet to be done. And so a competition was organised for the east door (note: approximately 35 years prior to the Luca della Robbia above); for this purpose, the sculptors were each given an amount of bronze with which they were to cast their designs. To maintain visual symmetry with the Pisano door, it was also decided that each of the two 'leaves' making-up the door was to have 14 panels: that is, 28 for the whole door; the contestants were to make a 'life-size' work, that is, equal to the size of the panels which would eventually make-up the exterior of the door. The subject of the panels was the Sacrifice of Isaac and the low-relief image was to fit into an established (Gothic) shape: a lozenge with a quatrefoil superimposed (or vice-versa; see the photos below).

The judges eventually had to decide between two contestants, both Florentines: Filippo Brunelleschi (the architect of the dome on the cathedral) and Lorenzi Ghiberti. Ghiberti won 4. Let's have a look at the two competition entries, both of which have survived and are now kept, as mentioned earlier, in the museum of the Bargello in Florence.

Lorenzo Ghiberti, The Sacrifice of Isaac, 1401-02, gilded bronze; Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence. Note the shape of the field in which the image fits: an alternation of straight and curved lines. (Photo: the author)

Filippo Brunelleschi, The Sacrifice of Isaac, 1401-02, gilded bronze; Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence (Photo: the author)

It is obvious that, given the same subject-matter and one with a long iconographic history, the two artists would arrive at fairly similar solutions. The Ghiberti is an interesting mix of late- Medieval and early-Renaissance elements: the large rocky outcrop which separates the two groups of figures being the most obvious old-fashioned aspect, although the gentle, elegant curve of Abraham's body also belongs to an earlier period. The most up-to-date and, in a way startling part of the composition is the modelling of the figures (including the ass) but, in particular, the figure of the young Isaac, kneeling on the sacrificial altar: this is a fully frontal view, fully modelled - or rather - beautifully modelled, revealing clearly the influence of classical exemplars. The Abraham is also a wonderful, powerful figure notwithstanding the old-fashioned pose. In fact, all the figures, including the angel in the top right, the (unfortunate) lamb in the top left and the two figures of the servants and the ass are all beautiful; of special note are the lamb and the ass, both in interesting poses (also the saddle on the ass!). The fact that Ghiberti has managed to contain his entire narrative within the competition's prescribed borders is however, a major point of difference between these two works.

Starting with that last observation, if we now consider Brunelleschi's piece, one of the most obvious differences is precisely that: Brunelleschi has exceeded the limits of the imposed shape, at least in the lower part of his work. In this he is, to my mind, anticipating what was to develop out of the Renaissance, namely Mannerism and the Baroque. Having said that though, his piece also has some anachronistic elements and they are the two main actors, Abraham and Isaac; both of these figures belong to a previous style and the Isaac especially is weak and poorly conceived, almost Egyptian in its odd mix of two views: the legs in characteristic silhouette and the torso twisted around to show another! These problems aside however, there is much to like in Filippo's work. For a start, despite so to speak, 'colouring outside the lines', he has filled the available space more completely than Ghiberti had done and, in my opinion, in a more interesting way. Apart from the powerful angel intervening from the top left, the entire lower third of the image is much more dynamic and, as far as the influence of Greco-Roman work is concerned, the seated figure on the extreme left is seemingly taken directly, except for being clothed, from a famous ancient statue known as the Spinario, or in English, Boy Removing a Thorn from His Foot (of which there are two known versions, one in Rome, a bronze, and the other in Florence, in marble). 

The figure on the right is a clever and adventurous - and successful - attempt at sculptural foreshortening which also incidentally, occupies its allotted space very nicely. These figures and the device of linking them with the body of the grazing ass - moving, as we read, from left to right - reveals I think, a perhaps more modern (in 15th century terms) conception than Ghiberti had arrived at, his being essentially more attached to an older tradition. The part which lets Brunelleschi's work down, as said earlier, is in fact the subject of the piece, the actual requested sacrifice of Isaac by his father Abraham. To point this up even further, we may notice the 'modern' correct three-quarter view of the altar (present in both works), with, below, a fire burning, as well as a further reference to classical art in the bass-relief on the main face of that altar; for me, the anomalies - the disjunction in style, not to say skill, between the central group and the lower third, including the altar - are curious to say the least.

At first glance, it would seem reasonable to think that the later works, those of Ghiberti and Brunelleschi, are the more modern, are indicative of the change in focus, over the course of nearly a century, from the time of the earlier works discussed at the beginning of this article. Certainly, among the present examples, these later competition pieces are more complex and perhaps, in their anomalies, reveal in fact the transition in progress, from the late-Medieval period to the new style blossoming in Florence in the very early Quattrocento (the '400s), the 15th century. But, if we return to the concept of modernity, present-day modernity, I would have to say that the earlier works from the Campanile are the more 'modern'; I doubt that anyone would today claim that the two works made for the door of the Baptistry look 'modern' in today's terms. The temptation often is to say how 'modern' certain works from the distant past look, including those dating from the 14th century; in fact, on reflection, it would rather seem to be the converse, that is, that many modern works, especially 20th century ones, wittingly or otherwise, were or are recovering the 'modernity' of what was once the ultra-modern!

1 See the previous article, The Burning of a Heretic, on this blog, in which one of the Sacrament reliefs is discussed, albeit in a different context.

2  This custom of having various craftsmen working on various elements of a painting is quite foreign to artists today; in fact, if it does occur, it is made a great fuss of! But, to cite one famous example, Piero della Francesca was, on at least one occasion, obliged to work on a polyptych whose design, and therefore carpentry, had been decided before he was given the job to paint the images. This became a problem for artists working in the most up-to-date aesthetic as it hampered their freedom to develop their image as they needed; as the 15th century went along, the taste was slowly changing from the many-panelled altarpiece (polyptych) to the single large panel.

3 The Arte di Calimala was so-called after the name of the street in which those merchants - wool and fabric merchants -  had their shops.

4 This Ghiberti went on to make the third door, the so-called Gates of Paradise; once they were complete, it was decided to move his first door from the east portal of the Baptistry to the north portal and substitute in its place Ghiberti's newly-finished, and much more modern door, the Gates of Paradise.

* I'll just mention that the dates quoted for the works above can vary quite a bit, depending on where one gets the information. Some of the dates are those from the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo and may in fact be more up-to-date (no pun!) than some others. In short, dates can be approximate, often based on ambiguous documents or on superseded scholarship!