Part 1
The title of this article was suggested by a short book of the same name by Sir Kenneth (later Lord) Clark (my edition:1972). I read that book when I was still quite young and, at the time, the title struck me as odd: what did Kenneth Clark mean by ‘looking at pictures’? - surely that activity is self-explanatory!
Now four or so decades later, I not only believe I understand the title, and it’s subtlety (perhaps “How to look at Pictures” might have been a too pedantic one), but share, and have done for some time, a belief in the need for such didactic enterprises. This because it is my observation while walking through different galleries in different parts of the world, that an extraordinary number of people have not the foggiest notion of what they are doing there - or, should be doing there!1
During a recent sojourn in Florence, I visited the galleries of the Uffizi several times. These days (2018) the place is literally packed with tourists, with football match-like crowds waiting to get in, more or less from opening to closing. When I first visited Italy, and Florence, there was still a ‘tourist season’, roughly from mid-Spring to mid-Autumn, with the Summer months being the height. In recent times, this ‘season’ has almost ceased to exist, there being thousands upon thousands of tourists pretty much year-round. Nevertheless, the summer months would still seem to be the most crowded, a time of the year, ironically, when Italy generally, and medieval cities like Florence especially, become almost unbearable because of the heat. In fact, like the Romans, the Florentines in August desert their town for either the seaside or the mountains.
What are all these hundreds of thousands, not to say millions, of tourists each year doing in the Uffizi? They are fed in at the ‘beginning’, at the 13th century, and come out at the ‘end’, that is, the 19th century or early 20th, two, three or even four hours later; for most, a once-in-a-lifetime visit, they are usually exhausted, overwhelmed and often frustrated. As opposed to the obligatory Botticellis and Leonardos, even those few pictures they were actually personally stimulated by were only truly, if briefly, visible if there had been a fortuitous gap in the literally never-ending stream - no, river - of ‘art lovers’ flowing through.
By contrast, even though I might be in Florence for only a week, I will go to the Uffizi several times, probably quite late in the day, there being usually far fewer people around, and spend at most an hour looking at one or two pieces, as well as saying a quick “hello” to some old favourites on the way through to the exit. In that hour, often quite undisturbed by anyone, let alone by crowds, I am able to ‘study’ my pictures up close, from afar, from different angles; to take (nowadays) one or two photos - including of the painting’s explanatory label - before continuing to immerse myself ever deeper into that particular picture’s delights. Although I would very much like to be able to spend more time in the gallery, in fact, anything more than an hour or an hour and a half becomes a strain on my ability to comprehend, to take in the physical object(s) I might be looking at, not to mention to recall what I’ve seen.
What is the point of this? The point is, that for anyone doing anything more than just ‘looking’, that is to say, who is bringing a critical (in the best sense) analytical eye - and therefore brain - to the activity, a well-spent hour or so is more than enough for one visit. The concept of ‘doing’ the Uffizi - if by this we mean attempting to take it all in, in one visit - (or the National Gallery in London for example, or the Met in New York) is absurd: great and even minor galleries will ‘do’ you before you ‘do’ them. The concept is an intellectual and physical impossibility: it may be possible to 'see' most of the art work in the public viewing spaces at the Uffizi in a visit lasting several hours - not so the Louvre or the Met - but such a visit will result in a completely befuddled recollection of some things, and little or no recollection of most.
Looking at pictures - and art work in general - requires time and knowledge. If you have only one of these two things, your experience will be extremely diminished. Perhaps the more important is knowledge because, with the appropriate knowledge, even a short time spent before a chosen work will be of benefit. Unfortunately, too many of us and I think the majority, while perhaps having enough time, have little or no knowledge.
I recall admiring Japanese tourists who, almost to a man - and particularly, to a woman - came to galleries and other sites equipped with an excellent guide book which very often they had already read but had seen fit to bring with them, to consult while standing in front of painting, sculpture, monument or piazza 'x'. They were admirable in that they had realized that they did not 'know' and had therefore taken steps to find out! Too often, many visitors to art galleries simply assume that, since they are looking at images of people, animals, landscapes, interiors, etc., which they can recognize from their personal experience of life, that they can - and do - 'understand' the image they are looking at. Needless to say, this approach instantly fails them when confronted with anything deemed to be 'abstract'.
Of course, if all we are talking about is an image of a man on a horse, riding across a sunny field, there may not be any more to the putative 'subject' of the painting than that; and, as far as 'understanding' the subject of the image goes, they have no more difficulty than the expert does. But what about why the artist painted that scene in that way, what does the average viewer understand about that? Actually, precious little! If one asked why Rembrandt painted a country scene in a particular way, Corot in another, and Monet and Mondrian in yet others, what answer would the average person be able to give? Unless that person had studied some art history, and, in particular, the history of western landscape painting, the average member of a massive crowd, shuffling through a major gallery such as the Uffizi (this type of tourist does not visit smaller or minor galleries as a rule) would be quite unable to give any answer at all!
So, let's have a look at what we might do when visiting a gallery to see one, two, three - at most four - pictures which we are interested in. Before even getting on the bus or train to go to the gallery in question, we will have have read-up on these two or three pictures (or other art works), and on the artists who made them. We should know the date of birth, and death, of our artists as that little bit of information helps us place him or her in some kind of historical context. An artist alive in 1540 for instance lived therefore at the same time Michelangelo was alive (1475-1564). Michelangelo's influence was profound in Italy - and later throughout Europe - and as a result, it may be possible to discern some Michelangelo-like traits or qualities in the work of our selected artist; maybe not! However, whether or not directly or indirectly influenced by the work of Michelangelo, especially in Italy, it would have been almost impossible to have been unaware of him. Recognizing influences in artists' work helps us to interpret what they were trying to do and why. If we also know that by the year 1540, Florentine Mannerism had fully flowered, and that that style was directly influenced by Michelangelo's production in painting, we might then, for example, be in a position to make some comments on the proximity or otherwise of the work in question to Florentine art in general, and Mannerism in particular. And so, with this kind of information, we can begin to understand why a given piece looks the way it does.
Such awareness may at first seem more the realm of the specialist, and, I think, in an objective sense it probably is. However, once we start to look into the 'whys and wherefores' of any given art work, be it painting, sculpture, architecture, literature or music, we will very quickly find ourselves discovering more and more of that kind of detail, that kind of information. In other words, we are no longer as it were, trapped in our 21st century but rather, oddly, we find ourselves capable of a sort of 'time travel': the more we want to know about a given art work, the more we are encouraged to enter the cultural-historical ambience of that piece, and of its creator, until, finally, we are to some extent able to 'read' art in its own terms (its specific language) - unencumbered neither by our position in time nor by our lack of knowledge!
As an example of the above-mentioned 'time travel' let's compare two masterpieces of Italian sculpture, Michelangelo's David and Bernini's version of the same subject 2. To begin, we need to be in Florence to see the David of Michelangelo, the city in and for which it was made. On the other hand, to see Bernini's David, we need to go to Rome, the city in which it was made. I point this out because, at the times of the creation of both of these Davids, both cities were independent city-states, Italy as a modern political entity did not exist, and, in fact, there had been a proxy war between Rome - controlled by the Popes - and Florence 3. These facts, seemingly political and apparently not directly art related, actually had a fundamentally important, far from extraneous relevance to the subjects and methods of many artists working at those times.
Michelangelo's David was made from a block of marble on which some work had already been done (1463) by another artist before Michelangelo took over. The sculpted figure was originally intended as a decoration, high up on the roof-line of the then under construction Duomo, or cathedral, of Florence. The stone is massive and therefore would have been reasonably visible in its intended position, some 40 metres above ground. When the 29 year-old Michelangelo finished his work, the city decided that it was of such power that it should stand as a symbol of the independently-minded (like David himself) Florence of the time - a powerful but often challenged city-state - outside its town hall, the Palazzo della Signoria, or Palazzo Vecchio as it is now known.
When we visit this remarkable work in its present home of the Accademia in Florence, we discover that the statue has really only one completely satisfying point of view and that is more or less from directly in front (although the back is startling in its rendering of physical reality); we might also notice that the head and neck seem a little large compared with the body, the sides are too thin and that the legs are a little over-long. These 'curiosities' may be explained by two already mentioned circumstances: first, that the stone was not a pristine block, and secondly, that the image was conceived with the understanding that it was to be seen from 40 metres below, at ground level looking up! The way we approach this great figure today is at ground level, and, although it is standing on a quite high plinth, we are certainly not viewing it with craned necks!
These facts also suggest that, essentially, David was meant to be seen from one viewpoint and not to be walked around as can be done today. This quality of a carefully chosen single vantage point is distinct from the 360 degree viewing possible in the work of other artists in other times. In fact, many many Florentine sculptures are designed to be set-up in a niche on a building, usually a church, therefore limiting very definitely our view. When we see such works standing in galleries today, frequently we are looking at them in a way never intended by either the artist, or by his or her patron. This is important especially for viewers coming from 'new world' countries where their older galleries are full of European work, both paintings and sculpture, which are consequently completely out of their original context, a context which moreover usually influenced quite a lot of the 'formal' content of the given work, especially for instance, the light.
Michelangelo was 29 years old when he completed his David in 1504 (begun 1501). Bernini (1598-1680) was 25 when he made his David, amongst other pieces, for the very rich cardinal Scipione Borghese. Bernini's David was always meant to be seen at, so to speak, point blank range, that is, at natural eye level. It is still in the house, a Roman Baroque palace, for which it was made. The differences between this and Michelangelo's version of the same subject are many but perhaps the most obvious is the position and pose of the two protagonists. Michelangelo's David is static but clearly ready for action; he is seen in steady repose, his weight resting on his right leg. While the angle through his shoulders is upwards from his right shoulder to his left, that of his hips is (naturally) the opposite, that is downwards from his right hip to his left; his left, non weight-bearing leg is coming gently forward from the plane of the torso.
Bernini's David on the other hand (some 119 years later, in a historical period known as the Counter Reformation, in the contemporary centre of the art world, Pontifical Rome), sweeps into or, is about to sweep into our space. He is not waiting to spring into action, sling at the ready but strung loosely, this David is actually caught in mid-flight as it were, at the precise moment when he is about to let fly the fatal stone; his sling is tense with potential force, so too are his arms in particular but also his twisted torso and his bent and straight legs. In other words, his whole body, including the contorted face, are involved in violent and powerful action. Here we are not invited to contemplate the heroic, forceful but passive David, rather almost to 'get out of the way' of this action already occurring!
Bernini's David is a sculpture 'in the round', that is, we can and should walk all around this great figure, to be able to see the kinetic energy in the process of being summoned and released through all the muscles of his body: his back, legs, hips, his torso and his arms. Whereas Michelangelo's David's hands are beautiful (one a reconstruction after being damaged), the right is clearly at rest while the left, also motionless, has a firm grasp of the sling (visible from the back) held across his shoulder, those of Bernini are essentially involved in the carrying-out of the action. Where the Florentine David is composed, resolute, untroubled but static, the Roman is dynamic, pushing into our space and thereby making it his space as well, and us not only spectators or observers, but quasi participants in this crucial event.
I might mention here the differences in the faces of these two wonderful works. The David of Florence has an alert expression with some displeasure we could say, shown by the wrinkled brow but, otherwise, a contained but ready and determined countenance. He appears to be contemplating his next step or the required reaction to some stimulus. What we can contemplate are his thoughts; naturally, we cannot do this literally but we are invited to do so, as apart from his splendid physique, there is no dynamic action to see. The Roman David by contrast, needs no interpretation, we are not invited to divine his intellectual procedure, quite the contrary: this David, howsoever intellectual may have been his reasoning to get to this juncture, has already gone past the point of no return, and we catch him, stumble into his action almost, at exactly the point where his cogitations have turned from abstract to concrete and dynamic reality! Here David's face shows us grim determination translated into physical actuality; one might say it is not diagnosis or prognosis but radical treatment!
In terms of things to know about these two works, there is much more that could be said about both and, in particular, about the artistic climates of the two cities at the times when the sculptures were made. For example, Renaissance Humanism and a return to classical artistic models was in full swing in the Florence of Michelangelo, even if he later went far beyond this initial stimulus. Bernini's Rome was fighting back against protestant movements across Europe and in fact, was only recently recovered from a devastating sack some 100 years or so before; the Papacy itself both as a spiritual and a temporal power was under threat. Classical models were still the norm but had been mastered well before Bernini came on the scene; indeed, the model to absorb and overcome was now Michelangelo himself, particularly in architecture!
I'm sure that even so far, there is probably too much information for the casual visitor to keep in his or her head when visiting the Uffizi or the Accademia in Florence, or the Villa Borghese in Rome; my point is that, knowing these kinds of things surely adds to the appreciation of works of art in general, and whatever may be the specific ones we are looking at in particular.
1 When I say 'should be doing there' I do not in any way mean that there is a right or wrong way to enjoy looking at art; I simply mean that a lot of people find themselves in a place such as the Uffizi and, being quite unused to doing such things as looking at pictures in art galleries, are consequently ill at ease and confused about how to do what they are doing. For many international tourists, a visit to a place like the Uffizi is in fact the very first time they have been inside a major art gallery!
2 Please see my article in this blog: Michelangelo and Bernini: David for a more detailed analysis of the two sculptures and, in particular, of Bernini's.
3 The Siege of Florence, 1529-30, one of many such 'wars' on the Italian peninsula, due to whether or not a particular city supported the power of the Pope as opposed to the power of the Holy Roman Emperor, Carlo V, with the French king enthusiastically involved here and there.
Part 2
Let's now turn to a couple of paintings, to compare them and so to 'look' into them in some detail.
The first we shall consider is a small panel picture, one of many from the rear of a landmark painting, the Maestà, painted by Duccio di Buoninsegna (known to art history simply as Duccio) between 1308 and 1311 for the high altar of the cathedral of Siena. Our example is situated in the predella or base of the huge altarpiece which measured originally 468 H by 499 W cm (White 1)
About Duccio himself relatively little is known and for a long while he was relegated to the second rank of Sienese painters and even forgotten altogether. These days however, to enter the wonderful Museo dell'Opera in Siena is to enter an almost enchanted world within which Duccio's Maestà is only one of many fantastic objects. We do know that he was born in 1255 and died in 1319, and that the contract for this magnum opus was signed in 1308.
First, we can observe that it is a painting still influenced by some Byzantine conventions, so much so that the figure of Christ in the centre-left of the image could be substituted almost intact for a Christ Pantocrator from somewhere like Monreale in Sicily, for example 2. But, its iconographical lineage aside, what can we actually see?
A room into which we are looking more or less from directly in front; this is important because the artist has virtually emphasised this in his perspective construction of the coffered ceiling of the room. The joists supporting this ceiling are drawn in 'correct' perspective provided we are standing in that position. This is interesting because artistic perspective was not fully understood until approximately the middle of the following century (Brunelleschi, Alberti, etc.) but here it is clear that Duccio, amongst others, had some idea of how a 'realistic' rendering of space should look. However, that said, other elements of the scene do not follow the indications of the ceiling, its coffers and its beams.
The dining table in a manner Cézannesque, is tilted at an impossible angle if we accept that the ceiling is indicative of the theoretical point of view of the observer; it is so tilted up however, at least partly, so that we can see what is on the table. In the story of the wedding at Cana, the fact that it was a wedding feast is important and so is the fact that people were drinking wine: note the several glasses of wine on the table, as well as the servants in the lower left corner, busied in preparing even more. Nevertheless, in spite of the table having been tilted upwards, it too does show some knowledge of perspective as, in the plane of the table-top, the side edges do in fact recede to a common vanishing point, although not the same one as in the ceiling! The same may be observed about the small table in the lower left corner: it too is tilted upwards, implying, as does the main table-top, that we are looking down onto it.
And yet, the servants working around and behind the little table - like the guests at the main table - are shown as though we were looking straight at them, not as though we were looking at them from above. In addition, the angle of the small table-top is different from that of the main table! But the most contradictory element - compared with the point of view we have of the ceiling - is the terracotta floor tiles, all of which are shown as though they were a vertical pattern on a vertical plane. This is a particularly odd feature as Duccio has gone to a lot of trouble to show, quite convincingly at this time, the pattern of the cloth on the dining table; here he seems to understand planar recession in space but ignores it as far as the floor is concerned.
Another aspect of Duccio's creation of space is the overlapping of the various elements in the scene in such a way as to suggest depth within the picture plane. The servants are in front of the dining table which is in front of the diners, and they are in front of the rear wall of the room. To further extend his space, the artist has opened an arched doorway in that wall, between Mary and her Son, through which can be seen further rooms. Interestingly, the 'gothic' arch of that opening links the heads of the two principal protagonists.
Leaving aside the perspective drawing, let's now consider some of the narrative content. One of the principal signifiers in religious art of this period, as of others, is the human hand. Hand gestures and positions were critical signs and symbols in the interpretation of images, and not only in western art. Three of the main actors in this scene are using hand gestures to indicate their intentions and to make them plain to us; the first is the figure who appears to be the majordomo, situated just below Mary and wearing a pale cap, who seems to be addressing himself to one of the only two personages at the feast table who do not have haloes - more than likely, the younger man to Christ's left. Given that we know the story, it is reasonable to assume that he is telling the host that they are out of wine.
The host has his hand seemingly directed back towards his chest as if to say: "What am I to do?". At this point, the story shifts to Mary, Christ's mother, seated at the left end of the table; she in turn could be interpreted as drawing Christ's attention to this fact, that the wedding party has run out of wine. He could be seen as either agreeing to work His first miracle - that of turning water into wine - or as protesting that His time had not yet come (to begin his ministry). Nevertheless, referring again to the scene in the lower left corner, it appears that a clear liquid (water) is being poured from a wooden casket into one of the large receptacles on the small table; however, the servant on the right, refilling his jug, finds that the water has changed to wine. It's as though the miracle were happening right before our eyes!
A final point which concerns the servants in the foreground, one holding a jar (note his back is on the exact vertical middle line of the composition), the other a glass: this latter is walking to stage right but his torso is turned back towards the servant holding the jar. This is a curious example of 'contrapposto' in an image where everyone else is shown in a more or less conventional pose; Duccio has, in this figure, introduced a playful piece of realistic narrative, albeit (acceptably) in a minor character. Incidentally, it should be noted that these figures, like the others and the tables, cast no shadows! The (smaller) minor characters in pictures, like the servants here, allowed artists some scope to realize mundane and realistic incidents which were otherwise strictly prohibited as far as the (larger) main, and particularly religious, figures were concerned.
We shall now leave Duccio for a minute and move ahead in time to 1447 in Florence.
The place we are visiting is called the Cenacolo of Sant'Apollonia, situated in a monastery in the heart of the city 3. It contains one of several Last Suppers still to be found in Florence and is, to my mind, one of the most impressive. It was painted by Andrea di Bartolo, known to art history as Andrea del Castagno; he was born around 1419 and died of plague in 1457.
The first thing which we might notice here, apart from the vastly different scale (all the figures are larger than life-size), is the resolution of the perspective problems which we had noted in Duccio's beautiful picture. By this time in Florence, 1447, perspective had in effect been mastered, or re-mastered, after having been lost since Roman times. Andrea's image is also situated in a room, with a dining table as the main locus of activity.
A close-up look at the first photo shows how far the 'realistic' rendering of a given space had come since Duccio's time. The ceiling, side walls and floor all work together to convince us that we are looking into a 'real' space. Standing in front of this enormous fresco, one can't help but be overwhelmed by its spatial integrity, its size and its power. We are captivated by the almost trompe l'oeil effect created by the masterful use of this new tool, perspective.
Very differently from in the Duccio, the dining table in Andrea's painting is seen only from one side, precisely as we would see it had we been standing in that fateful room, observing that sad occasion. The top of this table is not visible to us although the objects on it can be seen; glass bottles or carafes, glasses and pieces of bread are all there, but this time shown as they would appear, given our single vantage point. In this painting as well, there is a psychological element virtually wholly absent in the Duccio panel: the artist here has indicated and reinforced the shock and dismay of the diners by means of the extraordinary marble fascia stones lining the wall behind them.
The most forceful and dramatic of these marbles is that behind Christ, but it is also behind the chief of the Apostles, Peter, behind the favourite, John, and opposite the ill-fated Judas, the only figure on our side of the long white horizontal which is the table cloth. In other words, in a masterly display of composition, Andrea has focused our attention, with the aid of 'abstract' colour, on the critical moment, that of Christ's discovery of His imminent betrayal 4. It is almost as if there are ferocious demons hidden in that frenzied abstract marble, screaming their bile. The hapless Judas is the only Apostle dressed entirely in dark colours, he has a noticeably dark complexion and is clearly the 'odd man out'; notwithstanding these markers, he has still lifted his right hand, expressing his shock at this revelation.
As in perhaps the most famous Last Supper, that of Leonardo da Vinci, all the Apostles display their emotions in different ways, using their bodies and their hands, together with facial expressions, to give some indication of a mental state. This mode of expression, through hand gestures, was not merely a convention at this time, it was rather a recommended practice, in particular by Leon Battista Alberti, one of the greatest Renaissance art theoreticians and architects, who wrote several very influential books, especially about perspective in painting. In his treatise on painting, he strongly counsels the use of gestures to indicate the mental attitude or state ('the movements of the soul') of the protagonists in pictures 5.
For our purposes here however, it's enough to be aware of this enormous leap in the 'realistic' representation of space (sometimes referred to as 'fictive' space when we mean the illusion of a given space in a picture or work of sculpture). What is also important to realize is that, for a very long time, between the decline of the western Roman empire and the advent of the Renaissance, imitation of physical reality was not the aim of art, nor was it of primary importance, and especially not in religious art. Byzantine art, which held sway in the Mediterranean world during those intermediate centuries, used physical reality as a vehicle with which to communicate the dogma of the Church; the actual 'facts' of our ordinary, terrestrial existence were almost irrelevant as we were directed to concentrate our thoughts on the 'divine' world of the beings portrayed or, better, symbolized in images. Hence, it is possible for a Duccio and many like him, to tilt a table top so that we can see what's on it, and still not disturb the essential message of the given image, even though that table top 'contradicts' another element in the same picture.
1 John White, Tuscan Art and the Medieval Workshop - Duccio, p 80. Thames and Hudson, 1979
2 Note amongst other things, the position of the blue cloak in both the Monreale Pantocrator and the Duccio Christ, especially the abstract shape formed by its wrapping around the body of the Saviour.
3 'Cenacolo' means basically a common dining-room or refectory, especially one in a monastery or convent. The subject of the Last Supper of Christ was therefore thought a suitable one for such a place as it would encourage the diners to reflect on that significant event; especially so, when we recall that many monasteries housed silent orders of monks or nuns, and so speaking or chatting was not permitted. As mentioned, there are several such murals in Florence alone and, to my mind, as such, is a very worthy 'theme' for a tour of that city.
4 For some modern viewers, like myself, Andrea del Castagno's fantastic Last Supper would exist equally well without any of the diners at the table! The construction of that fictive room is so extraordinary, and, without its figures, so 'abstract', that, to my mind, it is complete in a 'Modernist' sense as is.
5 Leon Battista Alberti, 1404-1472, born in Genova to a Florentine father, who, like Dante, suffered exile from his native city; Alberti himself, unlike Dante, was eventually able to return. Two of his notable and highly important books are:
'Della pittura' (On Painting; in Italian, 1435-36, later 1439-41 [L. Bertolini] in Latin) and 'De re aedificatoria' (Concerning Building, 1450 or 1452?).
Looking at pictures - and art work in general - requires time and knowledge. If you have only one of these two things, your experience will be extremely diminished. Perhaps the more important is knowledge because, with the appropriate knowledge, even a short time spent before a chosen work will be of benefit. Unfortunately, too many of us and I think the majority, while perhaps having enough time, have little or no knowledge.
I recall admiring Japanese tourists who, almost to a man - and particularly, to a woman - came to galleries and other sites equipped with an excellent guide book which very often they had already read but had seen fit to bring with them, to consult while standing in front of painting, sculpture, monument or piazza 'x'. They were admirable in that they had realized that they did not 'know' and had therefore taken steps to find out! Too often, many visitors to art galleries simply assume that, since they are looking at images of people, animals, landscapes, interiors, etc., which they can recognize from their personal experience of life, that they can - and do - 'understand' the image they are looking at. Needless to say, this approach instantly fails them when confronted with anything deemed to be 'abstract'.
Of course, if all we are talking about is an image of a man on a horse, riding across a sunny field, there may not be any more to the putative 'subject' of the painting than that; and, as far as 'understanding' the subject of the image goes, they have no more difficulty than the expert does. But what about why the artist painted that scene in that way, what does the average viewer understand about that? Actually, precious little! If one asked why Rembrandt painted a country scene in a particular way, Corot in another, and Monet and Mondrian in yet others, what answer would the average person be able to give? Unless that person had studied some art history, and, in particular, the history of western landscape painting, the average member of a massive crowd, shuffling through a major gallery such as the Uffizi (this type of tourist does not visit smaller or minor galleries as a rule) would be quite unable to give any answer at all!
So, let's have a look at what we might do when visiting a gallery to see one, two, three - at most four - pictures which we are interested in. Before even getting on the bus or train to go to the gallery in question, we will have have read-up on these two or three pictures (or other art works), and on the artists who made them. We should know the date of birth, and death, of our artists as that little bit of information helps us place him or her in some kind of historical context. An artist alive in 1540 for instance lived therefore at the same time Michelangelo was alive (1475-1564). Michelangelo's influence was profound in Italy - and later throughout Europe - and as a result, it may be possible to discern some Michelangelo-like traits or qualities in the work of our selected artist; maybe not! However, whether or not directly or indirectly influenced by the work of Michelangelo, especially in Italy, it would have been almost impossible to have been unaware of him. Recognizing influences in artists' work helps us to interpret what they were trying to do and why. If we also know that by the year 1540, Florentine Mannerism had fully flowered, and that that style was directly influenced by Michelangelo's production in painting, we might then, for example, be in a position to make some comments on the proximity or otherwise of the work in question to Florentine art in general, and Mannerism in particular. And so, with this kind of information, we can begin to understand why a given piece looks the way it does.
Such awareness may at first seem more the realm of the specialist, and, I think, in an objective sense it probably is. However, once we start to look into the 'whys and wherefores' of any given art work, be it painting, sculpture, architecture, literature or music, we will very quickly find ourselves discovering more and more of that kind of detail, that kind of information. In other words, we are no longer as it were, trapped in our 21st century but rather, oddly, we find ourselves capable of a sort of 'time travel': the more we want to know about a given art work, the more we are encouraged to enter the cultural-historical ambience of that piece, and of its creator, until, finally, we are to some extent able to 'read' art in its own terms (its specific language) - unencumbered neither by our position in time nor by our lack of knowledge!
As an example of the above-mentioned 'time travel' let's compare two masterpieces of Italian sculpture, Michelangelo's David and Bernini's version of the same subject 2. To begin, we need to be in Florence to see the David of Michelangelo, the city in and for which it was made. On the other hand, to see Bernini's David, we need to go to Rome, the city in which it was made. I point this out because, at the times of the creation of both of these Davids, both cities were independent city-states, Italy as a modern political entity did not exist, and, in fact, there had been a proxy war between Rome - controlled by the Popes - and Florence 3. These facts, seemingly political and apparently not directly art related, actually had a fundamentally important, far from extraneous relevance to the subjects and methods of many artists working at those times.
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| David, by Michelangelo, 1501-1504, marble; height 5 metres without base Accademia delle Belle Arti, Florence |
Michelangelo's David was made from a block of marble on which some work had already been done (1463) by another artist before Michelangelo took over. The sculpted figure was originally intended as a decoration, high up on the roof-line of the then under construction Duomo, or cathedral, of Florence. The stone is massive and therefore would have been reasonably visible in its intended position, some 40 metres above ground. When the 29 year-old Michelangelo finished his work, the city decided that it was of such power that it should stand as a symbol of the independently-minded (like David himself) Florence of the time - a powerful but often challenged city-state - outside its town hall, the Palazzo della Signoria, or Palazzo Vecchio as it is now known.
When we visit this remarkable work in its present home of the Accademia in Florence, we discover that the statue has really only one completely satisfying point of view and that is more or less from directly in front (although the back is startling in its rendering of physical reality); we might also notice that the head and neck seem a little large compared with the body, the sides are too thin and that the legs are a little over-long. These 'curiosities' may be explained by two already mentioned circumstances: first, that the stone was not a pristine block, and secondly, that the image was conceived with the understanding that it was to be seen from 40 metres below, at ground level looking up! The way we approach this great figure today is at ground level, and, although it is standing on a quite high plinth, we are certainly not viewing it with craned necks!
These facts also suggest that, essentially, David was meant to be seen from one viewpoint and not to be walked around as can be done today. This quality of a carefully chosen single vantage point is distinct from the 360 degree viewing possible in the work of other artists in other times. In fact, many many Florentine sculptures are designed to be set-up in a niche on a building, usually a church, therefore limiting very definitely our view. When we see such works standing in galleries today, frequently we are looking at them in a way never intended by either the artist, or by his or her patron. This is important especially for viewers coming from 'new world' countries where their older galleries are full of European work, both paintings and sculpture, which are consequently completely out of their original context, a context which moreover usually influenced quite a lot of the 'formal' content of the given work, especially for instance, the light.
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| David, by Gianlorezo Bernini,1623, marble, life-size Galleria Borghese, Rome |
Michelangelo was 29 years old when he completed his David in 1504 (begun 1501). Bernini (1598-1680) was 25 when he made his David, amongst other pieces, for the very rich cardinal Scipione Borghese. Bernini's David was always meant to be seen at, so to speak, point blank range, that is, at natural eye level. It is still in the house, a Roman Baroque palace, for which it was made. The differences between this and Michelangelo's version of the same subject are many but perhaps the most obvious is the position and pose of the two protagonists. Michelangelo's David is static but clearly ready for action; he is seen in steady repose, his weight resting on his right leg. While the angle through his shoulders is upwards from his right shoulder to his left, that of his hips is (naturally) the opposite, that is downwards from his right hip to his left; his left, non weight-bearing leg is coming gently forward from the plane of the torso.
Bernini's David on the other hand (some 119 years later, in a historical period known as the Counter Reformation, in the contemporary centre of the art world, Pontifical Rome), sweeps into or, is about to sweep into our space. He is not waiting to spring into action, sling at the ready but strung loosely, this David is actually caught in mid-flight as it were, at the precise moment when he is about to let fly the fatal stone; his sling is tense with potential force, so too are his arms in particular but also his twisted torso and his bent and straight legs. In other words, his whole body, including the contorted face, are involved in violent and powerful action. Here we are not invited to contemplate the heroic, forceful but passive David, rather almost to 'get out of the way' of this action already occurring!
Bernini's David is a sculpture 'in the round', that is, we can and should walk all around this great figure, to be able to see the kinetic energy in the process of being summoned and released through all the muscles of his body: his back, legs, hips, his torso and his arms. Whereas Michelangelo's David's hands are beautiful (one a reconstruction after being damaged), the right is clearly at rest while the left, also motionless, has a firm grasp of the sling (visible from the back) held across his shoulder, those of Bernini are essentially involved in the carrying-out of the action. Where the Florentine David is composed, resolute, untroubled but static, the Roman is dynamic, pushing into our space and thereby making it his space as well, and us not only spectators or observers, but quasi participants in this crucial event.
I might mention here the differences in the faces of these two wonderful works. The David of Florence has an alert expression with some displeasure we could say, shown by the wrinkled brow but, otherwise, a contained but ready and determined countenance. He appears to be contemplating his next step or the required reaction to some stimulus. What we can contemplate are his thoughts; naturally, we cannot do this literally but we are invited to do so, as apart from his splendid physique, there is no dynamic action to see. The Roman David by contrast, needs no interpretation, we are not invited to divine his intellectual procedure, quite the contrary: this David, howsoever intellectual may have been his reasoning to get to this juncture, has already gone past the point of no return, and we catch him, stumble into his action almost, at exactly the point where his cogitations have turned from abstract to concrete and dynamic reality! Here David's face shows us grim determination translated into physical actuality; one might say it is not diagnosis or prognosis but radical treatment!
In terms of things to know about these two works, there is much more that could be said about both and, in particular, about the artistic climates of the two cities at the times when the sculptures were made. For example, Renaissance Humanism and a return to classical artistic models was in full swing in the Florence of Michelangelo, even if he later went far beyond this initial stimulus. Bernini's Rome was fighting back against protestant movements across Europe and in fact, was only recently recovered from a devastating sack some 100 years or so before; the Papacy itself both as a spiritual and a temporal power was under threat. Classical models were still the norm but had been mastered well before Bernini came on the scene; indeed, the model to absorb and overcome was now Michelangelo himself, particularly in architecture!
I'm sure that even so far, there is probably too much information for the casual visitor to keep in his or her head when visiting the Uffizi or the Accademia in Florence, or the Villa Borghese in Rome; my point is that, knowing these kinds of things surely adds to the appreciation of works of art in general, and whatever may be the specific ones we are looking at in particular.
1 When I say 'should be doing there' I do not in any way mean that there is a right or wrong way to enjoy looking at art; I simply mean that a lot of people find themselves in a place such as the Uffizi and, being quite unused to doing such things as looking at pictures in art galleries, are consequently ill at ease and confused about how to do what they are doing. For many international tourists, a visit to a place like the Uffizi is in fact the very first time they have been inside a major art gallery!
2 Please see my article in this blog: Michelangelo and Bernini: David for a more detailed analysis of the two sculptures and, in particular, of Bernini's.
3 The Siege of Florence, 1529-30, one of many such 'wars' on the Italian peninsula, due to whether or not a particular city supported the power of the Pope as opposed to the power of the Holy Roman Emperor, Carlo V, with the French king enthusiastically involved here and there.
Let's now turn to a couple of paintings, to compare them and so to 'look' into them in some detail.
The first we shall consider is a small panel picture, one of many from the rear of a landmark painting, the Maestà, painted by Duccio di Buoninsegna (known to art history simply as Duccio) between 1308 and 1311 for the high altar of the cathedral of Siena. Our example is situated in the predella or base of the huge altarpiece which measured originally 468 H by 499 W cm (White 1)
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| The Marriage Feast at Cana by Duccio. Tempera on wood. approx 47x50cm Museo dell'Opera del Duomo, Siena |
About Duccio himself relatively little is known and for a long while he was relegated to the second rank of Sienese painters and even forgotten altogether. These days however, to enter the wonderful Museo dell'Opera in Siena is to enter an almost enchanted world within which Duccio's Maestà is only one of many fantastic objects. We do know that he was born in 1255 and died in 1319, and that the contract for this magnum opus was signed in 1308.
First, we can observe that it is a painting still influenced by some Byzantine conventions, so much so that the figure of Christ in the centre-left of the image could be substituted almost intact for a Christ Pantocrator from somewhere like Monreale in Sicily, for example 2. But, its iconographical lineage aside, what can we actually see?
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| Christ Pantocrator, mosaic, apse of the cathedral of Monreale Palermo, Sicily |
A room into which we are looking more or less from directly in front; this is important because the artist has virtually emphasised this in his perspective construction of the coffered ceiling of the room. The joists supporting this ceiling are drawn in 'correct' perspective provided we are standing in that position. This is interesting because artistic perspective was not fully understood until approximately the middle of the following century (Brunelleschi, Alberti, etc.) but here it is clear that Duccio, amongst others, had some idea of how a 'realistic' rendering of space should look. However, that said, other elements of the scene do not follow the indications of the ceiling, its coffers and its beams.
The dining table in a manner Cézannesque, is tilted at an impossible angle if we accept that the ceiling is indicative of the theoretical point of view of the observer; it is so tilted up however, at least partly, so that we can see what is on the table. In the story of the wedding at Cana, the fact that it was a wedding feast is important and so is the fact that people were drinking wine: note the several glasses of wine on the table, as well as the servants in the lower left corner, busied in preparing even more. Nevertheless, in spite of the table having been tilted upwards, it too does show some knowledge of perspective as, in the plane of the table-top, the side edges do in fact recede to a common vanishing point, although not the same one as in the ceiling! The same may be observed about the small table in the lower left corner: it too is tilted upwards, implying, as does the main table-top, that we are looking down onto it.
And yet, the servants working around and behind the little table - like the guests at the main table - are shown as though we were looking straight at them, not as though we were looking at them from above. In addition, the angle of the small table-top is different from that of the main table! But the most contradictory element - compared with the point of view we have of the ceiling - is the terracotta floor tiles, all of which are shown as though they were a vertical pattern on a vertical plane. This is a particularly odd feature as Duccio has gone to a lot of trouble to show, quite convincingly at this time, the pattern of the cloth on the dining table; here he seems to understand planar recession in space but ignores it as far as the floor is concerned.
Another aspect of Duccio's creation of space is the overlapping of the various elements in the scene in such a way as to suggest depth within the picture plane. The servants are in front of the dining table which is in front of the diners, and they are in front of the rear wall of the room. To further extend his space, the artist has opened an arched doorway in that wall, between Mary and her Son, through which can be seen further rooms. Interestingly, the 'gothic' arch of that opening links the heads of the two principal protagonists.
Leaving aside the perspective drawing, let's now consider some of the narrative content. One of the principal signifiers in religious art of this period, as of others, is the human hand. Hand gestures and positions were critical signs and symbols in the interpretation of images, and not only in western art. Three of the main actors in this scene are using hand gestures to indicate their intentions and to make them plain to us; the first is the figure who appears to be the majordomo, situated just below Mary and wearing a pale cap, who seems to be addressing himself to one of the only two personages at the feast table who do not have haloes - more than likely, the younger man to Christ's left. Given that we know the story, it is reasonable to assume that he is telling the host that they are out of wine.
The host has his hand seemingly directed back towards his chest as if to say: "What am I to do?". At this point, the story shifts to Mary, Christ's mother, seated at the left end of the table; she in turn could be interpreted as drawing Christ's attention to this fact, that the wedding party has run out of wine. He could be seen as either agreeing to work His first miracle - that of turning water into wine - or as protesting that His time had not yet come (to begin his ministry). Nevertheless, referring again to the scene in the lower left corner, it appears that a clear liquid (water) is being poured from a wooden casket into one of the large receptacles on the small table; however, the servant on the right, refilling his jug, finds that the water has changed to wine. It's as though the miracle were happening right before our eyes!
A final point which concerns the servants in the foreground, one holding a jar (note his back is on the exact vertical middle line of the composition), the other a glass: this latter is walking to stage right but his torso is turned back towards the servant holding the jar. This is a curious example of 'contrapposto' in an image where everyone else is shown in a more or less conventional pose; Duccio has, in this figure, introduced a playful piece of realistic narrative, albeit (acceptably) in a minor character. Incidentally, it should be noted that these figures, like the others and the tables, cast no shadows! The (smaller) minor characters in pictures, like the servants here, allowed artists some scope to realize mundane and realistic incidents which were otherwise strictly prohibited as far as the (larger) main, and particularly religious, figures were concerned.
We shall now leave Duccio for a minute and move ahead in time to 1447 in Florence.
The place we are visiting is called the Cenacolo of Sant'Apollonia, situated in a monastery in the heart of the city 3. It contains one of several Last Suppers still to be found in Florence and is, to my mind, one of the most impressive. It was painted by Andrea di Bartolo, known to art history as Andrea del Castagno; he was born around 1419 and died of plague in 1457.
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| A view of the entire wall containing the Last Supper with above, scenes from the Passion of Christ, and, on the left wall a Crucifixion, all by Andrea del Castagno. Fresco. |
The first thing which we might notice here, apart from the vastly different scale (all the figures are larger than life-size), is the resolution of the perspective problems which we had noted in Duccio's beautiful picture. By this time in Florence, 1447, perspective had in effect been mastered, or re-mastered, after having been lost since Roman times. Andrea's image is also situated in a room, with a dining table as the main locus of activity.
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| Detail of the Last Supper by Andrea del Castagno. Cenacolo di Sant'Apollonia, Florence. |
A close-up look at the first photo shows how far the 'realistic' rendering of a given space had come since Duccio's time. The ceiling, side walls and floor all work together to convince us that we are looking into a 'real' space. Standing in front of this enormous fresco, one can't help but be overwhelmed by its spatial integrity, its size and its power. We are captivated by the almost trompe l'oeil effect created by the masterful use of this new tool, perspective.
Very differently from in the Duccio, the dining table in Andrea's painting is seen only from one side, precisely as we would see it had we been standing in that fateful room, observing that sad occasion. The top of this table is not visible to us although the objects on it can be seen; glass bottles or carafes, glasses and pieces of bread are all there, but this time shown as they would appear, given our single vantage point. In this painting as well, there is a psychological element virtually wholly absent in the Duccio panel: the artist here has indicated and reinforced the shock and dismay of the diners by means of the extraordinary marble fascia stones lining the wall behind them.
The most forceful and dramatic of these marbles is that behind Christ, but it is also behind the chief of the Apostles, Peter, behind the favourite, John, and opposite the ill-fated Judas, the only figure on our side of the long white horizontal which is the table cloth. In other words, in a masterly display of composition, Andrea has focused our attention, with the aid of 'abstract' colour, on the critical moment, that of Christ's discovery of His imminent betrayal 4. It is almost as if there are ferocious demons hidden in that frenzied abstract marble, screaming their bile. The hapless Judas is the only Apostle dressed entirely in dark colours, he has a noticeably dark complexion and is clearly the 'odd man out'; notwithstanding these markers, he has still lifted his right hand, expressing his shock at this revelation.
As in perhaps the most famous Last Supper, that of Leonardo da Vinci, all the Apostles display their emotions in different ways, using their bodies and their hands, together with facial expressions, to give some indication of a mental state. This mode of expression, through hand gestures, was not merely a convention at this time, it was rather a recommended practice, in particular by Leon Battista Alberti, one of the greatest Renaissance art theoreticians and architects, who wrote several very influential books, especially about perspective in painting. In his treatise on painting, he strongly counsels the use of gestures to indicate the mental attitude or state ('the movements of the soul') of the protagonists in pictures 5.
For our purposes here however, it's enough to be aware of this enormous leap in the 'realistic' representation of space (sometimes referred to as 'fictive' space when we mean the illusion of a given space in a picture or work of sculpture). What is also important to realize is that, for a very long time, between the decline of the western Roman empire and the advent of the Renaissance, imitation of physical reality was not the aim of art, nor was it of primary importance, and especially not in religious art. Byzantine art, which held sway in the Mediterranean world during those intermediate centuries, used physical reality as a vehicle with which to communicate the dogma of the Church; the actual 'facts' of our ordinary, terrestrial existence were almost irrelevant as we were directed to concentrate our thoughts on the 'divine' world of the beings portrayed or, better, symbolized in images. Hence, it is possible for a Duccio and many like him, to tilt a table top so that we can see what's on it, and still not disturb the essential message of the given image, even though that table top 'contradicts' another element in the same picture.
1 John White, Tuscan Art and the Medieval Workshop - Duccio, p 80. Thames and Hudson, 1979
2 Note amongst other things, the position of the blue cloak in both the Monreale Pantocrator and the Duccio Christ, especially the abstract shape formed by its wrapping around the body of the Saviour.
3 'Cenacolo' means basically a common dining-room or refectory, especially one in a monastery or convent. The subject of the Last Supper of Christ was therefore thought a suitable one for such a place as it would encourage the diners to reflect on that significant event; especially so, when we recall that many monasteries housed silent orders of monks or nuns, and so speaking or chatting was not permitted. As mentioned, there are several such murals in Florence alone and, to my mind, as such, is a very worthy 'theme' for a tour of that city.
4 For some modern viewers, like myself, Andrea del Castagno's fantastic Last Supper would exist equally well without any of the diners at the table! The construction of that fictive room is so extraordinary, and, without its figures, so 'abstract', that, to my mind, it is complete in a 'Modernist' sense as is.
5 Leon Battista Alberti, 1404-1472, born in Genova to a Florentine father, who, like Dante, suffered exile from his native city; Alberti himself, unlike Dante, was eventually able to return. Two of his notable and highly important books are:
'Della pittura' (On Painting; in Italian, 1435-36, later 1439-41 [L. Bertolini] in Latin) and 'De re aedificatoria' (Concerning Building, 1450 or 1452?).
