Pietro Lorenzetti - a rebirth

 Today I am writing about a subject with which I have been fortunate enough to have an intimate connection: the restoration of the polyptych1 painted between 1320 and 1324 by Pietro Lorenzetti for the church of Santa Maria della Pieve (also known as the Pieve di Santa Maria Assunta) in Arezzo. The Lorenzetti brothers, Pietro (c.1280-85 to c.1348?) and the younger Ambrogio, were from Siena and because of his rightly famous frescos there, the Allegories of Good and Bad Government, Ambrogio is perhaps the better-known of the two. However, Pietro painted (1310-20) some of the frescos in the lower Basilica of San Francesco in Assisi, a most important group in that complex art-historical environment. As far as our polyptych is concerned, the contract for the commission of the altarpiece in Santa Maria in Arezzo was signed in April 1320.

Madonna and Child with Saints, 1320-24, by Pietro Lorenzetti, tempera and gold leaf on wooden panels, 315.5 x 293.6 cm. The church of Santa Maria della Pieve (Pieve di Santa Maria Assunta), Arezzo. Note that almost the entire original frame, with its lateral pillars and predella base, is missing. Image courtesy of R.I.C.E.R.C.A., Arezzo.

I had come to know this exquisitely refined and subtle painting by making sure I visited it every time I found myself in Arezzo. My principal reason for making the short journey from Florence to this wonderful Tuscan city was in fact to see the fresco masterpiece in the ancient basilica of San Francesco, the Legend of the True Cross (1452-55?) painted by Piero della Francesca. And speaking of Piero, in the hill-top cathedral is another of his frescos, the powerful (like all his women) Magdalen (1462-64?) which just happens to be on the wall beside the large and impressive funerary monument of the Bishop of Arezzo, Guido Tarlati (of 1330; also restored by R.I.C.E.R.C.A. in 2017 with funds again raised by them) - the very man who commissioned the Pieve altarpiece from Pietro Lorenzetti. I would usually then visit the small church of San Domenico to see Cimabue's large painted crucifix, another elegantly powerful work. After that, on to the Pieve di Santa Maria, which, like San Domenico, I would normally have to myself: there to 'commune' with the respectfully taciturn elegance of Pietro Lorenzetti's great altarpiece. On a visit three years ago however, in 2017, Pietro's master-work was gone! I subsequently discovered that it had been removed into the hands of the restorers at R.I.C.E.R.C.A. - Paola Baldetti, Marzia Benini and Isabella Droandi - three experts in their field, and dedicated, even without sufficient funds, to the restoration of this most special late-medieval masterpiece. R.I.C.E.R.C.A., right from the outset and together with two non-profit groups, Art Angels Arezzo and Friends of Florence (especially concerning donations from the USA), has managed to gather the funds necessary for this unique endeavour. The restoration of this beautiful polyptych, carried out by R.I.C.E.R.C.A. in Arezzo, has therefore been paid for thanks in great part to the generosity of both Italian and international donors.

                                   

A close-up of the small roundel in the second tier on the extreme right-hand side showing the difference between the 'before' condition, on the left, and the 'after' condition, on the right. Note that special attention has been paid to the restoration of the gold background thereby restoring its 'transcendental' function. Image courtesy of R.I.C.E.R.C.A., Arezzo.

This extremely demanding work has taken about four years to (almost) complete and involved the disassembling of the 700 year-old wooden structure, the scientific analysis of its integrity, as well as the exhaustive cleaning and repair of the paint film. Some work remains to be done, notably on an indicative frame - parts of the original (which would have brought the overall dimensions to 350 x 350 cm) having been lost over the intervening centuries - and its stabilisation, with a steel sub-structure, for the return to its 'home', the Pieve. Given the large number of medieval works on wood which are now to be found in museums all over the world, it is a not-insignificant fact that Pietro's altarpiece, painted expressly for Santa Maria della Pieve, has been there, except for one or two brief periods, ever since its original installation. Hopefully, and with a little further financial support, it will soon be back!

One of the restorers using a microscope and very fine tools during the restoration of the right-hand panel, with St John the Evangelist holding a red book, of the Lorenzetti Polyptych. Image courtesy of R.I.C.E.R.C.A., Arezzo.

The altarpiece, also commented on by Vasari2, is typical insofar as its layout and iconography are more or less those which may be found in similar works of the period. It shows the Madonna gazing at her new son, the Christ Child, who in turn gazes back at her while holding with his left hand a part of her veil. On either side of these central figures are representations of four important saints, amongst whom St John the Baptist and St John the Evangelist. Above these are portrayed eight other saints with, in the centre, an Annunciation; above them four more saints and, at the very top, the Virgin in Glory. Various earlier restorations, not to say wilful damage (attempted arson, graffiti, etc.) have contributed to sometimes traumatic changes in the paint surface, especially the once common use of soda (a harsh abrasive) and the application of deliberately darkening varnishes. It was discovered during the extremely demanding restoration that all the incised work in the golden haloes, etcetera, was done by hand, that is, not with the use of labour-saving wheeled tools. For me at least, one of the important and interesting things about this work is that it was signed, twice, by its author Pietro, and that nearly all the saints still have their names written under them. The first 'signature', situated under the Madonna, reads: PETRUS LAURENTII HANC PINXIT DEXTRA SENENSIS (Pietro Lorenzetti of Siena painted this with his right hand3); the second, on the sword of Santa Reparata (in the first cuspid on the left) reads: PETRUS ME FECIT (Pietro made me)4.

Initially, the unveiling of the restored polyptych was to occur this year on the 700th anniversary of the date of the commission contract, April 17, 1320; unfortunately, COVID-19 caused this to be postponed but, all things being equal, it should now take place on November 8 (a recent resurgence of COVID in Italy however may cause this too to be postponed!). 

Here is the link to the GoFundMe page set-up by the non-profit organisation Art Angels Arezzo which is raising funds for the completion of the restoration: https://gf.me/u/y4t4sc  In this regard, it is interesting that the altarpiece was originally paid for, some 700 years ago, with donations from the public, and here, once again, it needs our support for its 'rebirth'. Even small amounts help and I think this is one very good way to say 'thank you' to Italy for the innumerable works of art it has given to all of us.

1 A 'polyptych' (πολλοι + πτυχη = many folds) is a multi-panelled painting, very typical of religious art in the late-medieval period, but also later; polyptychs were very often quite large and therefore costly and so were most frequently to be found in churches, normally standing on an altar (hence the alternative generic but not exclusive name 'altarpiece'). Sometimes, as in the present case, there were multiple images on one side only, but, in other cases, such as Duccio's  Maestà (in Siena) for instance, they could have images on both the front and the back. Unfortunately, over their centuries' long life, many have been cut down in size, and often somewhat mutilated by 'restorers' (the Arezzo example earlier suffering both fates), and many have been dismembered, with different elements ending up in different parts of the world (Piero della Francesca's Sant'Agostino Altarpiece is an example, with panels in Milan, London, Lisbon, New York and Washington DC). As the Greek words - from which derives the modern word - imply, many polyptychs were constructed so that they could be closed and then opened on special occasions (with pictures on the outside of the doors as well; see the Ghent Altarpiece by Hubert and Jan van Eyck). The Lorenzetti example here has images on one side only and no 'doors'.

2 Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori, published by Edizioni dell'Orso, 2017, Volume 1, edited by Enrico Mattioda and based on the 1568 so-called Giuntina edition of the Lives. Page 283, in the Vita di Pietro Laurati (the Life of Pietro Laurati), Pietro Lorenzetti is mistakenly called by Vasari 'Laurati' and not linked to his brother Ambrogio, about whom he separately writes, correctly identifying him as 'Ambruogio Lorenzetti, pittor Sanese' (page312).

3 The last phrase of Pietro's 'signature', "with his right hand", has caused some perplexity as it is a very unusual statement, whereas his second 'signature', the one on the sword, is much more typical (interesting in itself however, as it is the artwork which is 'speaking': "Pietro made me"! The artist's reference to his right hand could possibly have something to do with the general disapproval of anything to do with the left hand, regarded superstitiously as not acceptable to God.

4 This information and other details were supplied to me by one of the team at R.I.C.E.R.C.A. and are taken from the Technical Summary entitled: Pietro Lorenzetti (1280 circa - 1348) Arezzo, Pieve di Santa Maria. There is some doubt concerning the dates of birth and death of Pietro but it is thought he may have perished with his brother during the plague.

Pontormo's Visitation - with a German accent?

Following an electronic discussion with a friend in Italy - who lives incidentally at Empoli, through which passes the river Orme, whence the name of the Mannerist painter Pontormo - and the subsequent watching of some videos about the Visitation by Pontormo, and especially in one of those, the excellent lecture given by Bruce Edelstein at the Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marimò in New York, I decided to write down a few thoughts concerning that picture.

The Visitation, oil on panel, 1528-30 by Pontormo (born Jacopo Carucci, 1494-1556)

San Michele Arcangelo, Carmignano

Image: Public Domain at Wikipedia and courtesy of the Parish of San Michele Arcangelo, Carmignano.

My friend had sent me a photo of a detail from Pontormo's painting, which is to be found in the small town of Carmignano, a detail of two small figures in the distant background; our discussion originated there, concerning what exactly the figures were doing. There followed from my friend a couple of links to other discussions about this same work, including its recent (2014) restoration. On watching these videos, one of which was the aforementioned lecture given in 2018 by Bruce Edelstein, I was prompted to do some research of my own.

The direct stimulus for the research was the reference to the influence of the prints of Albrecht Dürer on Florentine artists generally and on Pontormo in particular, at the beginning of the 16th century. These prints found their way into many areas of Europe and especially into Italy and Florence, in large part due to the entrepreneurial skills of Dürer himself. This reference in relation to Pontormo was not new as art historians have for many years - in fact, going back as far as the 1568 edition of Vasari's Lives - remarked on the clear influence of those prints; not only Bruce Edelstein but, amongst others, Carlo Falciani for example and Attilio Brilli1, have made the connection between the Visitation and one Dürer print in particular, the Four Witches of 1497. 

The Four Witches, engraving, 1497 by Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528)

Felton Bequest, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne

Image: courtesy of the National Gallery of Victoria

As we can see from the image above, there are four nude women standing together in a circle, two more or less with their backs to us, and two facing outwards, although only one is entirely visible, the other being substantially hidden by two of her companions. First we might note that none is clothed (hence nude!), a not unimportant detail when comparing this image with the Visitation; secondly, that none is apparently pregnant, a salient point regarding the raison d'être behind the subject of the Pontormo picture2. What seem to have interested historians about this image are the generous proportions of the woman in the centre with her back fully to us, this element being often cited as the source for the so-called rhomboid-shapes3 of the women in Pontormo's painting. In my opinion, ignoring the Biblical fact that the two women were pregnant at the time of the visit (hence the 'rhomboid' shapes), the presence of that partially-hidden woman who is - almost - looking out at the viewer, and the compositional idea of four women together, would have been enough to have stimulated Pontormo. What I would like to draw attention to is another quite different print by Dürer but one with exactly the same subject as Pontormo's picture, that is, the visit of the Virgin Mary to Saint Elizabeth, both at that time pregnant.

     

                                                                                              

The Visitation, woodcut, 1503-04 by Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528)

Felton Bequest, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne

Image: courtesy of the National Gallery of Victoria

In this print there is a number of happy coincidences with Pontormo's Visitation. Beginning at the left side we see a large building with an arched gateway or door and, running along the base of the outside wall, a kind of seat or bench. In Pontormo's picture, albeit somewhat in the background (on the left) is a similar building with a similar bench on which are sitting the two small figures mentioned above. The building incidentally, is drawn in sharply receding perspective - as is that on the left of the Dürer. The next feature which I think points to this print as a possible 'influence' on Pontormo is the two figures of Mary and Saint Elizabeth in the centre of the image; here we see the two women greeting one another, this time with Mary on the right. Both are somewhat largish in the belly region, they are looking directly at each other, and interestingly, touching each other on the shoulder (an obvious gesture in the painting), or, at least, Mary definitely has her left hand on Elizabeth's right shoulder and appears to have her other hand on the older woman's left shoulder. Elizabeth's hands seem to be obscured by Mary's arms but she is apparently clasping her under her raised arms. The four Witches on the other hand are not making visible contact with one another!

In Dürer's Visitation the position of the two principal actors is reversed and there are no attendant ladies in that central group, as in Pontormo's picture but, in my opinion, the similarities here are much closer than those said to pertain in the Four Witches print. In Dürer's Visitation, Elizabeth is seen from the back, a quasi-three-quarter view, a similar view to that of Mary in Pontormo's painting. As far as the two Elizabeths are concerned, there is an interesting coincidence in the very obvious sharp angle formed in the painting by her backward left leg and the way it pulls her yellow garment: in the print, an analogous angle is created by Elizabeth's folded-back outer garment.

There are numerous differences between the two works as well, the most obvious being the number of principal actors (two in the print, four in the painting); the 'Mannerist' composition of the painting (that is, that the figures occupy nearly all the image surface); the stark difference in scale between the figures and the background in the painting, whereas the composition and relative scale of figures and background are 'normal' (pre-Mannerist) in the print; the print version has the meeting set in the countryside, while Pontormo's encounter would seem to be in an urban environment; and so on - not to mention the obvious, that the Dürer is monochrome while the Pontormo is coloured! 

In general terms then, how can we describe the undoubted influence of the German master's printed oeuvre on a Florentine Mannerist painter such as Jacopo Pontormo? Although Dürer was also a painter and an art theorist, he is known now, and was then, principally for his graphic output, in his case enough on its own to qualify him as one of the great artists of the time. Many of his prints were in fact produced with the aim of their forming part of a book (usually a printed book, occasionally a manuscript book), whether, as initially, published by others or, later, published by himself. As indicated, Dürer was entrepreneurial in his outlook and deliberately worked at the diffusion of his printed works, and in this he was particularly successful in Florence at the end of the 1400s and the beginning of the 1500s.

On an earlier occasion, when Pontormo was at the Certosa (a Carthusian monastery) at Galluzzo, just outside Florence, to which he had retired due to an outbreak of the plague in that city, when he came to decorate the cloister there with a fresco cycle based on the Passion of Christ, he resorted to using some of the German master's images as more or less direct sources for his own compositions. The frescos at the Certosa, although restored, have clearly suffered a great deal in the intervening centuries; this is most especially evident in the colours and this is significant because they are paintings (which generally implies colour) and not monochrome, such as many prints happen to be4. A deteriorated painting, that is, one where the visual integrity of the colour has been severely compromised (as is the case at Galluzzo), has rather the look coincidentally of a lightly-tinted print as opposed to a lately-completed painting. 

The images of the Passion painted by Pontormo at the Certosa are crowded with figures (as are Dürer's scenes of the same subject), many of which are soldiers dressed in the contemporary German manner (as is also the case in Dürer's prints)5. While Pontormo's composition (the basic 'V' shape as a structural scaffolding) and even some of its content, such as the German-style of the soldiers, can be traced to Dürer's series of prints dealing with the same subject, in his (Pontormo's) painting of Christ before Pilate, the management of the clothing for instance, would seem to be much more 'Tuscan' than the somewhat Gothic quality in the prints. In that same scene - whose setting is quite different from, for instance a Dürer print of 1509 from the Little Passion series, showing Christ before Herod - there is in the top of the background, the figure of a youth apparently descending a central staircase, and carrying the basin of water in which Pilate will later wash his hands of the responsibility for Christ's death. The inclusion of this figure and the staircase (not to mention the colour) is an example of Pontormo's independence of his source material, and I mention it only to point out that he was not entirely reliant on prints from across the Alps.

The aspect of the handling of garments is an important one I think as, again, it demonstrates that while Pontormo was happy to borrow certain elements of the German master's work, he was in other respects too advanced - in a Tuscan 'disegno' way - to adopt it uncritically. This is true as well, and particularly, in his Visitation, where the painting of the clothing of the principal characters is wholly his own, or, perhaps better, Florentine; moreover, as others have noted, it reflects his treatment of the clothes in the sublime fresco of the Annunciation and in the panel of the Deposition in the Capponi Chapel of Santa Felicita. On the other hand, Dürer's treatment of cloth in his prints is always medieval or Gothic, with its characteristic small twists in the ends and folds of drapery; this quality, which might otherwise be ascribed to wood carving and to other reminiscences of medieval illustration, obviously did not attract the draughtsman in Pontormo.

Actually, there are many differences between the work of Pontormo and Dürer. Although the latter was also a painter, and both were consummate drawers, there is a world - the antique world - separating them. Pontormo's work is post-Renaissance, having already mastered all the developments of the previous century, and having already moved in a new, revolutionary direction. His drawing by this stage, like his colour, is derived from Michelangelo and his composition is the antithesis of Renaissance equilibrium. He, like Michelangelo, particularly in the Capponi Chapel and in the Visitation, has almost completely done away with 'setting', the figures are massive, the colours sublime. 

Dürer's printed work to a large extent, although revealing his mastery of some Italian developments, such as perspective, still contains elements which are quasi-Medieval, for instance as mentioned, in the way he handles drapery and clothes. But one feature which explicitly differentiates the two masters is Dürer's inclusion of beautiful anecdotal details, of which there are many in his prints. His Visitation is a case in point: the meeting is set in a landscape complete with rocks, mountains, trees of various kinds, clouds in the sky, a distant town or castle, not to mention a pet dog! Elizabeth  even has the house-hold keys and a purse (?) hanging from her side. The figures are shown in the conventional physical relation to their surroundings, to the space they occupy; Dürer's religious figures and environments are therefore identifiable by the 'man in the street'. 

Much of Pontormo's work is staged on another plane, a plane which requires no stage! His scenes, those without a clear setting anyway, happen on the wall or panel in such a way that they 'occur' in the viewer's mind. His Visitation is, to all intents and purposes, totally devoid of ordinary mundane anecdote, except for the two men seated on the bench in the distant left; so curious is this detail that one is inclined to think there must be a pertinent significance to their presence, as yet not decoded. Of course, their inclusion could simply be anecdotal in fact, like the ass's head protruding around the corner of that left-hand building: a kind of comic philosophical comment on the incomprehension of so much that happens in the world. Not all Dürer's prints were of religious subjects and his less didactic but more mysterious engravings and woodcuts are full of wonderful invention (for example, Melencolia 1, Nemesis, The Four Witches,  the portraits). In a sense, as far as their religious works are concerned, Dürer explains while Pontormo dreams.

1 Pontormo e Rosso Fiorentino: Divergenti Vie della "Maniera", catalogue published by Mandragora on the occasion of the homonymous exhibition held at Palazzo Strozzi in Florence in 2014: Carlo Falciani, Giovanni Maria Fara and Antonio Geremicca all contributed articles  in which the influence of Dürer's prints was discussed.

Attilio Brilli in Itinerari del Manierismo in Toscana (Silvana Editoriale, 1994) also discusses this influence. Numerous other authors stress the influence of prints made by northern artists, that is, from artists who lived beyond the Alps (Germany, Flanders, etc.); Alessandro Cecchi, Antonio Natali and Carlo Sisi for example, in the excellent catalogue (published by Marsilio) to the exhibition L'Officina della Maniera, held in Florence at the Uffizi in 1996-97.

2 According to Saint Luke's Gospel (1, 36-44) both the Virgin Mary and her cousin Elizabeth were miraculously pregnant at the same time; Mary went to visit her older cousin who was eventually to give birth to a son, later known as John the Baptist.

3 Most art historical analysis of Pontormo's Visitation notes the so-called 'rhomboid' shapes of the two principal actors, Mary and Elizabeth, and duly traces that shape back to the Four Witches print; we might notice that, in the first place, the Witches in Dürer's print are not pregnant and neither are they particularly 'rhomboid' in form. In the second place, as mentioned, the event of the Visitation occurred when both protagonists were pregnant, possibly giving rise, one would have thought, to a characteristic shape: surely Pontormo hardly needed to seek inspiration for that! As suggested here, what seems more likely to have attracted his creative attention was the fact of four women standing together  and the partial appearance of the one (almost) looking out at us. An example incidentally, of how artists may 'borrow' something from another's work but then proceed to adjust it for their own purposes. One might also point out in this context the pre-existing 'rhomboid-shape' of the large female figure in pink, directed away from the viewer and towards Mary, in Pontormo's Deposition panel in Sta Felicita, which was painted between 1525-28 - that is, before the Visitation.

4 One very interesting and beautiful example however of monochrome painting is the fresco cycle depicting the Life of Saint John the Baptist, painted by Andrea del Sarto between 1508 and 1526, in the Chiostro dello Scalzo in Florence. It will be remembered that Andrea del Sarto was one of Pontormo's masters but also incidentally, as Vasari tells us, that when working in the Scalzo, Andrea took inspiration from the prints of Dürer.

5 This is interesting in both cases, that is, in the case of Pontormo and Dürer, since the normal representation of the Passion of Christ is with (ancient) Roman soldiers as the attendant guards. Dürer may have wanted to 'update' so to speak his image, to make the scenes more accessible by clothing his characters in contemporary garb; this was done by Italian artists too. In fact, both artists have used contemporary buildings as part of the setting although Pontormo has clothed his figures in what passes for 1st century AD dress. However, Pontormo's adoption of the Landsknechte-type of soldier, in Florence, is puzzling. He may simply have liked the look of these fearsome German soldiers from an artistic or visual novelty point of view, and so kept them in his pictures as he adapted Dürer's images. However, one wonders if perhaps there may not have been a political aspect to his use of uniquely Germanic soldiers, soldiers who, in his pictures, will eventually put the Saviour to death. Although it was to occur roughly two years later, in 1527, the tragedy of the Sack of Rome was carried out by precisely this type of soldier, the Landsknechte, together with Spanish and some Italian mercenary troops. The mutinous Germanic part of the forces which attacked Rome and, more specifically the papacy, were representatives of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, a German prince. The problems between the papacy and the Emperor are complex, the two parties being sometimes on the same side, sometimes on the opposite. In this context, although before the Sack itself, it was not unusual for local enemies to be portrayed as the villains in religious works; in the present case, this is mere speculation however!

Two Pictures in the NGV

 Today I have decided to write about two pictures which are to be found in the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV), which is in Melbourne, the capital of the state of Australia where I live. The first is a large painting which I have loved since I was a child, when I first saw it.

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It is called The Banquet of Cleopatra and was painted in Venice by Giambattista Tiepolo in 1744, at which time it was purchased directly from his studio and sent to Dresden. In 1764, it was bought by Catherine the Great of Russia, in which country it remained, in various palaces and museums, until its ultimate sale in 1932 and subsequent purchase (in London) in 1933 by the NGV. Apparently, in the late 1920s the USSR was in need of foreign currency and had put a number of its pictures and other treasures up for sale. The painting is a large oil on canvas (250 x 370cm) and this is interesting because Tiepolo painted several versions of this subject, at least one of which is in fresco (Palazzo Labia in Venice); several other versions, both large and small, are known and are kept in various European collections, as well as in Russia.

The Banquet of Cleopatra, 1744, oil on canvas by Giambattista Tiepolo (1696-1770) in the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.

Image:Public Domain Wikipedia

The Banquet of Cleopatra (NGV) is a typically large Venetian bravura piece, that is, a suitably serious subject from history, mythology or the Bible, usually crowded with all sorts of figures, including dwarfs and African servants, all wearing beautiful clothes, and set, where appropriate, in grand pseudo-classical loggias or palaces. Our painting is set in a loggia of a type reflecting classical Roman influence, even though the legendary event of the wager between Marc Antony and Cleopatra may have occurred in Egypt!1 In niches set into the pale wall which substantially separates the loggia area from the arched wall in the background, are two very Romano-Greek looking 'Egyptian' statues, both however very half-hearted attempts at setting an Egyptian scene. Further disinterest in historical 'fact' is demonstrated by those same beautiful clothes which are at the height of contemporary Venetian fashion, amongst the aristocracy at least, despite the historical period of the event, that is, the latter part of the 1st century BC. The only concession to historical accuracy, apart from elements of the architecture derived from Greco-Roman models (not Egyptian), is the very elaborate helmet worn by Marc Antony, the figure wearing the red cloak, with his back to us.

Naturally, the patrons of such images were the aristocracy and the rich of Venice - which was very rich at that time - which traded with the Levant in all sorts of commodities, from spices and cloth to coffee! This wealth is here on display as it was even in religious images of the period: the servants, the dogs of various breeds, the fine stuffs such as the damask table cloth (possibly, as the name suggests, from Damascus), the beautiful scenographic settings, the elegantly-dressed courtiers in the background. But the most expensive thing in the whole image is the legendary priceless pearl which, holding between her fingers, Cleopatra is about to drop into a glass of vinegar - which she drinks - thereby winning her bet with Marc Antony about who could host the most expensive banquet. 

Without going into detailed analysis of the numerous formal elements of this master-work, I would like to concentrate on one particular curiosity, namely, the ubiquitousness of decorative heads: be they human, animal or fantastical! In this case, I am not referring to the brilliant heads of the human actors - nor those of the numerous pet dogs - but instead, to the small heads and figures adorning many objects within the image, from Marc Antony's helmet, to the handles of pitchers.

This photo, a detail of The Banquet by Tiepolo (NGV) shows the silver bowl of fruit which is sitting in the middle of the banqueting table, in the centre of the composition; to note are the winged mermaid-like figures and the vaguely Egyptian face directing its gaze out of the painting. (Photo: the author)

This photo shows the two pitchers situated on the floor in front of the table: note here the scene containing two figures engraved on or set into the larger pitcher; on the side of the smaller pitcher is a laughing satyr's head, a sort of human face with a beard and goat's horns, possible a symbol of lust. (Photo: the author)

A close-up detail of the smaller pitcher (Photo:the author)

This detail is of a decorative element on Cleopatra's chair and can be seen to the left of her right wrist; it appears to be a kind of Egyptian-like head, perhaps attached to a snake's body. (Photo: the author)

Of similar heads and figures there are many placed throughout the painting, including on a suspended pitcher on the extreme right and the harpy figure of the small fountain in the extreme lower left corner; but perhaps the most elaborate example is in fact that helmet worn by Marc Antony. This helmet, a parade helmet rather than one to be worn in battle, has a winged dragon supporting its beautiful magenta-plumed crest, as well as what appears to be a lion above the ear and, below that, an old man's bearded face with its moustache hanging over Marc Antony's cheek. Indeed, the helmet is one of the most striking features in the whole painting, a painting containing many beautiful and elaborate details. 

The reason these small decorative heads attracted my attention was their similarity to those used ubiquitously by Michelangelo in his sculpture and architecture. They appear for instance on the armour worn by one of his figures of the dukes in the New Sacristy (Sagrestia Nuova) of San Lorenzo in Florence: on both the back and the front of the cuirass worn by the figure of Giuliano de' Medici; similar motifs are the lion skin headdress worn by the figure of Lorenzo de' Medici, as well as a kind of bat-like head on the arm of his chair. Likewise, the figure of Night on the tomb of Giuliano is adorned, apart from the realistic owl, with a very odd mask. Bat-like and anthropomorphic heads reappear time and time again, both in the New Sacristy - for example on the candlesticks on the altar and on the friezes along the walls -  and in the Laurentian Library; there still exist some of his original sketches for these strange faces (and figures), all of an astounding variety.2

This small detail of Michelangelo's enormous output was taken-up by both his contemporaries and by many artists who came later as, in the present example, we see in Tiepolo. While Michelangelo may not have actually invented these grotesque 'masks' as the Italians call them, he certainly developed and 'popularised' them among artists.

Before moving on to discuss another picture in the NGV, I would like to comment on one more thing in Tiepolo's great painting and that is a particular element of its structure, and this because it is similarly used in that next picture. From the point of view of its colour, Tiepolo has 'constructed' The Banquet of Cleopatra on this basis: in general, the brightest and purist colours are closest to the viewer, the less strong are in the middle-ground and the weakest or most dilute are in the backgound. The visual effect is that we experience the figures 'in front' as closest to us (they are also the largest), the less brightly-coloured as somewhere in the middle distance, and the least strong as further back (for instance, on the background parapet); a simple comparison of the central table and its diners with the arched wall in the background should make the difference in colour brightness and purity clear. Tiepolo was by no means the first to utilise colour in this formal, constructive way but he does use it! As mentioned earlier, this is not an exhaustive analysis of this painting but I hope it will stimulate a closer look next time.3

II

 The second painting is by the very important French artist, Nicolas Poussin, who painted it in Rome for an Italian art collector in Turin. The Crossing of the Red Sea is in oil on canvas and measures 156 x 215 cm; it dates from 1632-34. Poussin was deeply affected by the strong contemporary interest in classical art and so went to Rome to study, a common pilgrimage for artists from all over Europe at the time; he died there in 1665. As we can see, both the subject and its handling are very different from Tiepolo's somewhat later, and in theme more aristocratic, picture.

The Crossing of the Red Sea, 1632-34, oil on canvas by Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665), in the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.

Image: Public Domain Wikipedia

To begin with, the three principal actors in the immediate foreground are possibly derived from some ancient Roman sculptural example; although Roman statuary was not generally coloured, the basically nude figures are clothed in loin cloths which happen to be in the three primary colours, namely red, yellow and blue. This is no accidental or casual decision: the three primaries are so called because they cannot be made any stronger or brighter (by the admixture of other colours) than they already are. This means from a formal point of view, that they stand out more strongly than any other colour, whether it be a pure colour - straight from the tube so to speak4 - or a mixture. In fact, mixing any colour with any other colour will reduce the individual power or strength of all of the colours in the new mixture.

Painters use both 'straight from the tube' colours and mixtures of them to produce different effects; as we saw with the Tiepolo painting, painters can 'construct' space or depth with the relative strength of their colours. In Tiepolo's picture and in this one by Poussin, depth in space has been created, that is the illusion of depth, through the manipulation of the colours, some stronger, others less so. Of course, there are other means with which to create space, such as receding perspective lines (as in the floor of Tiepolo's painting) and making things and people smaller as they are fictively 'further away' from the viewer. In Poussin's painting, the major figures are both larger and more strongly coloured than are the other figures; this can be seen for example, in the red worn by the foreground figure, a 'pure' red in his case but, as it is used on the clothes of other figures further back, it becomes gradually weaker and weaker, eventually being a kind of 'grey' version of its original pure, unadulterated condition. The fictive light source, very important in this painting, also adds to the sense of depth as well as to the drama: the main 'natural' light is falling more or less only on the lower left quarter or so of the image, thereby drawing our attention particularly to those parts, and especially so to the three main foreground figures.

Detail of The Crossing of the Red Sea by Poussin showing the principal foreground figures in their red, blue and yellow clothing. Note the beautiful 'academic' drawing, the strong shadows, the general 'curved arch' shape created by the movement of these men as they gather up the shields of the now-submerged Egyptians. (Photo: the author)

Poussin's painting is to my eyes now somewhat rhetorical; many of the figures have a 'wooden' quality and the whole thing has a sort of overblown feeling, albeit that it represents a quite dramatic event. From a personal point of view, the lower foreground 'strip' containing the three major figures, with its beautiful drawing and colour, is the only part of this painting that appeals to me in any way; I have no objection to pictures about Old or New Testament stories, about religious matters generally, but, given Poussin's acknowledged love of Classical art, the lower strip of this picture could just as easily - and more successfully - be a painting of or from an ancient Roman relief sculpture.

A detail of the man in blue demonstrating Poussin's drawing and colouring skills. In this kind of 'academic' painting, the figures would be first modelled in a monochrome reddish brown onto which the lights and darks would be added; in essence, the 'in shadow' areas of this figure have hardly been touched, whereas the lighter areas have been modulated to indicate the shapes of the muscles and the fall of light - here clearly from the left. (Photo: the author) 

When the NGV is open and you feel like spending a little time with just a couple of works (actually the best way to visit a museum), I hope these comments may add something to your experience.

1 Egypt by this time had been a Hellenistic culture for about two hundred and seventy years, a culture set in train by the conquests of Alexander the Great; the lover of both Julius Caesar and Marc Antony, Cleopatra VII belonged to the Ptolemaic Dynasty (305-30 BC) and was the last of several historical queens with this name. Also, by this time Egypt had declined enormously from the days of the powerful Pharaohs and, from 30 BC, was no more than a client state of the Romans. It is therefore reasonable to expect that there would have been some Greco-Roman buildings in different parts of Egypt, especially one supposes near the coast. In one of the sources of the Cleopatra story, Plutarch's Life of Antony, it seems that the first meeting between the two occurred in Cilicia (today, southern Turkey), but that they then retired to Alexandria in Egypt; it is unclear exactly where the famous banquet actually took place. In any case, the architecture in Tiepolo's painting is an amalgam of Renaissance elaboration of classical models, some archeological knowledge and fantasy. 

Two further comments concerning the setting: Tiepolo was enamoured of the very large and wonderful paintings of his 16th century Venetian predecessor, Paolo Veronese (1528-1588), many of whose pictures also relied on fantastic classically-inspired architectural settings. An even earlier predecessor was the famous and influential architect, Palladio, whose neo-classical villas and palaces could be seen all over the Veneto and whose compositions may have had some influence on the architectural themes of Tiepolo. Incidentally, it is known that Tiepolo was often assisted by a colleague who specialised in the painting of architectural settings, Girolamo Mengozzi Colonna, although it is not established as far as I know that Mengozzi Colonna had a hand in our Banquet.

2 Such bat-like faces and other dragon-like inventions of Michelangelo's can be seen in Florence in the Laurentian Library (Biblioteca Laurenziana), again at San Lorenzo, both in the floor designs and on the ends of the study benches. They can be seen in Rome on the Porta Pia, on the Tomb of Julius II in San Pietro in Vincoli, on capitals at the Campidoglio and on the Palazzo Farnese, the so-called 'fregio con maschere' or, frieze with masks. It would seem that Michelangelo amused himself with this endless invention, no doubt occasionally taking some inspiration from the faces of the real people around him! Similar bizarre and fantastic creations however, which had a wide diffusion in the Middle Ages as well, go back at least to ancient Rome where contemporary fresco examples can be seen in the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme. Mannerists too made use of such devices, for instance in Bronzino's Portrait of a Young Man with a Book (c. 1530), in the Met, NY. 

3 One other curiosity in Tiepolo's Banquet is the positioning of the tall figure wearing a blue cape and hat, situated in the foreground to the left: a casual glance at this figure would lead us to assume that it was he who was carrying the large platter of food with his left arm. On closer inspection however, it becomes clearer that behind him is a smaller figure, the back of whose head is only just visible, who in fact is carrying the charger - although he appears to have no feet! The tall man in blue does have a left arm which, again on closer inspection, we can see he has brought around behind his back. And finally, what seems to be a small head growing out of his right shoulder in fact belongs to another attendant actually placed behind Cleopatra. Why is this interesting? Because, normally, figures are placed in paintings so that they are clearly seen, sometimes partly obscured by buildings, trees or other figures but, nevertheless, their 'action' or role is clear. In this instance, although the figure in blue is apparently clear enough, in fact his position and that of the figures he obscures is to say the least, ambiguous.

4 Tube colours did not come into use until the mid-nineteenth century; prior to that, artists bought the coloured powders or pigments from their artists' colour-man and mixed them with a binder (oil or egg or other) at their studios. Oil colours could be kept for some time, before they started to dry and become hard, in small pig's bladder pouches or bags as is sometimes seen in self-portraits. The advent of commercially-prepared colours in metal tubes revolutionised the ability of artists to keep their paints workable, almost indefinitely, and to go out into the landscape, that is, to work away from the studio. This invention was acknowledged as such by some of the Impressionists. Neither Tiepolo nor Poussin, nor Veronese or Michelangelo had tube colours!

Timeline: Michelangelo, Florentine sculptor, painter, architect and poet: 1475-1564 

                Palladio, (from Padua) Venetian Republic architect: 1508-1580

                Veronese, (from Verona) Venetian painter: 1528-1588

                Poussin, French painter: 1594-1665

                Tiepolo, Venetian painter: 1696-1770

Regarding Two Pictures by Giorgio Vasari

  In this article, I would like to discuss a couple of paintings by Giorgio Vasari. Vasari is known principally as the author of The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects (1568 re-edition)1 as well as being the architect of the Uffizi Galleries. He was also however a painter and I believe, judging from a remark he makes in 'The Lives'2, that he thought of himself first and foremost as such. His general thesis was that Italian art and specifically Tuscan, once detached from the awkward and silly influence of Byzantine painting (his opinions!), got on its way to its maximum evolutionary expression in the person of Michelangelo. Without dwelling on that, a quite separate topic, Michelangelo was for Vasari not only the high point of Italian art, but also a friend, a mentor, an exemplar; given that, it is perhaps reasonable to then find many references to the work of Michelangelo in the painted works of Vasari himself.

The Meeting of Christ and Veronica on the Way to Calvary, 1572, oil on panel by Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574), in Santa Croce, Florence. The people in front of the painting are press photographers present at the inauguration in 2018 of the restored panel: it is interesting how they seem almost to have spilled out of the picture! (Photo: the author)

The first work is a large oil on wooden panel completed in 1572, known as The Meeting of Christ and Veronica on the Way to Calvary (herein shortened to Veronica or Christ and Veronica). This picture was painted by Vasari as a memorial to Michelangelo who had died in 1564 and is situated in Michelangelo's family chapel in the huge church of Santa Croce in Florence. This chapel itself is located to the left of the tomb of Michelangelo, also designed by Vasari; both tomb and painting were recently restored and the cleaned painting was rehung and shown to the press in late 2018.

Vasari's wonderful picture may be categorized as Mannerist in style and characterised as typically Vasari as well as typically Mannerist. As said, it is a large image, several metres high, crowded with a swirling, spiralling horde of people. The movement of this horde begins in the top left of the painting, proceeding down that side to eventually form a frieze of the main actors along the bottom of the panel; it then continues up the right side and into the distant hill of Calvary, thereby forming a rough 'U' shape as the basic structure. Rational space is suggested by increase and diminution in the size of the figures: they are smaller as they 'enter' from the left and as they 'leave' on the right; they are largest and more or less consistent along the bottom of the scene.

Two points may be made here; first, that the 'U' structure is completely at odds with the preceding triangular or pyramidal one common in the Renaissance and secondly, that the space in the painting is confounded in a typically Mannerist fashion. That is to say, the space is a somewhat unreal one, not completely coherent; it must be said however, that in this picture the space is more 'normal' than in many other Mannerist images. The fact that Vasari has made distant figures rationally smaller than close ones is a concession to 'reality' not often found in the works of earlier masters of this period, such as Pontormo or Rosso Fiorentino3. But the crowded scene, basically composed of figures in various expressive attitudes - sometimes exaggeratedly so - is a typical Mannerist device.

One thing which struck me as unusual and perhaps not typically Mannerist was the beautiful landscape in the top right corner of this picture; I had previously never thought of Vasari as a landscape painter but it is abundantly clear from this painting that he was in fact quite sensitive to landscape; it is possible of course that he was influenced here by his contact with Venetian painting (according to Vasari himself, he was in Venice about 1542). I was also struck by the power of this image in which, as can be seen from my photo (which unfortunately missed the figures in the bottom left corner), the main figures are larger than life. But it is not only the size which is impressive, something which often borders on being overblown in Vasari; perhaps more than one might like, his paintings can be highly rhetorical and, as such, in spite of their frequently massive dimensions, curiously fail to impress. In this instance however, it is the force of the artist's expression and the overall impact which are also impressive.

Let's now consider some of the details. Despite my earlier remark about the structure of this image, about its not having a Renaissance structure, there is ironically a triangle - an inverted one - right in the centre foreground, formed by the shoulder of the soldier on the right and travelling down towards Christ's head and shoulder where it then takes an upward direction along the heads of Veronica (holding the veil), the woman behind her clasping her hands, and continuing to the shoulder of the Saint John (?) figure in pale pink; this last segment leads incidentally, to two supposed portraits: the bearded man in the pink cap, holding the notice to be put on the Cross - Rosso Fiorentino - and his companion with the flattened nose -  Michelangelo. 

This inverted triangle (or, 'V' shape) is reinforced by the Michelangelesque figure (another portrait of Michelangelo, or of Vasari himself?) holding the Cross, the wooden arm of which strengthens the triangular shape in that part of the painting, while at the same time, together with the Pietà-inspired human arm4, drawing our attention to the focal point of the image, the meeting of the two principal characters, Veronica and Christ. This triangle or, perhaps better, since we are discussing a Mannerist work, this wedge, interrupting as it does the general movement of the crowd, cuts down and into that same crowd, sharpening the drama and heightening the expressiveness of this terrible event. The downward push from the left side of the painting and the upward drag on the right, have their inverted apex here, at the face of Christ. An inescapable 'intrusion' however, between the heads of the two main protagonists, is the hand of that man holding the Cross; could this be a kind of statement by Vasari - the champion of the rightful place of artists, people who in fact work with their hands - to remind us that the image exists thanks to the work of an artist?

To a certain extent, Vasari's large panel painting in Santa Croce may be compared to a wonderful, similarly large panel by Rosso Fiorentino in the Florentine church of San Lorenzo, his Sposalizio della Vergine (Marriage of the Virgin) of 1523: it too is crowded with figures but there forming a St James' cross ('X') as the structural framework. The main actors are more conventionally placed in the centre of the image but the sensation of multi-levelled, crowded action is reminiscent of Vasari's Christ and Saint Veronica 5.

Concezione di Nostra Donna (The Conception of Our Lady), 350 x 231cm, 1540, by Giorgio Vasari, in the church of the SS Apostoli in Florence (Photo: the author)

The Conception of Our Lady is also a large painting, situated above an altar in the small church of the SS Apostoli (Holy Apostles) in Florence. Its form however is different from the Veronica picture in Santa Croce in that it is a rectangle topped with a semi-circle. Our Lady (apparently pregnant) appears in that semi-circle supported by angels, some bearing Latin quotations; under her right foot there is the Moon as seen by St John in his visions while on Patmos, as well as the serpent whose head she is pressing down on.

The serpent in turn has wound its way up a tree, a reference to the Tree of Life (described by Vasari in The Lives thus: "... figurato l'albero del peccato originale ..." ["I represented the tree of original sin"]), the same tree which the reclining nude figures at the bottom of the painting, Adam and Eve, were told not to eat from. The other figures, apart from John the Baptist - tied to the tree on the left, just below the serpent - are identified by Vasari himself as important kings and prophets from the Old Testament. These personages, together with the centrally-placed tree, and the fact that the figures are bound to the tree, hint at this picture's heavily symbolic content; Vasari in fact, admitting that the symbolism was difficult, tells how he consulted his erudite literary friends about how to manage it 6.

I am concerned with the way in which Vasari has structured this image, particularly in relation to the one discussed first. The Veronica picture was dependent as we saw on a 'U' shaped structure which gave the image a sense of movement, from the left, down across the lower part of the picture, and up along the right side. This painting on the other hand, has a central axis - the tree - from which the Biblical figures more or less radiate towards both the right and the left, and which, with the disturbed and yet hopeful figures of Adam and Eve almost as its base, carries the movement up to the summit: the Virgin Mary who will relieve Man of his sins - by giving birth to the Christ - and in so doing, fulfil the prophesies of the Old and New Testaments. In this radiating movement, the figures at the same time form a rough circle around the tree, anticipating thereby the circle formed also by Our Lady and her angels. The broadly symmetrical scaffolding upon which the picture depends also marks it as different from the Veronica in Santa Croce - a much later painting however (1572)7.

And where in the Veronica picture we saw Vasari paying homage to principally Michelangelo but also to Rosso Fiorentino, again in this painting he indirectly recognises the Mannerist master, as well as again Michelangelo, in his adaptation for the figures of Adam and Eve of similar figures drawn and painted by Rosso (Adam, somewhat changed but adapted from the Christ in Rosso's Volterra Deposition)8. Apart from these references per se, this painting is interesting for the way in which the, we could almost say 'normal' borrowing from Michelangelo contrasts so markedly with the borrowings from Rosso: this is particularly obvious in the supposed Moses figure, the bearded man to the right of the tree, extending his orange-sleeved arm, an obviously Michelangelesque derivation, and the almost languid figure of Adam just below. While Moses may have a kind of melodramatic quality about him, Adam on the other hand, has an odd romantic wistfulness which contrasts strongly with the robustness of Moses for instance. 

The really curious thing is that, whereas many (but not all) of Michelangelo's figures are nude, when adapted by Vasari he tends to clothe them, as here in the Conception of Our Lady; Rosso (and Pontormo) also made many nude figures but, for some reason - perhaps indicating their primitive state - Vasari has kept these ones nude. The 'clothing' of Michelangelo, if I may put it like that, by Vasari, while still revealing his indebtedness to his 'hero', is a puzzle. In this painting, the clothes of certain of the actors of course, help to identify whom they are meant to represent and, likewise, the nakedness of Adam and Eve in this context clearly identifies them. Nonetheless, 'clothed' Michelangelo-derived figures is an interesting phenomenon, allowing of course for the numerous clothed figures on the Sistine ceiling. The changes introduced in the Counter Reformation period had significant influence on the way artists represented human and divine figures, although Vasari's picture was painted before the Council of Trent (1545-63) which brought about those changes. The mood however, had begun to alter quite a bit before then.

For those not completely familiar with the differences between a Renaissance picture and a Mannerist one, I will include to finish a Renaissance painting, one which may be found in the beautiful church of Santo Spirito in Florence. It is not regarded as a major picture but it does typify the sought-after clarity of expression, and clarity of space, due of course to the use of perspective drawing; this last element was one more or less disregarded if not actually despised by the later Mannerists. And, although not immediately apparent, there is an implied triangle in this painting: an implied line begins in the lower left corner and, meeting the angel's right knee, passes to his left elbow and is then picked-up by the (perspective) lines of the floor decoration and moves into the deep distance; on the right, beginning in that lower corner, it passes through the Virgin's left knee, passes her right elbow and proceeds into the distance to meet the left line at the apex of the (implied) triangle: this point would seem to be the apparition of the Holy Spirit situated in the sky below the distant arch.

The Annunciation, late 15th century (?), Anonymous artist, in Santo Spirito in Florence. (Photo: the author)

This picture, whose author I have not been able to discover, is a lovely example of the order and clarity which are typical of Renaissance painting; although the figures to a certain extent hark back to earlier types, the rational and 'real' distribution of the various spaces, receding as they do to a kind of infinite ideal landscape, represent very well the formal aim of the use of perspective to create the illusion of actual, 3D space. This aim, this 'intellectual' space, quite at odds with what existed previously, was almost totally rejected by Michelangelo (in his paintings) and the Mannerists. Remarkable also is the (very) small number of actors here! Probably painted in tempera on wood, this panel is not very large but has a tranquil beauty very different from the tumultuous compositions of Vasari, Michelangelo and other Mannerists. 

1 Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori by Giorgio Vasari, 1568, the so-called Giuntina version (published earlier in 1550 in the so-called Torrentiniana version). In The Lives, Vasari asks his readers to consider his biographies/history as the opinions of a painter and not to criticise them because they weren't written in the manner of a professional writer; at the end of a section called L'autore agl'artefici del disegno (The author to artists) he says: " ... io ho scritto come pittore ... e per essere inteso da voi artefici, ...", etc. With these words, Vasari makes plain that he is writing from the point of view of an artist (specifically, a painter) and further, that he wants his writings to be understood by (you) artists. 

Incidentally, the Uffizi were originally designed as administrative offices - hence the contemporary name 'Uffizi' - but later became a palace and eventually the famous galleries they are today. Begun in 1560 and completed after Vasari's death, the first floor (second floor in Italy) became a gallery in 1581 and remained private until opened to the public in 1789. Interestingly, as we all know, the Uffizi are also in the shape of a 'U', just like the structure of the first painting under discussion.

2 'The Lives' or Le Vite in Italian, is the common abbreviated title used when referring to Vasari's written magnum opus.

3 Il Pontormo and Rosso Fiorentino (both born in 1494) were two of the first protagonists of the style which became known as Mannerism - this partly due to the frequent use of the term by Vasari in The Lives. This style seems to have originated in Florence with artists such as Pontormo taking their cue from the mature, especially painted, works of Michelangelo, whose Sistine Chapel frescos had a profound influence on younger painters. The dissolution of space, indeed its almost total irrelevance in terms of natural depth, may be seen there particularly in Michelangelo's Last Judgement fresco. Pontormo's most beautiful so-called Deposition in Florence is an example of Michelangelo's influence, both in its colour and in the way the image is filled-up almost entirely with figures; his Visitation at Carmignano does incidentally contain some distant figures within an ante litteram De Chirico-like space. Similarly, in Rosso Fiorentino's startling and saddening Depostion at Volterra there are tiny background figures, again in a profoundly deep recession (basically, a backdrop for the frieze of main characters in the foreground).

4 Michelangelo made several Pietàs probably the most famous of which is the earliest, the one in St Peter's basilica in Rome; two others (called del Duomo and, at one time di Palestrina respectively) are in Florence; the last one, called the Rondanini, is in Milan. All four have one of the arms hanging limply, a motif common to others of his sculptures, such as the unfinished St Matthew in Florence, as well as to several figures, although not limp, in the Sistine frescos: for example, the so-called 'angel' lifting the blessed souls with a rosary in the Last Judgement. Another possibly more direct inspiration for the head and arm of the man carrying the Cross in the Veronica could be the figure of Christ ("... con Gesù Cristo in aria ..." Vasari) in the Conversion of St Paul (1542-?), in the Cappella Paolina, at The Vatican. In any case, it has been rightly observed that the Veronica by Vasari is full of references to or borrowings from Michelangelo, his friend and mentor.

5 Although some Italian pictures may seem to visitors from English-speaking countries to be unnaturally busy and crowded, it would appear that in fact, all that those artists were doing was representing the way Italians then, as now, behave. My observation is that in almost all formal situations involving Italians, a kind of liberality of movement, uncommon in English-speaking nations, is absolutely the norm! Rosso Fiorentino was much admired by the younger Vasari and hence the inclusion of his portrait in the Veronica panel.

6 In The Lives, towards the end, Vasari discusses his own life and the circumstances of various of his own works: Descrizione dell'opere di Giorgio Vasari, Pittore et Architetto Aretino. To note here how Vasari again describes himself as a painter (pittore) and as coming from Arezzo (Aretino), that is, not Florence! As indicated above, Vasari republished an enlarged and 'corrected' version of The Lives in 1568: this being the case, he was able to give details about The Conception of Our Lady (1540) but, since The Meeting of Christ and Veronica on the Way to Calvary was painted or completed in 1572, that is, post the publication of The Lives in 1568, there is no comment about or mention of this work.

7 Michelangelo's Last Judgement, painted on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, was finished and unveiled in October 1541. This would suggest that Vasari had not seen it when he painted the Conception of Our Lady in 1540; the Meeting of Christ and Veronica in Santa Croce was completed in 1572, some thirty years after the Last Judgement (and only two years before Vasari himself died). This is significant because the Last Judgement was a major Mannerist work, by Vasari's own 'hero' and it may therefore be assumed that he, Vasari, took many lessons from that most important example.

8 In the catalogue of the 2014 exhibition Pontormo e Rosso Fiorentino, Divergenti Vie della "Maniera", ( Mandragora) at Palazzo Strozzi in Florence, Massimiliano Rossi in his essay goes into a lot of detail concerning Vasari and Rosso (pp 329-339).

What is Art?

Note: The author makes no claim to having answered the question posed in the title of this article; what follows is meant for discussion and is not intended to be definitive. Also, in this essay the words 'art works', 'art objects', etc., are understood as forms of artistic expression such as paint on canvas, board or wall, drawing, etching and other modes of art printing, in short, 2D forms; they also encompass sculpture in its various traditional manifestations, as well as architecture - although, not all are referred to specifically.

L'Incredulità di San Tommaso (Doubting Thomas), detail, 1483, approx. life-size bronze
by Andrea del Verrocchio (c.1435-1488), Orsanmichele. (photo: the author)

What is Art? This question was raised as a sarcastic and rhetorical 'road-block' about a comment I'd made on another site dealing with art. In fact, this question is an annoying one for me as, in most cases, people seem to know what is meant when they hear the word 'art'; defining it however becomes a complex philosophical problem, tied up with culture, history, taste and so on. And, in reality, the person asking another to define art is, I believe, not really interested to know the - or any - answer: they ask the question to put an end to an argument about taste, among other things, principally because their interlocutor has disturbed their own concept. So, in this essay, I attempt at least, to put some form around a possible answer or, some possible considerations. I don't think it is necessary to be able to answer that age-old question to be able to love, appreciate and be critical about art. It should be born in mind that for many people, including contemporary 'artists', their knowledge of art begins with perhaps, Impressionism; perhaps not even as far back as that. I believe that much art teaching, given over as it is in many cases to a kind of propaganda about the present, is where the root cause for the paucity of any kind of profound knowledge, not to mention comprehension, of the art of the past lies. This is important I think, because contemporary art has not come out of nowhere and an ability to make informed observations about it depends on a knowledge of what came before. If that is not the case, then let's not talk about 'art' at all and simply express our (uninformed) opinions! (see discussion 1 below) 

So, here goes; a quiet attempt at a definition to begin and then some elucidation. 

Art is: The successful translation of an artist's intellectual perception and/or emotional reactions into a new physical object, usually manufactured by the artist him- or herself, which then takes on an independent existence of its own; its condition invites contemplation. Art names those objects now in the world which previously existed, or originally came into being, only in the artist's mind. Such objects function in a physical form as communication of the artist's perceptions, and to a greater or lesser degree - as they are more or less successful - continue to 'insist' on their own existence, very often in spite of the eclipsing of any original material function they may also, or even primarily, have had (e.g. as religious objects).

The inclusion of the word 'artist' is not casual and so, to some extent, this definition depends on how 'artist' itself is defined. As we know, many objects which have little or no claim to be 'art' - e.g. an unremarkable, mass-produced chair - are made by individuals not called artists. It is interesting to note that, sometimes however, such objects are so 'beautiful' that people call them 'works of art' (the Concorde or a Lamborghini for instance). The question of how to define 'artist' will be dealt with later. (see discussion 2 below)

Art, like most things and activities, is subject to a gradation or variation from good to bad, and to a susceptibility to manipulation and distortion. A critical quality of art is that it is visual but this apparently benign and mundane quality makes it however, prone to being misunderstood, mis-read, abused and belittled. This often occurs amongst the visually illiterate - the visually un-schooled or uncultured. High-level visual art, to be properly comprehended, requires intellectual schooling. Proper comprehension has little or nothing to do with whether or not someone likes a given object but rather, refers to an at least general awareness of the historical/social/artistic context in which the particular object was produced.

This situation implies that there are different 'levels' or 'qualities' of art and arguments often arise due to differing opinions as to why one object is 'good' and another 'bad', or 'successful' or less so; this invariably leads to a (rhetorical) demand for a definition of art, with the accompanying smug self-assurance that one cannot be given; the game is concluded at this point with the assertion that Person A's opinion is just that, a mere opinion, and no better than Person B's. The obvious but frequently omitted rejoinder is that, while we may be discussing opinions, that of Person A (possibly) happens to be a cultured, intelligent one, while that of Person B may be based on little or no fundamental knowledge of how to read works of art (a skill incidentally for which a definition of art is not necessary).

Art is an immensely complex and varied phenomenon, one which has manifested through all history (in fact, even in pre-history!), and in all parts of the world. The question might be put: how is it possible therefore, to describe these myriad forms with the one word, Art? And yet, many, many of us can agree on assigning the denominator 'Art' to examples of work, to objects, as diverse as a central-Australian 'dot' painting, an Egyptian tomb fresco, a Hindu carving, a sculpted saint on the portal of a Gothic cathedral, a Renaissance altar-piece, a 19th century Japanese wood-block print, etc., etc., right up to a composition of the early twentieth century of straight lines and primary colours forming geometric shapes!

Is the artist's reverie, his or her absorption in the activity, i.e. the clear emotional and technical involvement of the artist - which is conveyed through the object to the viewer - a marker of something's 'art' status and quality? Perhaps! But the fact of this absorption itself does not necessarily imply that all objects so produced are therefore successful as art: the many flawed attempts of art students all over the world, every year, are witness to that. This would seem to imply that art is in part the successful transmutation of idea or concept into a physical object, and not merely an adherence to an 'art' manner or process.

But, a characteristic observation (even if left unstated) made about great art objects of the past for example, is that the artist was truly and fully involved with a given piece (see, for instance, the biography of Benvenuto Cellini). Of course, the same observation can be made about objects which might more readily have been classified as 'craft', especially prior to the mid-twentieth century. Very often, such objects (many of which incidentally have no pretensions to be considered as 'art') are on the border-line, so to speak, between craft as such, and art; this because, the obvious high level of emotional involvement of the craftsman or woman exists here also, but is inextricably enmeshed with his or her skill, understood as pure ability and independent of any, so to say, poetic expression. It should be noted that, for a very long time, artists were in fact considered as craftsmen, i.e. not as 'artists' as we think of them today (see below); this has meant of course, that the 'craft' aspect of any work of 'art' is one of the main criteria for its criticism.

An example of such an object could be an expertly hand-crafted dining table; such a table may be of extremely refined sensibility, extremely well-made, and serve its purpose admirably. In fact, such a table is initially appreciated for the same reasons we enjoy a lot of 'art' objects, and that is, for the sense of beauty it induces in us, through our eyes. The initial attraction usually leads to a desire for the tactile experience possible with such an object, and we will then run our fingers or hands along the surface of the table to also enjoy that experience or element of the object. People interested in the mechanics of the construction will then look under the board of the table to try to understand how it was made, how it was constructed!

But here already we have two elements not usually associated with what used to be called 'pure art': the desire for the tactile experience - a real, physical one - and the desire to know and understand how the thing was made. These two elements are usually not associated with 'art' objects as such; to take the example of a Vermeer painting in which might be represented an Eastern carpet of some kind: what we appreciate about Vermeer's carpet is how well he has rendered the colours, the light, the weight and the texture. I imagine that only a tiny number of people - if any - would feel the impulse to run their fingers over the painted carpet so as to experience the texture and weight as a tactile sensation. Almost everyone would be sufficiently satisfied and even stimulated by the information arriving at their eyes, and subsequently processed by their brain.

Here we have entered into another area characteristic of art objects and that is, illusion. The real, craftsman-made table actually exists in the same 3D space that we do, it actually occupies a space in the room we, as a result, cannot occupy - aside from sitting at the table, or standing around it. In a representational painting for instance, although the painting now exists in our real space as a, usually, 2D object, normally hung on a wall or being part of the wall, like a fresco, the carpet represented in that painting does not occupy our space - in fact, the 'carpet' doesn't exist: it's an illusion of a carpet! Our eyes are so accustomed to this kind of illusion that, although we happily describe a painted object in a painting as, for instance, a carpet, we also know full-well and simultaneously, that we are discussing an illusion, and not the physical fact of a 'real' carpet.

To want to understand how a painted illusion of a carpet was done is a natural part of our curiosity to comprehend things, particularly when an illusion is so convincing that our logical mind finds it difficult to 'compute' both the illusion itself and the knowledge that it is an illusion. In the case of the table, it is possible as mentioned, to get under the table and examine the structure and to understand the rational relationships in the engineering, as it were. In the case of the illusion of an Eastern carpet, naturally a skilled painter or teacher could explain how the artist might build up his image in such a way that the overall finished ensemble of colours, tones, light and shade produces the effect of a heavy carpet; but it remains however, an illusion. And without getting tangled up in Cartesian philosophy, the table is not an illusion, but an actual, tactile object occupying our real space.

Is it possible then, that illusion of 'reality' is one of the characteristics of art objects, even if that illusion may vary from extremely 'realistic' to little more than symbolic? Well, only in so far as those objects are figurative representations, in the case of paintings; if they are abstract, is illusion still operative? And of course, Michelangelo's David is not an illusion in the same way at all as Caravaggio's painted David is. Michelangelo's David is an actual, 3D object which we can walk all the way around; so it's not an illusion in the sense that Vermeer's painted carpet is. Nevertheless, it is an illusion in other senses: that it is neither the historical David, nor is it a real human being! It is a 3D representation of an idea, as opposed to Vermeer's or Caravaggio's 2D representation. Neither the painted nor the sculpted illusion is 'reality' in the day-to-day sense, although both exist as acceptable, man-made illusions which make up part of our everyday existence! Works of pure abstraction do not easily fall into the category of 'illusion'; very often, they in a way deny illusion (of physical reality) and assert their existence as 'independent' new realities. Yet, in a particular way, pure abstraction functions in the same way as 'in-the-round' sculpture does, that is, as a 'concrete' manifestation of the artist's idea; in that sense, it remains an illusion, given that is is not the idea itself.

And I think that here we may be approaching the beginning of a response to our question, what is Art? Most rational people would agree I think, that objects generally accepted as art in the Western tradition may be found at any point from the period of ancient Egypt (just to start somewhere) right through to today. Most people would agree that Nicola Pisano's reliefs are art, that Rembrandt's portraits are art, that Impressionist paintings are art - and so on, and so on. Nevertheless, what has been acceptable as art has been a subject for discussion and argument for centuries; change in opinions about what was and what wasn't acceptable, over those same centuries, led to the destruction or, at least, covering up of many fine works of art (e.g. Giotto's frescos in Santa Croce in Florence) subsequently rehabilitated as opinions swung back the other way. What all these things had in common, quite separately from style, form and content, was that they dealt in some kind of (visual) illusion.

Quite a lot of 'contemporary art' does not treat illusion, much less another quality - much maligned from the early-twentieth century onwards - beauty. I have previously mentioned beauty only once in this essay because it is much more variable, much more open to questions of taste and culture, than is the measurable, observable fact of illusion. I happen to believe that beauty is an important aspect of what we call art but, as history and time have revealed, beauty, while not so much ephemeral, is extremely problematical and, as such, may be treated as a separate issue, perhaps as a quality of art while not being a defining one. 

Another characteristic of certain kinds of contemporary endeavour is, often, its ephemeral quality: while being of its day, timely so to speak, as the world moves on to the latest political or social drama, the 'art' of the previous matters tends to 'date', almost immediately. This is relevant because another quality of Art, understood in a more general, historical sense, is in fact, its longevity. Highly successful art has about it a timelessness which seems to transcend even culture: many people from diverse cultures, once informed (schooled) about the aesthetics and the broad historical context of any given type or period of art, are able to participate to a large extent in the experience of that art.

It is also worth pointing out I think, that although artists certainly made objects which served given functions, be they religious, propagandistic or documentary, they also made objects which were decorative and often as well, objects whose only purpose was to please the eye. Objects which seemingly do nothing but please the eye could, by some, be described as useless, since they serve no apparent utilitarian purpose; frequently today, art is seen as a luxury and certainly not as a necessity (Aristotle is supposed to have remarked: "Culture is an ornament in good times, a refuge in bad"). The apparently useless art object, perhaps in part due to that very 'uselessness', provokes careful looking, in turn contemplation, to be followed by sometimes, a stimulated mind and an enlivened spirit. An object sitting on the table or hanging on the wall is a still object (unless it's a Calder mobile!) and that stillness is a quality which goes back at least as far as the ancient Egyptians. Art of this type has the quality of 'statement', not of any point of view per se, but of its own existence. Needless to say, I do not share the view that art is useless; for those who love art, it is one of the most useful, and least transient, aspects of a sound life.

In relation to this, in describing the dining table earlier, I used the phrase 'refined sensibility'; although some people are apparently born with a high sensitivity to aesthetic matters, many others are not and therefore, may benefit from education. Awareness and perception need to be taught, how to 'read' works of art requires schooling, not to mention how to interpret them from a historical/social point of view. And, in art matters as in all others, some people 'get' it more easily and profoundly than others do; given this, it is obvious that the observations of such individuals will be more pertinent and perceptive than those of more modest capabilities; to some extent, hence the problems with finding a definition.

La Madonna del Parto (1455-56?), fresco by Piero della Francesca (c.1412-1492)
Monterchi. (photo: the author)

1) Why is this a problem? Much of today's verbose discourse on art has been taken over by supporters of various special-interest groups, turning what was once 'Art' into a mere medium for ephemeral social issues; this results in a kind of intellectual vacuum, or, a kind of closed circuit where political/social comment has replaced the making of 'timeless' objects. One quality of art is that, although the product of its time - the time of its production - it nevertheless overcomes that temporal limitation, at least as far as the 'art' part is concerned (if not the content). Today, transient, trite points of view, often involving little if any manufacture as such on the part of the 'artist', have insinuated themselves into the intellectual space formerly occupied in culture by art (without the intellectual part, that being supplanted by an incomprehensible 'art-speak', a type of self-propagating parasite). Criticism of certain elements of the status quo, bland socio-political comment, an often neurotic desire for celebrity, and a ceaseless need for novelty now substitute for intellectual enquiry, contemplation and simple sensuous enjoyment.

2) An attempt to define 'artist'.
Originally, a maker of objects, or a decorator, an artisan, very often anonymous; an individual however, whose 'occupation' was the fabrication of art objects as distinct from simply utilitarian ones. In 15th century Italy, theorists began to assert the autonomous individuality of the artist (as we would call him or her) over and beyond that of the simple craftsman. Artists continued to be craftsmen of course, but their high ability in their chosen craft together with their informed creative or imaginative faculty, set them apart from the type of craftsman who merely - no matter how well and beautifully - executed the ideas (drawings) of someone else. An example of this difference is that between a stone-mason and a sculptor (even if, in earlier times, they might have been one and the same): it is obvious that a highly-skilled stone-mason may nevertheless lack imagination or creativity, and be quite content to earn his living manufacturing objects according to the designs of others.

Although it had occurred from time-to-time following the demise of the classical period, that artists extended or developed a given iconography, most artist-craftsmen tended to repeat styles and forms deriving from someone else's successful model. In other words, by and large in Europe, from the end of late antiquity through to about 1250 or so, artisan-craftsmen were expected to repeat what was already established, and not to go too far away from those examples (it must be admitted that this point is moot since more recent sympathetic studies have shown a notable variety amongst many medieval artists).

Again in Italy, by the time of the Pisanos, Cavallini and Giotto amongst others, i.e. the late-Medieval or Gothic period, artisan-craftsmen were beginning to see things differently, to want more in the way of form and space, and to diverge from the norm of repetition (an artist-led change). All this however, needs to be seen in relation to the much earlier classical Roman period of painting and sculpture which was derived largely from Greek models. We do in fact have the names of some of the most famous and sought-after individuals, whose work was not only widely-known in their own lifetimes, but was written about, eulogised and, especially by the Romans, copied. It is due in no small part to these same Roman copies that we have physical examples (the copies) of some of the great Greek sculptors' works, and, to a lesser degree, those of some of the painters. Quite a number were extremely famous and revered artists but, with the decline of the Roman empire and the rise of Eastern Christian art forms, Roman classical models were gradually modified, evolving into what is now referred to as Byzantine art.*

With the spread of Byzantine art and power, artists' names eventually - not entirely however - became less important, to the point where the makers and creators of Western art became largely anonymous. In many respects, we have amongst others the Italian art historian and writer (and artist and architect), Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574), to thank for the revival of the fortunes of the artist as an independent, creative individual - and for our modern concept of the artist as such. Not only much of what we know about many of the great artists of the time is owed to him, but also Vasari's awe-struck devotion to some of his peers, and most notably to Michelangelo, as well as to earlier artists, was a form of recognition of and respect for artists which we still observe in the 21st century!

But early writers on art (in Italy at least) certainly had some very clear ideas about not only what an artist was, and what he or she did, but also of levels or grades of ability and success. Not all things were art, and not all art was of the same standard (Vasari, while usually generous in his comments, was quite capable of discerning the better from the less able, not sometimes without his own prejudices however). The modern-day lack of clarity, of deliberate wordy obfuscation, would have been entirely foreign to a man such as Vasari, who knew not only what to look for in 'art', but how to evaluate what he was seeing (notwithstanding that people then and now may disagree with him). Of course, in his day - not to mention in earlier times - and in fact up until relatively recently (the last 200-odd years or so), art fulfilled comparatively definite roles in European societies, principal among which were those of illustrating religious dogma and representing both temporal and religious power.

An artist's self-expression, so highly prized in the late 19th and the 20th centuries, was achieved, as it were, by default: some artists expressed their own personalities almost incidentally while painting or sculpting the fashionable styles of their times. It seems that, with the advent of the Renaissance proper however, artists had achieved and were allowed to express much greater individuality than in earlier periods (partly due to a shift in focus from God the Maker to man the maker). Close study of the art from almost anywhere will however reveal, usually, the different personalities at work; an artistic personality can be manifested even in the most humdrum or clearly stylised production. The point here is that, until the general period Vasari chose to write about, the individuality of an artist was not a primary concern, and neither was his or her particular expression (bearing in mind nevertheless, that certain artists were chosen for certain commissions while others were not).

So, what is an artist? It is a person capable of expressing visually, through some kind of object, his or her perceptions, in such a way that other members of the society are induced to see in like manner, very often concerning indefinite but generally-agreed consistent realities of the state of being human or of human perception. Sounds like what Art is really!

* See André Grabar, Les origines de l'esthétique médiévale, 1992.  Éditions Macula, Paris.

I would very much appreciate comments about this essay, helpful ones of course, as I don't pretend to have the final word. It would be very nice however, to build up a rough definition together!