Some comments on a supposed Pontormo: Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap

 

The following article, admittedly unlikely to be of general interest, attempts to analyse two pictures which I have not seen 'in the flesh'; even so, I have seen many works by both of the principal painters referred to, and especially those of Pontormo. This is important because the present article attempts to compare a supposed Pontormo portrait with his critically attested works. Further, for copyright reasons, I have been unable to reproduce many of the images referred to and so I'm afraid the reader, should he or she so wish, will have to search them out online.

This article was prompted by my recent reading of the excellent catalogue for the exhibition entitled Miraculous Encounters: Pontormo from Drawing to Painting, held in various places in the US in 2018-19 (an exhibition which unfortunately I didn't see). The catalogue is beautifully illustrated with some exceptional close-ups of Pontormo's paintings, including 'before' and 'after' photographs of the main picture in the exhibition, the Carmignano Visitation, that is, before and after its restoration; such photographs demonstrate very clearly the difference between what time and life had done with an artist's intentions (the finished art work) and, after cleaning, what those intentions had originally been - at least, so far as we can tell.

My curiosity was piqued in any case by a close-up of a painting called Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap (c. 1530), possibly a lost portrait of one Carlo Neroni1 according to the catalogue discussion. At this point I would reiterate that, although I have seen in person many of Pontormo's pictures, and especially those in the great exhibition held at the Palazzo Strozzi in Florence in 2014: Pontormo e Rosso Fiorentino, Divergenti Vie della "Maniera" (not to mention his frescos at Galluzzo and his sublime Cappella Capponi paintings), I have not seen the Young Man in a Red Cap (c.1530), nor have I seen the one with which it is compared, the so-called Portrait of a Halberdier (c.1529-30). That said however, as previously stated in these articles, I look at pictures with the eye of a painter and, from that point of view, the Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap, as reproduced in the catalogue, is problematical as a supposed work of Pontormo.

Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap, attributed to Pontormo, c1530, oil on wood

Private Collection, UK 

(Image: Public Domain Wikimedia Commons)

The Halberdier (L'Alabardiere), by Pontormo, c1530, oil on canvas transferred from wood. 

The J. Paul Getty Museum, L.A.

(Image: Public Domain Wikimedia Commons)

What alerted me to this was in fact the brilliant close-up photographs of both the Young Man in a Red Cap and the Halberdier. In another image (Fig. 9.1 in the catalogue) the once-lost painting (Young Man in a Red Cap) is shown in an engraving of circa 1759 in which the portrait is given to "Alessandro Allori, ...", (1535-1607), student of his adoptive 'uncle' who is known to art history more generally as Bronzino (born Agnolo di Cosimo di Mariano Torri, 1503-72) - a student and then intimate friend of Pontormo. Subsequently, according to this catalogue, the now rediscovered painting (in 2008) was ascribed by various historians (but not all) to Pontormo. With the aid of the aforementioned close-ups, it is possible to easily compare the heads and other features of both the (painted) Young Man in a Red Cap and the Halberdier. 

From a painter's viewpoint, there is an immediate and obvious problem in that the painting technique, the way the paint has been applied, is quite different in both pictures. The Portrait of a Halberdier is painted, as is usual in Pontormo, with relatively vigorous and free brush-strokes, the paint (here) comparatively thickly applied, and most importantly, the brush-strokes model, so to speak, in the manner of a sculptor, the plastic forms of the facial structure (and that of the hands), the brush being dragged along and around the features. Other examples of the same characteristic handling of paint (by Pontormo) can be seen in  close-ups on various pages of the catalogue: for example, profile and full-face views of the women in the Visitation. The painter of the Young Man in a Red Cap on the other hand, has used a technique more appropriate to both traditional tempera and fresco painting; the artist has used a pointed brush to model with innumerable fine lines the chiaroscuro of the face and hands, much in the way that many contemporary artists made drawings: denser and more numerous in the shadow areas, sparser and less numerous in the lighter ones, giving way to open space where the light is strongest. Here, the brush is nowhere dragged along the forms but rather, applies those fine lines, almost independently of the specific forms, aiming instead to render volume wherever it may occur. It should also be noticed that in the face of the Halberdier, there is a variety of colours - pinks, creams, browns, etc. - whereas, the face of the Young Man in a Red Cap is nearly monochrome, using a very narrow range of browns progressively mixed with white (occasionally pinkish, as in the lower lip). To return nevertheless to the handling of the paint, again in the Halberdier it is relatively thick, being dragged along the forms of the cream jerkin he is wearing, following the billowing and receding of the folds and crevices of the material as they convey the physique and stance of the young man holding his halberd. Pontormo's rendering of the incidental folds, their shadows and highlights, suggests that he had observed these things in that particular case, that he had copied what he saw on his model; this point is important as, prior to and during the Renaissance, artists very commonly had their personal drawn repertoire of garment studies which they tended to reuse time and again (in altarpieces for example). In portraits this was normally not the case as each sitter (and his or her clothes) was unique; this suggests that the rendering of the Halberdier's clothing is particular to this portrait.

The handling of the elegant black vest and the metallic-grey sleeves in the Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap is clearly different from Pontormo's manner. Here, the sleeves especially are treated much more generically and with the incidental accidents of shape and light homogenised somewhat, giving overall a less-specific effect. It can also be seen in the catalogue that the artist favours a smooth, almost-polished surface treatment which would seem to conform more to Bronzino's (later) manner, than to Pontormo's; to encapsulate the differences between the two artists' finished results, we might say, using a sculptural analogy, that whereas Pontormo's works are like cast bronze, Bronzino's are like polished ivory. 

A small detail, that of the fine cord at the collars in both portraits, also calls attention to a divergent approach: in the Halberdier, the little cord - a mere two strokes of the brush - is just that, a fine line drawn quickly with the brush; that of the Young Man in a Red Cap is actually modelled in fictive three dimensions, complete with a dark shadow along one side. The technique, and the focus, in each case is different and points to - without confirming - a different author, in keeping that is with the other elements in each picture. I must admit just the same, that the small red laces attaching various parts of the Halberdier's red trousers are also painted in much more detail than is his collar cord.

A far more significant 'tell-tale' sign would seem to be the 'hard-edge' treatment of certain details in the Young Man in a Red Cap, especially along the external contours of his black jerkin and his hands: this manner of clear, precise delineation of the edges contrasts, obviously I would say - and keeping in mind that these two paintings are believed to be coeval - with the manner of the handling of those same details in the Halberdier. Pontormo treats all his edges as somewhat 'smudged' so to say, that is, he has softened the external contours of his forms; in relation to the hands in particular, the handling (!) is again quite different in both cases. 

The Halberdier's hands are modelled by first 'drawing', with a brush, the main outlines and basic forms in a thin, reddish base colour; upon this is applied some thicker paint in some areas, and in others, translucent paint (glazes); these three basic techniques or treatments model the forms, often blending one technique with another, or as in the shadows, sometimes leaving the underpainting untouched, so as to arrive at the final effect. The Halberdier's right hand, the one holding the halberd, is a clear and classic example of this technique. The Young Man in a Red Cap's hands (on the other hand!) are possibly begun in a similar way but the subsequent application of paint is very different. Onto a thin, basic skin colour (it seems) is applied a network of very small 'crosshatching' strokes using a fine brush, in this case describing the volumes in a very generalised way; these are the hands of 'everyman', not the hands (nor the underlying bones or even the muscles) of any particular hands. The Halberdier's are his hands, seen and recorded at the moment of portraying them: they have his creases, his bones, his muscles, and importantly, the particular light which was on them at that time.

One perhaps subtler discrepancy between the style of the Young Man in a Red Cap and Pontormo's usual manner is in the mouth. The young man portrayed here has a fully-modelled mouth, as if copied from life; Pontormo's faces typically have a notably small but full mouth - virtually a hall-mark of his - and this is the case with the Halberdier, also supposedly a portrait (possibly of a certain Francesco Guardi). If we look at Pontormo's so-called Deposition in the Cappella Capponi in Florence, composed as it is of beautiful emotional figures, we see that nearly all of them have this typical full but small mouth (in fact, the presumed self-portrait of the artist on the extreme right is the only figure with a 'personal' mouth!) It is not however always the case, as for instance, in his Supper at Emmaus in the Uffizi where the known portraits (of monks) amongst the biblical figures in this image have particularised mouths. That said, the typical 'Pontormo mouth' of the Halberdier (for which reason the word supposedly earlier) is quite different from the mouth of the Young Man in a Red Cap. 

It might be recalled as well that it was not uncommon for artists to give to their especial colleagues their own drawings and cartoons to be used by them in their works 2. It has been suggested that Pontormo may in fact have used a presumed cartoon for the Halberdier as a model for the Man in a Red Cap; to me it seems much more likely that Pontormo himself may have made the drawing - not a cartoon - for this latter portrait and that it was then painted by Bronzino, or someone else. The suggestion remains in any case at the margins of credibility; in the first place, the pose itself is hardly unusual even in real life, and the (obvious) differences in the poses of the Halberdier and the Man in a Red Cap would seem to exclude this a priori. But, more importantly, cartoons per se were normally used for large works such as frescos, where the medium and technique require a great deal of specific preparation; the painting of a portrait (on a wooden panel or a canvas) is an entirely different type of work, and given that both the portraits under discussion were painted in oils, the artist had a great deal more freedom as far as execution is concerned. Preparatory sketches were usual at that time, and, as reproduced in the catalogue, there exists at least one such preparatory drawing for the Halberdier - a drawing it might be pointed out, quite different in pose (that is, frontal) from the finished painting (the model seen from his left). The use of modern high-tech methods to analyse paintings, allowing us to 'see' behind the surface of the paint film, predictably reveals the use of drawings prior to the application of paint (a method not necessarily used by artists today for instance); this is not the same as the use of a cartoon nor does it indicate the use of one! Also in the catalogue is reproduced Pontormo's preparatory drawing for the Visitation; this drawing has been 'squared-up', that is, a grid has been drawn in red chalk on top of the original drawing. Such a technique, squaring-up, allows the artist to reliably transfer the contents of each grid square, one by one, to another surface of any size, provided the proportions are the same as in the drawing. It is plainly obvious that squaring-up (from a preparatory drawing) would have been used for a portrait of the size we are discussing here (92 x 73 cm), far more likely in fact than the use of a cartoon. We note in relation to this, that the Visitation painting, for which, as just mentioned, there is a squared-up preparatory drawing, measures 207 x 159 cm, considerably larger than either of the paintings being compared here. Whether or not a cartoon was used however, does not prove Pontormo's authorship of the Young Man in a Red Cap: it could possibly suggest that some kind of drawing by Pontormo was used as the basis for that painting.

Finally, some remarks concerning the hands in the Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap. While it is clear that the hands of this young man are posed differently from those in the Halberdier picture (the left hands of both models are related however, see discussion below), the treatment of the flesh in the Young Man in a Red Cap - the folds of the skin (practically absent) and the light on both his hands (minimally indicated) - is quite different. This treatment is 'generic' whereas the treatment of the hands of the Halberdier is specific - both visually and technically: here, his right hand, for instance, has first been 'drawn' in a reddish-brown under-colour;3 later, the final flesh colours, with their highlights, have been added, allowing the under-colour to play, so to speak, a passive role as the shadows. The hands of the Young Man in a Red Cap are done, as said, more generically, with no particular focus on them as specific hands caught in a particular set of physical and ambient conditions. In fact, close-up photos on pages 88-89 in our catalogue, comparing one hand from each protagonist, show yet again in the Young Man in a Red Cap portrait the use of the fine brush hatching technique - as noted on his face - while the hand of the Halberdier is modelled to indicate not only the accidental fall of the light, but also the bony structure under the skin - again, something only vaguely hinted at in the other portrait. This problem of the hands, to my mind, is yet another important indicator that the two works under discussion were painted by different people, perhaps collaborating to some degree but not necessarily. 

The hands though are an interesting study on their own: if we look at the Portrait of a Youth (Ritratto di giovane [Carlo Neroni?]) reproduced with notes by Elizabeth Cropper in the catalogue L'Officina della maniera (see Note 1), it may be supposed that both the left and right hands could be transposed, with some minor alterations, onto the Young Man in a Red Cap: while the right hand of the former work is holding an open book and the one in the latter picture is holding a letter, the splay of the fingers is the same; more similarly, the sitter's left hand (Portrait of a Youth) could easily become that of the Halberdier. In all three pictures the left hands are splayed in the same way, with the index and little fingers separated from the middle two which are closely touching; what this suggests is the possibility of studio studies of hands in various positions (such studies we know to exist by other artists), studies which have been used in these three paintings, with minor modifications. The one main difference however, is the conspicuously alternative rendition in the painting Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap; Pontormo's drawings (or exemplars) seem to have been used by an artist other than Pontormo.

For further comparison, the reader may be interested to look at photos of the following acknowledged portraits by Pontormo:

 

- the Portrait of Cosimo il Vecchio, about 1518, in the Uffizi - note the careful modelling of both the face and hands which, incidentally, are executed very similarly to the Halberdier's left hand;

- Double Portrait of Friends of about 1525, in Venice: to note, the very particularised treatment of especially the faces but also the hands;

- Portrait of a Youth of about 1526, in Lucca - note the treatment of the face, hair, hands and especially the orange-red 'cloak' worn by the sitter: a loose, free-flowing handling, including the softened edges, quite at odds with the manner of the Young Man in a Red Cap;

-  Portrait of a Bishop (Monsignor Niccolò Ardinghelli ?) of about 1541, in Washington - again, the treatment of the face and clothes, especially the white sleeves;

- Portrait of a Gentleman with a Book of about 1542 (private collection), perhaps the most somatically enquiring and colouristically profound of all Pontormo's portraits - and clearly very different from the generalised rendering of the sitter in the Young Man in a Red Cap. 

In none of these five pictures by the way, does there appear to be any trace of the fine hatching technique observed in the last-mentioned painting.

1 In the catalogue discussed here, the identification of the Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap is clearly with the documented but unidentified portrait of Carlo Neroni; however, in another exhibition catalogue of some years earlier (1997, also referred to in our catalogue), L'Officina della maniera, on page 380, Elizabeth Cropper has in brackets and with a question mark suggested, along with others, that a portrait called Ritratto di Giovane of 1529-30 (Portrait of a Young Man, p 381) could also be that of Carlo Neroni. In fact, the position of the body, the turn of the head, and in particular, the splay of the fingers of the sitter's left hand are much closer to the pose of the Halberdier than are those same elements in the Young Man in a Red Cap. Even so, although the Officina Portrait of a Young Man does have these similarities, and is given as a Pontormo in that catalogue, there are some things which suggest to me at least that this portrait may also have been painted by Bronzino, with the pose resembling generally Pontormo's Halberdier. Although Bronzino began his relationship with Pontormo as his student, it later developed into a very close personal friendship and therefore the free exchange of ideas and drawings would not have been at all unusual. By the way, the earlier attribution to Alessandro Allori (mentioned above) is incorrect if the date given to the Portrait of a Young Man in a Red Cap is accurate (c1530) as Allori was not born until 1535!

2 A well-known example of this 'largesse' is that of Michelangelo in either giving drawings to Sebastiano del Piombo or actually making them specifically for him. By the way, 'cartoon' in English is the translation of the Italian word "cartone" which means 'heavy or big paper'. Cartoons were usually, although not always, large sheets of paper, sometimes several pieces glued together to form an even larger surface, on which a full-scale preparatory drawing had been made, a drawing to serve as a guide for an exact replication in paint on a (normally large) wall, that is, to be painted in fresco on a wall. Occasionally, smaller cartoons were used also on wooden panels. There were two methods for the 'transfer' of the design or drawing: one involved the pricking of holes, with a sharp pointed tool, along the lines of the drawing, the placing of the drawing (cartoon) onto the desired place - on the wall - and then the 'pouncing' over the holes with a small bag filled with charcoal dust; the dust would pass through the holes leaving a 'join-the-dots' image of the drawing on the wall surface. The artist then had a clear model to follow. The second method of transfer involved cutting along the lines of the drawing, with a sharp knife-like tool, sometimes into the still-soft plaster of the wall to be frescoed, leaving thereby an incised image of the drawing from the now-shredded cartoon. Close examination of old pictures, both on panels and on walls (frescos) has revealed traces of both techniques: of 'pouncing' in Piero della Francesca's frescos, the Legend of the True Cross, in Arezzo; and of incising in Michelangelo's Sistine Ceiling frescos.

3 This technique, as used for oil painting, was common at that time and continued to be so for centuries. It consisted in the use of an 'undercoat' in normally a reddish-brown earth colour, applied relatively thinly, as a preliminary drawing of an entire figure. When that was dry, the 'skin' colours would be applied on top, in varying thicknesses, often allowing the 'undercoat' to remain visible in the final effect, especially as shadows or reflected light. These could be further modified with the use of glazes - thin veils of colour, on top. The overall effect of a painting could also be influenced right from the very beginning, that is, by the colour of its 'priming': the base coat of white paint (or, earlier, gesso) could be given a coat of some other darker colour before the image proper was sketched onto the canvas (or panel). This base colour or primer, depending on how the artist applied his or her colours, could influence the final effect, making it warmer or cooler as the artist chose. In the nineteenth and (particularly) the twentieth centuries, many artists preferred a basic white primer and, in the case of the Impressionists (19th century) for example, a white ground helped to give brightness to their landscape images. The technique was not the same for fresco and there was far less flexibility once the plaster began to dry; however, under-painting in a reddish-brown colour (the 'sinopia') still constituted the first stage of the painting. 

The Procession of the Most Holy Miracle, fresco by Cosimo Rosselli, 1486: detail of the 'sinopia' - the reddish brown underdrawing - discovered under the finished fresco during restoration (see next photo), in the church of St Ambrogio in Florence. Note as well the initial perspective lines visible in the foreground. 

The complete fresco by Cosimo Rosselli, restored

Artists often made changes during the application-of-colour phase and, in this case for instance, it can be seen that Rosselli altered the position of the left hand of the central figure of the group of three young men in the centre-left foreground; incidentally, historically interesting is that amongst the figures on the  left is represented the famous Humanist, Pico della Mirandola, and the one with the black cap is apparently Rosselli himself.

Line: Donatello and Alberti

 

In drawing, theoretically, a line is a series of points placed so closely together as to form a continuous mark; this mark may be short or long, thick or thin, curved or straight. For those who study the history of art, a line can be an indicator of all sorts of things: from the authenticity of an individual piece and therefore its attribution to one master or another, through to the psychological state - either while producing a particular work or more generally - of the artist concerned. Lines are some of the first marks made by children, even when they are using paint (as opposed to a pencil or crayon for instance). It would seem that the inclination to make lines is an innate one, not one which needs to be taught. Notwithstanding that however, the adult use of line, that is, its controlled and deliberate use, does need to be taught and this because, once a would-be artist attempts to render an idea with lines, it is at that point much more than the initially, so to speak, 'inarticulate' gestures made by small children; the line has become a conscious means of communication and as such, may be more or less successful. To make the communication more or optimally successful, the artist needs training, developing skill, awareness and visual (not to say psychological) acumen. For this reason, art students, for centuries, were set to copy normally, plaster casts of antique Greek and Roman sculpture, if not the real thing: heads, hands, feet and torsos. As times have changed, so too has the emphasis on drawing as a requisite skill for artists; indeed, at certain points in the 20th century, the teaching (or learning) of drawing was actively frowned upon; attempts were made to 'unlearn' drawing skills in the belief that that type of formal training inhibited the more genuine or 'authentic' expression of what it was the artist was trying to communicate.

That said, the line is one of the most basic, most fundamental of the various formal and technical elements of the visual arts; it is critical to drawing, painting, sculpture, architecture, printmaking, and design, both graphic and industrial. The importance of line has been recognised since ancient times (for example, by Vitruvius) and, although obviously essential to all artistic output since the Egyptians (and before), it in fact received renewed and especial attention in the Renaissance. The Renaissance is usually said to have begun in Florence although, nowadays, the story is a bit more complex and it might be more accurate to say that it 'developed' in Florence more quickly and thoroughly than perhaps in other centres, such as Pisa or Siena. The Renaissance (a French term; Rinascimento in Italian) involved not only the visual arts (including architecture) but also literature, poetry, history writing, certain sciences, design and so on. In this article, I would like to consider two of the preeminent personalities of the Rinascimento, as it happens, both of them Florentines (not the biscuit!), even if one was born - because his family had been exiled - in Genoa: Donatello (Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi, 1386? - 1466) and Alberti (born in Genoa to a Florentine father; Leon Battista Alberti, 1404 - 1472).

Both men were artists although Alberti was a polymath, being not only an architect and painter but also a prolific writer and theorist, a poet, a philosopher and a cleric (even if, in his theoretical writings on painting and architecture, he rarely used the word 'church', preferring 'temple', and 'the gods' to 'God'!). The reason both of them are of interest here is that, from what I can see, they had a special relationship with the line. Although Donatello was principally a sculptor, much of his work, and particularly his low or bas relief sculpture - the 'schiacciati' or 'stiacciati' (meaning 'squashed' or 'flattened') - are heavily, and obviously, dependent on line, and that most notably in an oddly 'painterly' way 1.

The Feast (or Banquet) of Herod (detail) by Donatello, bronze, c1427

Baptistry, Siena

(Photo from the Net: unable to identify the photographer)

The image above is a detail of the background of one of Donatello's most well-known works, a bronze panel for the baptismal font in the Baptistry of the cathedral at Siena; it shows at least three distinct events in the story of the death of John the Baptist: on the right (not visible here) is the dancing Salome, on the left, the presentation of the decapitated head of the Baptist to the now-horrified Herod (partially visible); and in one of the background rooms, on the left, the presentation of John's head to someone else, apparently also Salome and/or her mother (?), the instigator of the execution; the combination of several events in the one representation was a long-established custom preceding Donatello by centuries. What is of interest for our purposes however is his use of two things: the recently developed single-point or linear perspective and his related but almost entirely 'pictorial' or drawn line: that is, not 'sculptural' in the usual sense.

If we study carefully this upper section of the panel, we see that it shows several spaces separated by  walls which are parallel with the 'picture plane'; for the sake of reading the narrative, the figures which occupy these rooms are out of scale but otherwise the spaces themselves are completely coherent with each other, and with the (here mostly not visible) foreground space. The perspective lines recede generally to a single 'vanishing point' and the middle and background spaces diminish in size as they get further and further back. So far, this is what could now be called 'normal' perspective but what isn't so normal is Donatello's almost extravagant use of line, and line which is 'drawn' on the surface in exactly the way one would do it in an actual drawing. So much detail has been included that we are able to count the small stone blocks which make up each of the walls, for example, as well as those used in the arches; the columns in the right background and left middle-ground, and the protruding and receding stone beams are all dependent on lines. The illusion of depth and solidity in the entire upper portion of this panel is due to line, not to modelled forms; a partial exception to this could be one or two elements on the extreme left, such as the column there, and this because these minor elements are approaching the 'front' of the image - that is, illusorily closer to us - in which we find the main action.            

Except for the classically-influenced figures, which are modelled human forms, the entire scene is dependent on lines, but lines as opposed to what? As opposed to physical form; sculpture is, if nothing else, about 'real' form in three dimensions; but even painters, who work in two dimensions, do not usually portray backgrounds as a tight network of lines; an artist making a drawing might do that, but colour, tone and relative size would be used by a painter to indicate - together with perspective at this point - depth in a painting. Donatello has here included in the lower portion the narratively thematic and obligatory figures (not visible in our image), but it is hard to escape the impression that what he really wanted to do was to make a perspectively convincing line drawing in the clay or wax (from which the bronze cast was made): a drawing which coherently suggested a 'real' space, or a series of real spaces, receding into the distance. Donatello's seeming love of line may be contrasted with the work of his later fellow citizen, Michelangelo (1475 - 1564). If we were to put an early - and clearly indicative - work of his, for instance, the Battle of the Centaurs, side by side with the Feast of Herod, Donatello's fascination with line would be immediately obvious: Michelangelo, by contrast, loved form and we could say, exclusively the human form; whereas Donatello maintained his use of architectural settings and backgrounds throughout his life, establishing a 'realistic' environment in which his actors could play, Michelangelo very, very rarely included any kind of ambience whatsoever (some suggestion may be seen in the Doni Tondo and some of the principal scenes on the Sistine Ceiling); normally, the figures were themselves the ambience!

The Battle of the Centaurs by Michelangelo, marble, c1490-92

Casa Buonarroti, Florence (Photo: the author)

Let's have a look at another work (below) by Donatello: this one is a part of what are known as his 'pulpits' although, despite their being exhibited as such in the church of San Lorenzo in Florence, there is some doubt that the panels were originally made with that intention. These panels, again low reliefs in bronze, were made at the very end of Donatello's life and some were actually completed or made by assistants. The one we shall consider is from the so-called Passion pulpit and it shows again, brilliantly composed in two parts of the same great hall, two distinct events: Christ before Pilate (on the left) and Christ before Caiaphas (on the right).

(L) Christ before Pilate and (R) Christ before Caiaphas, Donatello (and assistants?), bronze, c1466

The church of San Lorenzo, Florence (Photo: the author)

Although the photo is not very good, I think the salient aspects are legible. In these two scenes, the role of the figures is to some extent more important (more convincing ?) than it was in the Feast of Herod. In what is in effect a single great hall with two very large Roman basilica-style barrel vaults, the lower areas are completely occupied by several key actors (Christ obviously, Pilate, Caiaphas and Pilate's wife [according to Pope-Hennessy]) as well as many subsidiary figures; these are arranged so that they contribute to the perspective illusion, something which also happened in the Feast of Herod, especially in the area where Herod is seated, but here more successfully I believe. But, in spite of the greater number of figures, and their high relief, particularly in the foreground, this panel, like its predecessor of roughly 40 years earlier (the Feast), is highly dependent on line. And, as in the earlier panel, the lines contribute strongly to the sense of space, indicating the perspective but also independently of it. The present panel has also in common with the Feast the clearly defined stonework, both on the sides of the hall and in the furthest background wall, visible beyond the balcony containing disinterested observers of the scenes below. The horizontal 'direction' of the grilles in those side walls, the lines of the barrel vaults, the latticework separating the hall proper from other spaces beyond, and the linear decoration of the three large columns embellishing the most forward parts of the principal walls, are all products of line. In this late image, modelled form does indeed play a larger part, both in the figures as already mentioned, but also in the columns and the pilasters in front of the lattice walls.

However, line was of such importance to Donatello that ultimately he used it - as opposed to modelled form - even in his figures. Below is a detail from the Mourning over the Dead Christ panel in the pulpits, a detail showing an anonymous figure standing behind the central group. Note here how simple lines, no more than gashes, have been used to indicate the folds in this person's clothes, and to some extent in his headdress, even if at times the transition from line to form is indistinct. This ambiguity between line and modelled form is visible also in the face of this figure where line, especially around the eye, contributes as much to the expression as does modelling.

The Mourning over the Dead Christ (detail), Donatello (and assistants ?), bronze, c1466

San Lorenzo, Florence 

Leon Battista Alberti was, as mentioned earlier, an architect and a theorist of architecture; among his several books, including a very important one called On Painting (Della Pittura: 1436, originally in Italian and later in Latin) in which he produced the written theory of linear perspective, is one in Latin called De re aedificatoria. Various translations of the word 'aedificatoria' have been made including very early on where the word 'architecture' was used; more modern scholarship seems to favour 'building' or 'construction' so that an English title might be something like: 'Concerning Building'. In any case, in the original Latin, much is made by Alberti of the importance of line. Alberti had apparently been stimulated and influenced by a much earlier treatise called De architectura, written by the Roman architect, engineer and theorist Vitruvius (Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, 80 - 15 BC). In this work, Vitruvius uses the Latin word 'lineamenta', from the noun 'lineamentum', meaning a line drawn with a pen or pencil, a geometrical line.

Leon Battista Alberti, self-portrait bronze medal, 1435?

Note Alberti's personal device, a winged eye (under his chin) whose symbolic meaning is unclear.

National Gallery of Art, Washington DC (Photo: the author)

In her book Prologo al De re aedificatoria 2, Elisabetta di Stefano discusses the introduction, or prologue, of Alberti's book and draws attention to his emphasis on the importance of line. Of course, one might say, line is obviously important in architecture, how else is an architect to draw his or her plans, etc.? Clearly this is correct but when we consider Alberti's actual structures, things he designed himself as an architect, it becomes plain that line was more to him than simply a visual sign with which to communicate his ideas. Let's have a look at one of his most famous pieces of 'domestic' architecture, the Palazzo Rucellai in Florence. In this relation, at the end of the Prologo, Alberti says that (in his research) he had "observed the very great importance of the connection between lines and their reciprocal relationships" which he remarks, "is the principal factor in beauty"!

The Palazzo Rucellai designed by Alberti, first five bays from the left c1455-58 (?), Florence

It seems that Giovanni Rucellai, the owner of the palace, initially possessed the first five houses onto which Alberti's 'screen façade' was built; he later acquired the next two properties (bays six and seven) but was unable to acquire the eighth, causing the façade to come to a staggered end, just visible on the right in the photo!

(Photo from the Net: unable to identify the photographer) 

Even a casual glance at the photo, not to say at the building itself, reveals the important and powerful effect of line in this façade. All the shapes, the arches, the pilasters, the pseudo blocks of stone, are 'defined' by line. Although the pilasters and the horizontal linear courses, or 'marcapiani', marking the various levels of the structure, are actually modelled, not to mention the massive 'cornicione' - the great eaves typical of rinascimento palaces - the dominating features, that is, the flat 'stones' of the walls and those forming the arches, are defined with and, in a certain sense, as lines. Alberti designed several other major structures in Florence (as well as elsewhere in Italy)3 but I chose the Palazzo Rucellai because of this highly-refined, austere yet abundant linear work which of course, is similar to that discussed in relation to Donatello.

Like Vitruvius's De architectura, Alberti's treatise is divided into ten books the very first of which is titled (in Latin) Lineamenta: this word can be used to refer to design as well as to lines specifically 4. In only the second paragraph of Valeria Giontella's Italian translation of Book 1, Alberti uses all of the following words: lineamenti (noun plural x 5), disegno (noun), lineamento (noun), linee (noun plural), disegnando (verb). In English, these words mean, in one form or another, and with one or more overlapping meanings, line and design; in this, Alberti differs not much from his slightly later and very similar (in terms of literary and artistic contribution) fellow Florentine, Giorgio Vasari (1511 - 1574) 5 who goes into much detail concerning the importance of line (disegno). Naturally, Alberti's Della Pittura, his book about 'modern' painting addressed to painters, contains many references to line, and clearly, especially so when discussing perspective itself. Of interest by the way, is that, although Alberti is better known as an architect than as a painter, in Della Pittura he describes himself, several times, as a painter: in Book 1 (of three this time), in the second paragraph, he asks his readers (other painters) to consider him not as a mathematician but as a painter (whence the motto of this blog in fact); elsewhere he refers to his readers and himself jointly as 'we'; later, also in Book 1, he says "Let's talk like painters.", and so on. 

Let us in any case conclude with a modernist piece which reflects the interests, amongst others, of Alberti and especially of Donatello. It is the work of a Sicilian sculptor, Emilio Greco (1913 [Catania] - 1995): Dormitio Virginis (1983) was made for an altar in the cathedral at Prato in Tuscany.

Dormitio Virginis by Emilio Greco, plaster model for bronze altarpiece, 1983

The Museum of the Cathedral of Prato (Photo: the author)

In the image above we see a crowded, tightly-packed composition, reminiscent of the lower portions of Donatello's Paduan and San Lorenzo reliefs, and the obvious use of line as the principal formal and expressive medium. The absence of any 'environment' for the action and indeed the crowded space (space defined as and by human activity), bring to mind as well Michelangelo, and Pontormo's so-called Deposition in Florence.

1 Frederick Hartt in his excellent A History of Italian Renaissance Art, in the 1980 revised and enlarged edition published by Thames and Hudson, also remarks, in speaking of Alberti's Della Pittura, " ... the four painters whose art sums up this Golden Age of the Quattrocento, not to speak of the pictorial sculpture of the mature Ghiberti and Donatello." (p  232; italics my own). Incidentally, it was Alberti in Book 3 of Della Pittura who recommended that student painters might rather copy sculpture as opposed to copying paintings; unfortunately this advice became dogma in the academies of later times. Alberti actually preferred artists to work from nature!

2 Leon Battista Alberti: Prologo al De re aedificatoria, edited by Elisabetta Di Stefano, published by Edizioni ETS, Pisa, 2012.

This small book publishes, together with the erudite Introduction of Elisabetta Di Stefano, the Latin text of Alberti's Prologo to his book De re aedificatoria with, on the facing pages, the editor's contemporary Italian translation.

3 In Florence, Alberti also designed the 'modern' façade of Santa Maria Novella and the so-called Holy Sepulchre (il Santo Sepolcro) including its chapel (la Cappella Rucellai), in the now much-modified church of San Pancrazio (today, the church but not the chapel, is the Museo Marino Marini). In Mantova he designed the very important Basilica di Sant'Andrea (constructed post mortem) and San Sebastiano, and in Rimini, the splendid Tempio Malatestiano in which, as in Sant'Andrea, he explored ideas derived from the Roman triumphal arch. Some of his buildings, such as the Tempio, were left unfinished and about others there is some debate as to authorship or the degree of Alberti's involvement; it seems that what interested him most was the design phase and he often left the actual construction to others.

4 Leon Battista Alberti: L'arte di costruire, edited by Valeria Giontella, published by Bollati Boringhieri, Torino, 2010; a full Italian translation of the Latin with commentary.

5 Giorgio Vasari, author of Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori: two editions, the later published in 1568 but the earlier, in 1550, was printed by the same publisher, Lorenzo Torrentino, who, also in 1550, published the Cosimo Bartoli edition (first Italian translation) of Alberti's De re aedificatoria!

A note to the reader: some readers may wonder why I constantly refer to Italian books and authors; the reason is simple: most of my articles are about Italian art and it seems reasonable to refer to scholars who not only study and write about the same things, but whose cultural remove (not least linguistically) from the originals (be they visual art or literary) is somewhat less than that of scholars writing in other languages. Quite often I do in fact refer to English language historians, sometimes French ones, whose writings I have found to be stimulating in one way or another: John Pope-Hennessy for instance, who actually lived in Italy, James Banker who still does I believe, John White and, in the present article, Frederick Hartt.

Some observations on the Triangle in Renaissance Art

 

Triangles were very popular in renaissance art, not the geometric figures per se but as enclosing abstract structures around a human body, a kind of intellectual cake-making template into which a human figure could be accommodated. I would like to start with one which has been remarked previously and that is the half-awake guard on the lower left of Piero della Francesca's Resurrection fresco. This figure forms so clearly a triangle that he is somewhat of an oddity amongst his fellow soldiers; he is nicely contained within the triangular shape and is in addition, shown completely in profile. In comparison, his companions are in various positions, the two central ones especially reminiscent of those in other artists' versions of this subject; the one with his back to us almost fully stretched out, somewhat unconvincingly. As well as the form of our awakening soldier there is also the larger 'structural' triangle formed by the guards - as a base - with imaginary lines traceable on the left from our guard's back and up along Christ's right arm, and on the right from the shoulder of the reclining guard through his helmet and upwards along Christ's left arm to His face. This larger triangle, as in Masaccio's Trinity fresco, not only directs our attention upwards on the 'picture plane' to the focal point of the image, but also inwards from the plane closest to us to some point deeper within the fictive space. For our purposes here however, the awakening soldier may be taken as a clear example of this use of geometry in figurative painting, albeit in a more or less occult manner.

The Resurrection, 1458 (?) by Piero della Francesca (c1412-1492): 'buon fresco' and 'a secco', recently restored. Sansepolcro, Museo Civico (Photo: the author) 

A detail of the Resurrection, photo taken by the author during the restoration of the fresco

A detail of the previous image showing the pyramidal or triangular conformation of the waking guard

The next instance we shall look at is on one of the two so-called 'pulpits' made by Donatello (c1386-1466) and his assistants very late in his life; there is some question as to whether or not these panels were intended as the sides of pulpits but, in any case, that is how they are displayed today. The complex scene of the Lamentation over the Body of Christ has as its centre the profoundly expressive image of His mother contemplating the extraordinary figure of her dead son - again, completely profile. Mary's head is the apex of a triangle of which the horizontal corpse indicates a kind of mid line, with the ground and various feet below forming the base; Christ's pendulous legs form part of its right side.

The Lamentation, 1460s by Donatello, low relief bronze panel.

The church of San Lorenzo, Florence (Photo: the author)

Filippo Lippi (c1406-1469), a friar-painter like the next artist, is the author of the Barbadori Altarpiece. In this busy, crowded work with the standing Virgin Mary in the centre, Lippi has also made use of the triangle to focus our attention on her: the base is the floor of the room in which the scene is set and the right side of the triangle begins there at the shadowed hem of the kneeling saint's greenish cloak, moving up through his head directly to the Madonna's beautiful face; similarly, on the left side, starting at the hem of the red cloak of that saint, a line may be imagined passing through his head and finishing, as on the right, at the Virgin's face. This picture is a complicated exercise in the use of artificial perspective, with various other (partially hidden) lines also directing our attention towards the Madonna. In spite of the depth created by the illusionistic perspective structure, the 'vertical' triangle in the centre asserts the proximity of the three main figures to the physical picture plane, that is, to our space; another two or three paces and the Madonna could almost walk out of the image. This in turn, in a certain sense, obliquely hints at the flatness of the board on which the image is painted despite the apparent depth: an allusion about an illusion!

The Barbadori Altarpiece (detail), 1438 by Filippo Lippi, tempera on panel

The Louvre, Paris. 

(Photo credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

One might ask, what is the attraction of this particular triangular form? I find that the 'human triangle' is a very stable unit; because of the 'folding' of the limbs involved in assuming the form, there is usually weight and mass as well as the stability. For me as a painter, it is a uniquely satisfying structure. In the large fresco of the Funeral of Saint Stephen, Lippi has again used the 'human triangle' format in the two female figures seated at either side of the front face of the saint's bier. In the detail below the backs and heads of the two figures in question, together with the heads behind them, form another much larger triangle which, following the lines of the raised platforms, lead directly to the Crucifix on the altar situated in the apse at the deepest point in the fictive space. In addition, an inverted triangle, often implied in this kind of use of a distant vanishing point, can be seen in tracing the two lines formed along the 'cushions' above the capitals at the tops of the white columns, also leading straight to the altar Crucifix. Interestingly, the two large triangles just described, both intersecting at the same point (the altar Crucifix) form a Saint James' Cross!

The Funeral of Saint Stephen (detail), 1460, by Filippo Lippi, fresco

Cathedral, Prato

(Photo: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

Our next example comes from another friar, a fellow Florentine working at much the same time as Filippo: he is known as Fra (friar) Angelico or Beato (blessed) Angelico (born Guido di Pietro: 1395-1455). He is the painter of the exquisite small frescos in the cells of his monastery of San Marco and the painting we will look at is to be seen there still today although it is not a fresco. It is, like Filippo's picture, a large altarpiece painted on wood; like Filippo, Fra Angelico has given us an exercise in perspective illusion (it should be remembered that the 'rules' of mathematical or artificial perspective had only recently been [re]discovered by this time). In this picture, the two main orthogonals, those in the carpet, form the left and right sides of a large triangle and direct our gaze in no uncertain terms to the head of the Madonna. These same lines pass through the heads of the kneeling saints - reinforced by the more central orthogonal lines in the dais - straight to the face of the Virgin who herself, with her spreading blue robe, forms yet another triangle. The general triangular structure is further supported by the ranks of saints on either side. The very deep space in which the event is set, despite being abruptly interrupted by a curtained screen behind the throne, is indicated by the wonderful background forest through whose trunks may be seen even more distant hills.

San Marco Altarpiece, 1438-1443 (?) by Fra Angelico, tempera on panel

San Marco, Florence 

(Photo credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

Finally, two images chosen at random: the first to show, in perhaps one of the clearest examples, the use and power of the 'human triangle', Giovanni Bellini's sublime Madonna of the Meadows; and the second, a small panel by Duccio as an example of an alternative tradition. The Bellini is self-explanatory in that the triangle formed by the Mother and Child is obvious, strong and dynamic: while the figures themselves are static, their form, as a unit, contrasts markedly with both the space (horizontal) and the distance (profound) in the rest of the image. The mainly blue triangle of the Madonna form is however not a rigid geometric sign but constructs a quasi-mountain, so to say, and in that way succeeds in not being a too strong contrast. 

The Madonna of the Meadows, c1500, by Giovanni Bellini (?1430 - 1516), oil and egg on panel

National Gallery, London (Photo: the author)

The small panel by Duccio (c1260 - 1318), also in London but originally part of his very large Maestà in Siena, demonstrates satisfactorily I think an older or at least more usual type of composition: the frieze-like procession of figures across the bottom of an image even if, as in this example, there is a valiant attempt to create a space in which the figures can move. In this image nonetheless, there is no fundamental relationship between the action and the setting which functions more like a theatrical backdrop than a real environment. The same comment could indeed be made about the Bellini above except that other things come into play to make the Madonna, albeit very close to us, 'blend in' to the bucolic landscape which is not simply behind her, but, because of the manipulation of the light, 'envelops' her as well. The light in the Duccio panel is consistent on both buildings and figures - coming from the left - but is 'on' them and not 'throughout' them, if I may put it like that, as it is in the Bellini; Duccio's buildings are lit in such a way as to detach them from the foreground action (or vice-versa). The 'human triangle' serves different purposes (Masaccio, Piero della Francesca, Lippi) and in the painting by Bellini it serves to provide a strong, stable, central form which commands but does not dominate its setting: unlike the Duccio, we read it directly, at a glance, and not like a story, from left to right.

Christ Healing the Blind Man (1308-1311) by Duccio di Buoninsegna, tempera on panel

National Gallery, London (Photo: the author)

In my last article, Massacio's 'Trinity' Fresco in Santa Maria Novella, in Florence, it was there observed how the use of the triangle, both on the two-dimensional flat surface (the picture plane) and as an indication of depth, was fundamental to the structure of that image. In this relation a question about the significance of the triangle might be raised. In the analysis of many renaissance paintings the presence of geometric figures has been noted, functioning as 'structural' scaffolding on the picture plane but often simultaneously, with perspective drawing, as indicators of depth - as is the case with the Masaccio Trinity image. This is mathematics and geometry but there is of course the theological meaning of the triangle, hardly more obvious than in the title of Masaccio's work, the Trinity! A triangle has three sides which create three points; 'three' and its multiples are significant numbers in Christian theology, beginning with the three persons of the Trinity itself. But Christ rose from the dead after three days, there were 12 apostles, a multiple of three, images of the Crucifixion often show three figures: Jesus on the Cross, His mother Mary and Saint John; and so on and so on. Renaissance paintings - in particular - made use of this basic, fundamental figure, both for its structural potential and its religious significance.

Note:

 Mention may be made here of the recently more explicit descriptions by art historians of the techniques used in paintings and especially of those used in frescos. It had been common to describe nearly all frescos, that is, pictures painted on walls in the 'buon fresco' technique, as simply that, "fresco"; however, due to the confirmation of recent restorations (including Piero della Francesca's Resurrection), it is now certain that even medieval artists used the 'a secco' technique much more commonly than might have been thought previously; 'a secco' refers to the application of colours mixed with various binders (but not plaster), including oil (especially for lead white), to the almost completed but dried 'fresco' painting; hence the Italian expression "a secco" meaning basically 'once dried' or 'when dry'. This was done in part because certain colours cannot be safely applied to the wet plaster critical to the 'buon fresco' technique; such colours were liable to drastic change, even to the extent of a 'white' becoming a 'black'! Probably one of the most famous examples of the alteration of a pigment in fresco painting is the famous - but nevertheless beautiful - Crucifixion fresco by Cimabue in the church of St Francis at Assisi.

As far as panel paintings are concerned (that is pictures painted on wooden panels, very often altarpieces), the usual description for pictures painted before the common adoption of oil paint (and canvas) was "tempera"; this term indicated pigments which had been combined with a range of binders, normally egg but possibly glue or oil. These days, indications of the techniques used to produce panel paintings are also more explicit, showing that very often a mixture of techniques was not uncommon.

See Simona Rinaldi's Storia Tecnica dell'Arte: Materiali e metodi della pittura e della scultura (secc. V-XIX), Carocci editore, 2014, p 16.

Masaccio's 'Trinity' fresco in Santa Maria Novella, in Florence

 

Much has been written about Masaccio (born Tommaso di ser Giovanni di Mone Cassai:1401-1428) and his importance in the early Renaissance period and, especially, about his frescos in the Brancacci Chapel in the Church of the Carmine, in Florence; the other work most usually discussed is his monumental fresco (667 x 317cm) called The Trinity (la Trinità) in the also monumental late-gothic Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, situated directly opposite the splendid modernist central station of Florence (designed by Gruppo Toscano, 1932-34).

The Trinity (1425-27) by Masaccio, fresco

Santa Maria Novella, Florence (Photo: the author)

This exceptional work, now again in its original position on the wall of the left nave of the enormous church, had at one time been placed on the inside wall of the façade 1; these peregrinations resulting in the temporary loss of the image of the skeleton in the lower part of the fresco. I mention this peripatetic history not only as a curiosity but also because the Trinity was - and is - in an implied dialogue with another important work, this time a very large painted wooden crucifix attributed to Giotto; this crucifix, now suspended above the central nave, about half-way along, was apparently initially mounted above the main altar. 

Crucifix (1288-89?) by Giotto, tempera on wood

Santa Maria Novella (Photo: the author)

 Masaccio's work is notable as one of the earliest, and most dramatic, expressions of the lately discovered mathematical perspective; the whole architectural structure of this picture is based on mathematical, 'scientific' perspective drawing, at once a revolution and the culmination of late-medieval slow advances in this direction. Brunelleschi (practically) - and later (theoretically), Leon Battista Alberti and Piero della Francesca - had devised a way of representing, on a two- dimensional surface, the built environment, and man in a proportional relationship with it, rationally coherent and convincingly 'realistic'. The Trinity fresco, with its vanishing point situated just below the platform on which stand the figures of Mary and Saint John, demonstrates clearly the power of this revolutionary system to imitate 'real' space and to situate human figures within that space in a completely rational way. It is perhaps difficult to comprehend the impact this fresco must originally have had on Masaccio's contemporaries for, not only has the passing of time had its effects on the condition of the fresco, but we are today so completely habituated to the concept of convincing perspective representation that it is of course, nothing new. But in 1427 it must have seemed as though, if not an entirely new world, then at least, finally, a fully coherent one had arrived; no longer were images of buildings, whether interiors or exteriors, functioning as quasi-symbols of themselves, but instead were painted (or sculpted by Donatello) in such a way as to 'convince' the viewer that he or she was looking into a 'real' space - as if, according to Alberti, through a window. Even then and later, it was remarked how the painting appeared to open a hole in the wall: " ... che pare che sia bucato quel muro." (Vasari, Le Vite, etc. 1568)

Christ before Pilate by Donatello (1386 -1466), south Pulpit (1464-66), bronze

the Church of San Lorenzo, Florence (Photo: the author)

Donatello's last works, the two 'pulpits' were left unfinished at his death; note here also, the low viewpoint (some distortion due to photograph).

In the Trinity, the enormous classical barrel vault, the receding Ionic columns, the massive arches, the arms of the Cross, the platform on which God the Father stands and the two figures of Mary and John, all are portrayed from below, as we would see them from our position, standing on the floor of the church. But, while adhering carefully in the architecture to the precise rules of the new perspective, Masaccio ignored them when he came to paint both God the Father and His Son on the Cross: neither of these figures is rendered as if seen from below, but rather as though seen from directly in front! This means that in the painted 'reality' of the environment in which the actors perform, the most holy of them, that is, the First and Second persons of the Trinity, confront us face-to-face, emphatically, hierarchically yes, but directly and so to speak, head-on (in this sense, they could be described as a reversion to hieratic Byzantine frontality: see the Monreale photo below). Outside the holy space of the gigantic chapel or 'tabernacle', the two donors are also shown as though we were looking at them straight-on, but they are much closer to our eye level in any case. In effect, we have three points of view - perhaps intentionally, given the subject -: looking up at the fictive triumphal arch, looking down at the tomb with its skeleton 2, and looking directly ahead at God and His crucified Son. Incidentally, the Third person of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit, is represented as a white dove placed inconspicuously between the other two.

In another later masterpiece of the fifteenth century, the Resurrection by Piero della Francesca (c1412 - 1492), there is a similar use of and, we might almost say, disregard for perspective: while the sleeping guards are seen more or less from straight on, the risen Christ, logically therefore higher, is seen as if we were looking directly at him. Both Piero's fresco and Masaccio's are situated above average standing eye-level and so looking up is physically necessary to take in the whole work; and both painters have made use of this real fact to supply at least two almost contrasting elements to their paintings - a heightened 'drama' in the fictive space and, the height notwithstanding, an implied direct contact with the 'higher' divinity - while at the same time convincing us that what we are looking at is (a representation of) a 'reality' 3.   

The Resurrection (after recent cleaning) by Piero della Francesca, (c1458?), fresco

Museo Civico, Sansepolcro, Italy (Photo: Dr Maria Stratford)

But to return to the question about Masaccio's image being in dialogue with Giotto's: what I am referring to is of course the figure of the crucified Christ in both works. Giotto's, thought to be an early work painted roughly 120 years before the Trinity, extremely beautiful as it is, is nevertheless a product of its time, with certain conventions such as the odd zig-zag of the body (which, in this case is seen from the right on a cross seen from in front); at the end of the right arm of the cross is the traditional portrait of Mary (Mater Dolorosa) and at the end of the left that of the young Saint John. Somethings to my mind not quite so traditional are details of the body of Christ: Giotto seems to have attempted, despite the somewhat conventional pose, a more realistic rendering of the upper torso at least. 

Masaccio, on the other hand, has dramatically brought his Christ up-to-date: a much more carefully drawn, realistic body, especially the torso, the arms and the attachment of them to the torso; the hips and groin and the lower legs are all 'realistic'. Here too are the figures of Mary and John, not the half-figures as in the Giotto but full figures: John clearly contemplating what he has witnessed; but Christ's mother very unusually is looking at us and, with a gesture indicating her dead Son, seems to be inviting us, somewhat disdainfully it would seem, to also contemplate what has been done. The implied surface triangle (that is, on the picture plane itself) of all the figures, beginning with the donors and moving up to Mary and John, and then to Christ and His Father, functions doubly - like other elements in this work - since that same triangle can be read as moving from the external world of the donors (and ourselves) into the 'sacred' world of the painted chapel, meeting first the mourners and then deeper still, the holiest figures.

Also remarkable is a couple of things to do with the drawing of these figures. At the time and for centuries beforehand, it was customary for there to be a sort of hierarchy of divinity in religious images, with God and Jesus represented as the largest figures in a given scene, followed by Mary and the angels, then the saints, and finally, smallest of all, ordinary humans (including popes and bishops, etc.) 4. Masaccio has completely overturned this convention and all the figures in his Trinity are the same size, even the donors. All the holy personages are rendered as human beings and their changed status, that is, the fact that they not only look like human beings but are the same size as the humans represented, would seem to indicate the influence of Humanism in the approach Masaccio has here taken. We have only to look at an image of Christ Pantocrator, such as at Monreale in Sicily, to appreciate the vast difference in the new status of such figures. Concordant with this is the way Mary has been shown: not as a more or less beautiful youngish woman but rather as a middle-aged mother although, as observed, not the traditional 'Mater Dolorosa' but as a self-composed 'divine' personage, present but at the same time, oddly somewhat abstracted from the emotion of the event.

The Trinity, detail showing three of the principal figures: note Mary's direct engagement

with the viewer and the her knowing gaze. 

Christ Pantocrator (after 1183?), anonymous artist(s) possibly Greek, mosaic

the Cathedral of Monreale, near Palermo, Sicily (Photo: the author)

Notice the great difference in scale between the Christ and the next level(s) below Him which includes Mary (seated however), Saints Peter and, not visible in this photo, Paul, as well as angels and prophets.

Mention might also be made here of the very deliberate but restricted colour scheme of the entire fresco. In essence two colours dominate, red and blue; starting with the figure of God the Father, we notice that he is clothed in red and blue garments: his red tunic, on our left, his blue cloak on our right. Moving 'down' the image, the red tunic is contrasted with Mary's blue garment which in turn is contrasted with the red of the male donor's heavy clothing and headdress (Berto di Bartolomeo del Banderaio ?). Again moving down the painting, the blue cloak of God is contrasted with the red of Saint John's cloak and that in turn with the blue of the female donor (Berto's wife Sandra?). Shades of red and pink make-up some of the architectural elements as they do, together with blue, the squares in the ceiling of the barrel vault. It must be remembered that this fresco is now almost 600 years old, has undergone several transpositions not to mention restorations: it is therefore very difficult, notwithstanding the generally good condition, to accurately judge the colours and to assess their original significance and impact.

Much discussion and disagreement has occurred in relation to the symbolism contained in this image. The recurrence of 'threes' in a painting entitled The Trinity may or may not be pertinent - even the colour scheme just outlined is based on the number three! The image of the crucified Jesus, the suggestion of the eternal and the presence of a tomb and a skeleton all facing a door which leads directly to a cemetery is most likely not coincidental. It has been noted that there are no indications whatever of the names or family of the donors, no heraldic shields, no dedicatory inscriptions; the names suggested for the couple are at this point purely conjectural. One wonders whether or not the colour scheme may give a clue however!

* Some of the points raised in this article were suggested or reinforced by a recent re-reading of John White's The Birth and Rebirth of Pictorial Space, first published in 1957 by Faber and Faber; and to a lesser extent by a contemporaneous re-reading of Luciano Bellosi's La Pecora di Giotto, Abscondita edition, 2015 but first published by Einaudi in 1985.

1 The fresco has suffered, like many over the centuries, from various vicissitudes: it seems that Giorgio Vasari is responsible for its preservation when, having been asked to modernise the area, and appreciating the fresco's immense artistic value, he 'hid' it under a new work while leaving clear indications of its presence. In the 19th century, the Masaccio was rediscovered and moved to the inside wall of the façade of the church; in 1952, it was decided to replace the fresco into its original position, a position which probably not casually faces a side door leading to the basilica's cemetery. The work has been restored on several occasions, most recently in 2001.

2 The beautifully drawn skeleton comes with a warning written on the image: 

"Io fu' già quel che voi sete e quel ch'i' son voi anco sarete", that is: 

"I was once what you are and that which I am you will also be".

3 A perplexing and fascinating psychological situation to which I have referred in other articles: that of knowing that one is looking at a painted image on a flat surface while happily allowing oneself to be 'enticed' into the fictive world of that image (and not only of figurative works).

4 See for example the apse mosaic by Jacopo Torriti in the church of San Giovanni in Laterano (Roma) in which the very newly-minted Saint Francis is included but on a much-reduced scale compared with the other holy figures around him (St Peter to the left, Mary to the right); in addition, note that the Pope Nicholas figure beside Francis is even smaller - and made to kneel!

***

Brunelleschi (Filippo di ser Brunellesco di Lippo Lappi) 1377 - 1446, sculptor and architect, most notably of the massive dome of Florence cathedral (the Duomo)

Leon Battista Alberti 1404 - 1472, architect, author and theoretician; author of Della Pittura explaining the principles behind mathematical perspective

Piero della Francesca c1412 - 1492, painter and theoretician: author of two books dealing with perspective: De prospectiva pingendi and Libellus de quinque corporibus regularibus

 

What's in a Name?

What's in a name? Well, I think quite a lot; it's not something I can explain, it's merely an amorphous perception that most people seem to 'belong' to their name, if I can put it like that. Occasionally one meets a person whose name doesn't seem to 'fit', a Janet or a David for instance, who doesn't 'seem' like a Janet or a David; I can't explain this situation except to say that, on those occasions, I might have expected quite another name! This probably has as much to do with the way we 'read' people as with anything else; that is, it may not be the particular person who seems at odds with his or her name, but rather the way we interpret other individuals simply on the basis of the way they look, before knowing their name. On the other hand, when occasionally people change their given name, friends and family often react as though they have actually lost someone and are suddenly confronted with an identity they find quite perplexing: that is, what was known is apparently no longer current or valid, and what is new is incomprehensible; the name-changing person is as though suddenly no longer - at least as previously understood - and what is there now is equally suddenly present! Our more or less unconscious psychological identification of an individual personality with his or her name (or with our own for that matter) would seem to be a powerful, and usually necessary, constant in relationships. 

Be that as it may, this short article concerns names and specifically, the names of artists. The general public is familiar with quite a few famous names, such as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Picasso, Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Frida Kahlo. Most Westerners will have at least heard of several other artists even if they can't immediately identify any specific work by those people, which is not to imply that they could do otherwise even with the more famous ones. The situation is not helped as far as contemporary names are concerned, as many artists tend to enjoy a certain fashion and are then gradually replaced as they go out of fashion and others come in *. An example of this is the Dutch modernist painter, Piet Mondrian: Mondrian died in 1944 but by the mid-fifties, his was a house-hold name, especially in the USA. Quite apart from his paintings - which were probably unknown to the general public, although much appreciated by other artists and designers - his influence spread to architecture, industrial design, the decorative arts, and even to clothing fashion itself. Quite probably, many more people 'knew' his influence than knew his name. What they certainly would not have known was that Mondrian had changed his name during his first residence in Paris (1911 - 14): originally spelt in the native Dutch manner, Mondriaan - with two letters 'a' - he altered it to its, since then, current spelling with only one 'a'. Eventually, his most typical works were no longer signed with his name as such, but rather with his initials: PM. Mondrian's birth name was Pieter Cornelis Mondriaan (b.1872).

One of the most famous of artists' names is certainly that of Leonardo da Vinci; the small Italian word 'da' in this context means 'from'; so this is Leonardo (sometimes spelt Lionardo) 'from' the town of Vinci in Tuscany. Vinci has a small museum devoted to the mechanical contrivances of its most famous son, as well as an excellent (at least, last time I was there) steak restaurant! Like many medieval Italian towns, it is on a hilltop and therefore has wonderful views. Leonardo however spent relatively little time there as he was sent to study in Florence, a typical circumstance at that time, rather like the way Paris became a mecca for artists, including Mondrian, in the early part of the 20th century.

The extraordinary Dutch painter Rembrandt, although known the world over as simply 'Rembrandt', was actually named Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606 - 1669); in a case similar to that of Leonardo, the word 'van' in Dutch means 'from' and although he came from Leyden (or Leiden), that town is situated near the so-called Old Rhine, referring to the Rhine (Rijn) River. Picasso similarly, is known simply by that name but his birth name was considerably longer: Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso! Initially he signed his works P. Ruiz (his father's surname) or P. Ruiz Picasso, eventually deciding on the surname alone of his mother, 'Picasso'. Most art-loving people also know that Van Gogh's first name was Vincent, partly because he often signed his works that way, as simply 'Vincent'; his full name was Vincent Willem van Gogh (1853 - 1890).

In the same way that numerous writers - amongst whom, many women, especially in the past - had a 'nom de plume', that is, a 'pen name', so too and for various reasons, many artists either adopted a professional name or were given one. The following is a list of some important figures, mainly artists, from the history of Italian painting, sculpture, architecture and literature.

Bonanno Pisano (active: 1170's and '80s) enchanting sculptor, from Pisa, but also at Monreale in Sicily

Nicola Pisano (c1220/25 - c1284) also Niccolò Pisano, Nicola di Apulia, Nicola Pisanus, sculptor

Giovanni Pisano (c1250 - 1315) son of Nicola and, like him, a great late-Gothic/early-Renaissance sculptor         

Cimabue (c1240 - 1302) Cenni di Pepo or Cenni di Pepi, supposed master of Giotto. 

Duccio (1250/55 - 1318/19) Duccio di Buoninsegna, like Cimabue, a sublime late-Gothic painter

Giotto (c1267 - 1337) Giotto di Bondone who began the Humanist revolution in Tuscan painting, making a clear break with Byzantine and Gothic conventions         

         

Buffalmacco (c1290 - 1340) Buonamico di Martino, author of some of the great frescos in the Camposanto at Pisa                                                            

Maso di Banco (active: c1320 - 1350), a student of Giotto and author of the 'modern' St Sylvester fresco in  the church of Santa Croce in Florence                                                            

Brunelleschi (1377 - 1446) Filippo di ser Brunellesco di Lippo Lapi, architect of the dome of Florence cathedral, together with other important buildings, and co-reviver of mathematical perspective  

Ghiberti (1378 - 1455) Lorenzo Ghiberti or di Bartolo, creator of the so-called 'Gates of Paradise' on the Baptistry in Florence and author of I Commentarii, c.1450                                        

Donatello (1386 - 1466) Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi, brilliant almost-modern sculptor

Masaccio (1401 - 1428) Tommaso di ser Giovanni di Simone who took Giotto's developments to the level of the Renaissance proper (the Brancacci Chapel and The Trinity frescos) 

Piero della Francesca (1412 - 1492) occasionally Piero dei Franceschi, exquisite 'silent' painter, and theoretician of mathematical perspective                                                                   

Luciano Laurana (1420 - 1479) Lutiano Dellaurana, in Croatian: Lucijan Vranjanin, famous as the architect of the ducal palace at Urbino, claimed as Italian because, at the time, his birthplace (Vrana in Dalmatia) was part of the Republic of Venice; nowadays part of Croatia                                                

Giovanni Bellini (1430 - 1516) great Venetian painter, son of Jacopo and brother of Gentile, both painters, brother-in-law to Andrea Mantegna                                                             

Mantegna (1430/31 - 1506) Andrea Mantegna, a northern Italian painter, student of classical antiquity and the newly (re-)discovered mathematical perspective (along with Alberti, Brunelleschi and Piero della Francesca)                                               

Cosmè Tura (?1433 - 1495) Cosimo del Tura, born at Ferrara, a leader of the Ferrarese Renaissance

Verrocchio (c1435 - 1488) Andrea del Verrocchio born Andrea di Michele di Francesco de' Cioni, painter and sculptor, master of Leonardo da Vinci and author of the astounding Doubting Thomas, originally on Orsanmichele in Florence                                             

Bramante (c1444 - 1514) Bramante Lazzari born Donato d'Augnolo or Donato di Pascuccio d'Antonio, Renaissance architect born near Urbino but famous also in Milan and Rome (St Peter's amongst others) 

Leonardo or Leonardo da Vinci (1452 - 1519) Lionardo di ser Piero da Vinci, universal genius famous for many things, in various fields, particularly painting and engineering                                                

Carpaccio (?1465 - 1525/26) Vittore or Vittorio Carpaccio, originally Scarpazza, a wonderful Venetian master painter                                               

Michelangelo (1475 - 1564) Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni  (also Michelagnolo Buonarroto or Buonarruoti, by Vasari), Renaissance universal genius: sculptor, painter, architect, poet, engineer, etc.                                                          

Titian (Tiziano in Italian) (c1488/90 - 1576) Tiziano Vecelli or Vecellio, sometimes referred to as Tiziano da Cadore (his birthplace), master Venetian painter                                                                   

Vasari (1511 - 1574) Giorgio Vasari, born in Arezzo, architect (the Uffizi Galleries), painter and, most famously, writer: author of the indispensable Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects, etc., two editions, 1550 and 1568                                 

Moroni (1520/24 - 1579) Giovanni Battista Moroni, also Giambattista Moroni, wonderful northern Italian portraitist                                              

Caravaggio (1571 - 1610) Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (the town where his father worked, east of Milan in Lombardia), born in Milan, master realist in strong chiaroscuro                                            

Artemisia Gentileschi (1593 -c1653) or Artemisia Lomi Gentileschi, a wonderful Baroque painter

Bernini (1598 - 1680) Gian Lorenzo (or, Gianlorenzo) Bernini (or, Bernino), great master of the Roman Barocco (Baroque): sculptor and architect  

Borromini (1599 - 1667) Francesco Borromini born Francesco Castelli, together with Bernini and Pietro da Cortona, one of the creators of Roman Baroque  

Giovanna Garzoni (1600 -1670) a wonderful artist with her exquisite still-life and botanical paintings 

                      

Giovanni Battista Vaccarini (1702 - 1768) born in Palermo, Sicily, but famous for being the architect of Catania's rebirth as a Baroque city following the earthquake of 1693; and speaking of Catania, Emilio Greco (1913 - 1995), a great Modernist sculptor and painter born in Catania  

                                                  

The cathedral of Catania (Cattedrale di Sant'Agata) Sicily, and, to the left, the Chiesa della Badia di Sant'Agata restored by Giovan Battista Vaccarini

Photo: the author

Of course, this list could go on indefinitely, especially as it is restricted to Italians and then only a small selection - and (apart from three Dutchmen, one Spaniard and one Mexican) we haven't even begun the artists, etc. of other countries. As can be seen, the dates of some of the most important overlap each other, a circumstance which helped to contribute to the extraordinary development, at various times, of the arts in Italy. The names of the artists in the list, some very well known, interested me simply because, like everyone else, I knew these people by their popular, often short-hand names; when researching them however, I became aware of their 'real' names which frequently, like those of Brunelleschi or Verrocchio, are quite lengthy; however, in this contest, obviously, Picasso takes the cake!

Virgin and Child Enthroned, detail, by Cosmè Tura, mid-1470s, National Gallery, London

Photo: the author

* This situation is nothing new (like a lot of things) when we recall some lines from Dante where he speaks about Cimabue as once being the leading painter, whereas, at the time in which La Divina Commedia was set, the year 1300, Giotto had become the most famous: 

"Credette Cimabue nella pintura

tener lo campo, e ora ha Giotto il grido,

sì che la fama di colui è scura: ..."

The Divine Comedy, Purgatory, XI, 94-96

La Divina Commedia, by Dante Alighieri, Testo critico della Società Dantesca Italiana, ed Hoepli, 1991