Looking at Pictures: a Comparison

 

This article is a revised version of one originally written and published (on another blog) in 2013.

It seems to me after the experience of attending two art schools in the 1970s and living a life since then of painting and looking at pictures, that many people - including some art teachers and gallery people - have only the vaguest idea of how to look at a painting, and of how to interpret what they are seeing. In fact, when I attended art school, there was absolutely no time or instruction given to this complex and necessary skill; one has the impression that what many people 'see' when looking at art works is what they have been conditioned to see, they don't however, know how to 'look'.

I am referring to the 'technical-structural' analysis of pictures or objects which have been made to appeal primarily to the visual sense and, very often, to the intellect as well. Although a broad and, even better, an in-depth knowledge of the history of (Western) art and associated ideas is highly desirable, the ability to analyse a picture can to some degree be learnt independently of these other aspects. In a way, it is like learning the ABCs and basic grammar of a language - and art is a language - before going on to the more advanced grammar and syntax. Unfortunately - from this point of view - because up until the very beginning of the 20th century most Western fine art was in some way or other concerned with images of the 'real' world, many people believed that, since they could recognise the objects which made-up the images they were looking at, they could therefore understand them. This notwithstanding, the vast majority of people would have been hard-pressed explaining just why any given image 'worked' - or didn't - as art. In the first place, understanding how a painting or sculpture works is not in any way related to whether one likes the thing or not; that old chestnut "I know what I like ..." has absolutely nothing to do with the objective merits or otherwise of any given work of art. And here we return to the question of knowledge because the merits of a piece cannot be understood or explained without it!

But, how do we, how can we, look at pictures and artwork generally so as to understand the visual phenomena presented to us by the artist? One way to begin would be to go into a recognised (probably public) art gallery and, concentrating on only a few similar pictures, focus on one or two aspects or elements of those pictures, for example, space and line. If we then ask ourselves the questions: "What things appear near us (in the painting), what things appear further away?", that would be an excellent starting point. This is because the simulation, or not, of 'real' space on a two-dimensional surface has been one of the major concerns of artists since at least the time of the ancient Greeks. If we can answer these questions about one picture (or other artwork) and then answer them about two or three others by different artists, we are already on the way to comprehending how the different artists concerned have tackled one of the fundamental problems in realistic and even abstract painting! Already we will have seen quite divergent ways of dealing with one and the same problem, that of space. All the more so if the chosen pictures are from different periods of art history!

The following therefore is a comparison of two paintings with the same theme, one of which is part of a fresco cycle painted by Piero della Francesca in the church of San Francesco in Arezzo, Italy and completed around 1466; the other is a large oil painting on canvas, now in the Art Gallery of New South Wales (AGNSW), in Sydney, Australia; this latter picture was painted in 1890 by the English academic painter Edward Poynter.

The Meeting of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon by Piero della Francesca (1412 - 1492). Approximate dimensions: 168 x 373 cm.

The general condition of these frescos in the church of San Francesco is good considering their age but there are lacunae and some serious degradation of certain areas of colour; a restoration was carried out in the 1990s. Let's examine this painting first.

- frieze-like composition, that is, the figures are arranged more or less in a line across the surface of the wall, even if, actually, they form a sort of circle; the action takes place in a relatively shallow space defined by a 'classical' loggia

- all figures are much the same size as each other 

- all the actors are vertical, that is, standing upright, except for the Queen who bows to greet the King

- the Queen and her retinue 'enter' from the right: this is to separate this scene from the one immediately to its left; normally, but not always, in Western art, narrative or story pictures 'read' from the left, in the same way that we read books from left to right. In fact, in the related fresco to the left of ours, the action happens in exactly this way

- stage left and stage right: one male figure and one female figure respectively have their backs to us, helping to form a loose circle around the centrally-placed principal protagonists (the Queen and King)

- all the figures in this fresco are dressed in contemporary clothes, that is, in Italian Renaissance fashion and NOT in historically accurate costume (a similar thing may be seen again in Tiepolo's Banquet of Cleopatra canvas in the National Gallery of Victoria, Australia; that is, none of the actors in an event which occurred in the late 1st century BC is wearing historical Egyptian or Roman costume even if Antony's looks vaguely Roman) 

- costumes are simple, not elaborate, except for those of the Queen and King who both wear one beautifully-patterned article: the Queen a dress (?), hardly visible under a white cloak, and Solomon a gold-embroidered cloak

- Solomon's long garment, once a type of ultramarine (?) blue, is now very badly degraded, as is his gold cloak, affecting our ability to read the colour relationships correctly; he appears to be almost absent from the head down but originally, his dark blue costume would have had a much more solid and determining impact

- the figures stand out against the flat marble wall-panels of a Greco-Roman palace or hall consisting of two rooms or areas; it has fluted columns and heavy architraves, all grey-white; the rear wall panels represent various types of marble; the effect is of austere restraint

- the group with Solomon is entirely male, that with Sheba female

- in each group, male and female, there is one member who appears to be looking at us (the viewers)

- every figure - except for one female in profile - including the two main characters, has its mouth closed

- there are no weapons visible nor other extraneous details (curtains, carpets, lamps, etc.)

- the scene is lit from the left, a fact common in any case to many Western pictures; this often varies in frescos when an artist wishes to take psychological advantage of the real light conditions of the space in which the fresco sits; any natural light usually coming from high-placed or centrally-placed windows, as in this case

- we are at eye-level with the participants; we are standing outside the loggia only slightly to the left of the front column, and at a height which enables us to see the tops of the shoulders of the figures closest to us

- the main colour-scheme for the figures seems to be reds, whites and greens in the foreground, with whites and creamy lavenders and blues elsewhere; as mentioned, Solomon's central blue is badly degraded

- this painting is a fresco which means that it is part of the wall itself, an inherent quality of 'buon fresco', that is, paint applied to the wet plaster; under normal circumstances, it cannot be moved

- roughly half the surface is 'empty' space devoted to the architecture and therefore to Piero's passion, perspective

- in terms of naturalistic realism, this picture is 'unrealistic' but 'intellectually essential'

- in summary, an intellectually defined psychological expression of the meeting of opposites

The Meeting of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon by Piero della Francesca, fresco

The church of San Francesco, Arezzo

(Image detail: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

The Visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, by Edward Poynter, oil on canvas, 1890

The Art Gallery of New South Wales 

(Image: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

The Visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon by Edward Poynter (1836 - 1919)

Dimensions: 234.5 x 350.5 cm. Oil on canvas, general condition very good. Let's examine Poynter's painting now.

The scene is set within a deep triangle formed by two sides of an enormous imagined ceremonial hall or palace creating a strong illusionistic effect. The Queen approaches Solomon along a low diagonal which leads from the left of the painting to the right, across the centre of the composition; our position is that of a spectator situated presumably along the wall opposite the one with the sun-lit column. The overall effect is one of unlimited power and wealth.

- the Queen is almost the centre of the composition; she ascends to greet Solomon, he descends to greet her

- nearly all the figures face the meeting itself, that is, they are watching what is taking place in the middle of the picture; consequently many look across the hall in our direction; there are numerous poses and positions with only one main figure - the slave-girl in the Queen's retinue - having its back fully towards us

- all figures are lower than Solomon, including Sheba

- all the figures are dressed in costumes thought at the time - the late 19th century - to be more or less accurate vis-à-vis the historical period of the encounter; this is a notable difference between the two pictures under discussion here: Piero della Francesca made no attempt to imitate the clothing of the Biblical Israel whereas Poynter has gone to great lengths to do just that; certainly he has not dressed his actors in late 19th century garb - probably a good decision! His palace however resembles much more closely what was possibly the case in the time of Solomon

- many different materials have been represented: marble, cloth of many kinds, peacock feathers, precious stones, gold, copper, bronze, the skin of fruits, the fur of monkeys, etc.

- the setting is very elaborate and therefore notably different from the austerity of Piero's image; it is probably based on contemporary archeological discoveries: many details of ancient architecture, materials, colours (the red of the columns for instance); there is an indication of sunny daytime visible at the top of the hall where the curtain is attached and above the wall opposite us; but similarly to Piero's fresco, about half the picture space is given to architecture

- important here is the position of the viewer: we are supposedly standing, or are at least high enough to easily look down on the floor and the tops of the stairs: our eye-level seems to be approximately that of the white edge running horizontally behind the Queen

- there is much historical detail in the costumes of the figures although the Queen's train seems more like an invention!

- the principal colours are red in many areas and gold, white and green

- to modern eyes, the Poynter resembles a scene from a movie, a so-called Biblical epic although, doubtless, the influence went the other way, that is, the makers of Biblical epics probably took at least some of their cues from paintings such as this one

- this picture, because of its attempt to be historically accurate is the more 'realistic' interpretation, helped as well by the academic mode of drawing the figures, that is, with a high degree of anatomical accuracy

- finally, this picture is framed in a very large, highly-worked golden frame of the period which incidentally, provides a kind of 'window' into the depicted scene; it independently hangs on a wall and can be moved.

Discussion 

Apart from the subject, what do these two pictures have in common? In both, there is an ancient setting; the Queen is portrayed in a lower position relative to Solomon (although in the Arezzo painting, this is achieved by her bowing action); the event occurs in a palace or at least, in a grand building: in both cases, the artist has rendered the architecture using perspective but also the contemporary discoveries of and interest in specific ancient structures; both paintings are very large. But really, the dissimilarities in them are the more obvious qualities: let's look at these in some detail. 

We'll begin with the AGNSW canvas. That fact, that it is on canvas - and therefore transportable - is a major difference: this version of the meeting of Solomon and Sheba was painted in England in 1890 and bought in 1892 by the AGNSW - on the other side of the world! The Piero della Francesca in Arezzo is a fresco painting and, under normal circumstances immovable. (Frescos can in fact be lifted off their walls but this operation is normally done when restoration of both the fresco itself and its mural support require serious attention; and oddly, it is a fresco (the Hercules), by Piero of all people, which has ended up in a gallery in Boston, USA, an entire ocean and part of a continent away!). Poynter's canvas is a stand-alone, single statement, self-contained and independent - that is, of any particular building or related narrative; the Piero on the other hand, was conceived as part of a narrative cycle (a series of related images illustrating a story) - The Legend of the True Cross - and is meant to be seen as one element in that story, not as a stand-alone image. Indeed the subject itself is related to the building the fresco is in, both being connected with the Franciscans. Nevertheless, because of its design, Piero's painting is separated from its neighbour by the 'wall' of (painted) columns and this enables it to be considered, as here, as an individual work of art. 

But, back to the Poynter: it is very large and, at first sight, very impressive. There is obvious scholarship here: the artist, possibly advised by others (historians, archeologists, architects), has studied many of the facts and findings coming to light in archeological digs in the eastern Mediterranean at that time; he, like other academic painters, 'shows-off' as it were his knowledge of the historical period's architecture and decoration, the clothing and costumes of high-ranking chiefs and royalty, of places such as Egypt, Palestine, Babylon and so on. His rendering of many different textures, from the plumage of birds to marble and gold, is masterly; he was a highly-skilled craftsman, typical of academic history painters all over Europe in the 19th century, and a skilled choreographer: behind and around the main foreground action he has arranged a huge cast of courtiers, nobles, soldiers and slaves to witness the historic meeting. As a foil to this, it might also be mentioned that at that time, the 1890s, Impressionism was already an established painting movement!

The use of two sides of a triangle - the two red-columned 'walls' which enclose the vast room in which the scene is set - and a rising diagonal leading the Queen, and us, up towards Solomon, is a clever bit of staging. We are encouraged to believe that we too are actually there, witnessing this meeting, in the same way that at the cinema or theatre, the stage design, the lighting, the props and various subtle cues all co-operate to entrance us, to conjure in our eyes, and then our minds, the illusion that we are observing - if not taking part in - a real occurrence. Edward Poynter has worked very hard to convince us of the, at least potential, reality of his invention (such large complex works were in fact sometimes referred to as 'machines'!). I think that to a large extent, he has succeeded.

But at this point a question arises: is Art meant to be 'reality' in that sense? Is that the point of Art, to substitute a pictorial reality - a painted representation of physical reality - for the genuine one, that is, for reality itself? Perhaps 'substitute' is not the correct word, rather to 'imitate' physical appearance as closely as possible; but what precisely is the point of that? -  especially when we consider that many periods in art history had little or no interest in such absolute accuracy, in fact, many actually rejected the literal representation of the physical world (Byzantine and Islamic art to name only two). To a certain part of these questions however I would answer 'yes': one of the functions of art is to make (create) a reality or realities; but I don't think the point is to paint a substitute for the real thing. In fact, much if not all successful 'realistic' artwork, while it may be 'about' reality, does not attempt to re-create it, nor to substitute the art object for the real one. That said, there are twentieth-century styles such as photo-realism and hyper-realism, in both painting and sculpture, which do actually aim at re-creating the physical world, but to such a degree that reality itself is accentuated in one or more facets so as to be, paradoxically, 'unreal! Trompe-l'œil painting (usually still-life) was an earlier manifestation of this where the extreme realism of the image was such as to 'trick' the viewer into attempting to perhaps take something off the painting (hence the French term, trompe-l'œil meaning 'deceive the eye').

During the period when the AGNSW painting was being made, photography was being developed and one of its initial uses was that of recording: if you wanted a memento of your visit to Paris, you no longer had to buy a painting of the scene (or Seine!), such as Grand Tourists did, all you needed was a camera. The development of photography made clear this fact, that actually art is not a substitute for reality itself but is, at the end of the day, a new reality created by an artist on his or her paper, board, canvas or wall. The artwork is not external reality itself; the painter who merely paints exactly what is in front of him or her is in a sense, a human camera! It is interesting that, at the height of a sort of academic illusionistic mania in the plastic arts - that is, during the 19th century - an invention appeared which put an end to it ... the camera! Interesting too that also during that same period, as mentioned earlier, the Impressionists and others that followed were revolting against all of that academic ethos.

We can admire a painting or a statue and perhaps comment on how 'life-like' it is; of course, when we do this we are complimenting the artist on his or her skill in, let's say, drawing the human body. But, if we look more closely, we'll begin to see that in many great paintings and sculptures the 'reality' is an illusory and that what we are actually looking at is a point of view - the artist's point of view about something in the physical world, the human body for example. However, when artists began to realise that, on a canvas, actually they were free to do as they wished - particularly as the camera had released them from the anchor of realistic representation - they began to make images that were apparently less and less to do with the visible tangible world; many began to openly explore another world altogether: the internal, and often spiritual one. This exploration did not in fact begin in the 19th century; artists such as Piero della Francesca, in the 15th century, had already been constructing their own reality: in Piero's case, an intellectual one which much later artists at the beginning of the 20th century picked-up on and developed further (Malevich, Mondrian, et al). 

The AGNSW picture, as impressive as it is, is in one respect however unconvincing: it is emotionally neutral, not to say flat. In this painting we see a lot of 'reality' certainly, scholastic, historical reality, as well as three-dimensional illusionism. But we feel, or sense, no feeling, no spirit, no engagement on the part of the painter - no point of view! For all its obvious skill it seems to lack one of the most important elements usually seen in great works of art: the passionate engagement of the artist with his or her own work.

If we now look at the Arezzo fresco, certainly there is nothing like the amount of historical exactitude that Edward Poynter has included in his picture. Apart from setting the scene in a comparatively sober Greco-Roman loggia - itself historically inaccurate for the time and place of the visit of the Queen of Sheba - Piero has included not one single piece of historical information. The costumes worn by the actors in Piero's play are the ordinary clothes of any well-to-do citizen in the Arezzo or Florence of his day; his actors are dressed as the people one might have seen on any day of the week, walking the streets of a Medieval or Renaissance city in central Italy. They wear the fashionable but understated heavy woollen material for which Florence was well-known in the Europe of that time. They wear the hats - the women, the transparent, fine linen headdress - typical of the better-off of Piero's day. He has decided to gain a psychological hold on the members of his audience by reflecting them back to themselves on the walls of their own church! He was clearly not interested in the historical staging of the event; he was much more concerned to have his audience identify with his actors and not to place a temporal distance between actor-protagonist and audience. What he was doing was making a picture using drawing, perspective, colour, proportion, scale; he was interested in his drawing, in the rhythm of the colours, in the psychological dynamics between the two groups in the encounter. He wanted his viewers (and us) to see his world, not one about which he knew, personally, almost nothing.

Piero's setting could hardly be simpler: he provides the minimum, not wanting us distracted from the drama of this meeting; he wants this meeting, and the physical contact between the two main protagonists, to be our only focus. Unlike the AGNSW picture, the fresco's centre of attention is the handshake of the Queen and Solomon; in the Poynter, the central area is actually a large, open space which allows our eyes to shift from the foreground drama to the background. In doing this the English academic artist subtly removes our attention from the ostensible subject of his picture to the marvellous scene-painting behind the main action. What we are encouraged to do in fact, is admire his handiwork!

Piero della Francesca instead wants us to think about the deeper significance of this meeting. Actually, we can look at this picture from various points of view; although the subject is the meeting of two monarchs, it is significant that Solomon is surrounded by men and Sheba by women. We have apparent opposites coming together: male and female. In this image, the centre is so important that the artist, while surrounding the King and Queen with a loose circle of attendants, leaves a space open through which we can witness clearly what is happening; we complete the circle. We have no need to go deeper into that area, that image, in fact, we occupy the painter's own space, his own viewing point, the one from which he observed the event. Piero liked large foreground figures which made clear, emphatic statements, unequivocal, unambivalent. His architectural and natural environments are full of clear, bright light.

One critic has claimed, somewhat harshly, that Edward Poynter's figures look "doll-like", I suppose like manikins in a shop window; to our eyes, a similar thing could be said about Piero's figures which do look rather stilted. But I think they also look a little like people photographed, as though caught by the official photographer at some meeting of diplomats. Looking closely at the faces of the secondary characters, one notices subtle expressions which suggest a profounder level to the apparently straightforward portrayal of this particular event. Piero's faces generally, in their seeming detachment, aloofness almost, have the subtlest variations of expression, with no hint of the harsh extremes of some later painting.

* Again, apologies for any eccentric changes in the font size, a function of this site!

Further considerations concerning Piero della Francesca's 'Flagellation'

This article concerns some works by Piero della Francesca who was born in (then) Borgo San Sepolcro (now simply Sansepolcro) in central Italy, around 1412; he died there in 1492. He is famous not only for his exquisite paintings but also as a theorist of mathematical perspective on which he wrote two of his three books. This blog already contains several posts about Piero della Francesca which examine other works of his.

 

The Flagellation by Piero della Francesca, tempera and oil on wood, 58.3 x 81.5cm

Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino (Photo: the author) 

The picture is kept behind glass in its own glass or perspex box; it is noticeably convex (see the photo below) causing some vertical straight lines to appear curved and is quite difficult to photograph. Note how the two forward columns, the pavement between them and their architrave stand out, sunlit, against the interior beyond.

The Flagellation, a small painting on wood kept at Urbino, is one of Piero della Francesca's most renown and most enigmatic works. Its small size belies its art-historical impact, a fact attested by the sheer number of critical attempts to decipher its meaning, to unravel the enigma; to date, an unsuccessful endeavour. It is obvious however, that that enigmatic quality is so much part-and-parcel of the painting's essence that, were it in fact ever to be wholly 'deconstructed', the image would be at risk of losing a good part of what it actually is. This fact is interesting in that it points up a difference between images made-up of  'realistic' representation - such as this one - and those which imitate nature, or physical reality, for its own sake. Often, Renaissance painting is seen as comprehensible because it 'looks like' reality; the best pictures do indeed look like the physical world around us but they contain something else. In other words, their 'realism' is deceptive: it is merely a vehicle of transmutation, a means by which something ineffable may be conveyed - even at the risk of misinterpretation. In a sense, the attempt by art historians to interpret the occult significance of such images as the Flagellation is a type of game, a game in which people willingly participate, but one which no-one really wants to win! The enigmas in any case are two: why is the picture composed in the way it is, especially with the actual flagellation set in the distance; and who are those three figures in the right foreground? To what do they refer? The traditional title of this small painting, The Flagellation, is simply an art historical convention: in fact, along with other things we don't know about this picture, we don't know what the original title was nor, indeed, if it even had one.

Much is made of Piero della Francesca's use of perspective and rightly so since he was, and is still, a recognised master of its theory; not only did he write theoretical treatises on the subject, but he illustrated those books with his own detailed drawings. And he also 'illustrated' them, we might say, in his painted work, perhaps most notably in the Flagellation but also in the Montefeltro Altarpiece in Milan and the top part of the Sant'Antonio Altarpiece in Perugia, as well as in three frescos at Arezzo. His sublime Resurrection in Sansepolcro is constantly referred to as well in this regard, due to its supposed use of two independent perspectives or viewpoints: one for the lower part of the image, where the sleeping guards lie, and the other for the person of the Resurrected Christ.

The viewpoint, or the position from which the imagined viewer witnesses the depicted scene, is of extreme importance in the Flagellation. Analysis of the perspective lines in the left-hand side of this image easily reveals the vanishing point and therefore the hypothetical position (and eye-height) of the imagined witness of the event. This vanishing point is quite close to the central columns separating the left and right parts of the entire image but at a low level, allowing the viewer to see very clearly the ceiling and the underside of its huge architraves. What is not so obvious however is that once we shift our gaze from inside the main buildings to the outside, on the right, although the perspective of those background buildings is in keeping with that on the left side - that is, they recede to the same vanishing point - we see that (again) the perspective has changed when we focus on the three unknown and enigmatic figures in the foreground. When looking at them we see them as though we were of the same height as they, at their eye-level! We are no longer looking up but rather directly ahead! This is therefore apparently the same 'device' as that used in the Resurrection, where a change of viewpoint from one of looking straight ahead (at the guards and the top of the tomb) to one of looking up (at Christ) occurs; in fact though, the figure of the Resurrected Christ is represented as though we were on His level despite the top of the tomb suggesting that that is where our eye-level is (we can't see into it and we are not looking up at it). When viewing the fresco in the Museo Civico at Sansepolcro, we are in fact looking up at the entire painted image, which of course means that the figure of Christ is physically above our eye-level. However, the psychological effect is that we are looking straight at His face or, better, that He is staring directly at us. But I digress!

A closer view of the Flagellation: not a good photo but the difference in lighting between interior and exterior space is clear. The vanishing point for the perspective construction is in the dark wall to the right of the right-hand flagellant's right knee. This applies as well for the buildings on the right side of the image. (Photo: the author)

A very interesting fact within the left side of the image of the Flagellation is that, while the biblical event is taking place within a sort of portico or loggia, and therefore not in direct sunlight, the 'framing' architrave and huge columns nearest us, and the white marble floor linking them, actually form a kind of frame enclosing the entire episode: this because all four elements are sunlit, contrasting with the shadowed area further in. In front of those elements is an open space, that is, an 'outdoor' area in which, coincidentally, are situated the three personages, even if they are somewhat to the right. It occurs to me that it is as though, as a result of this 'framing', the three large figures are related to a painting, that is to say, a painting within a painting! This however, still does not identify who exactly they are, a moot point if ever there were one! Also, I did not say that they were 'discussing' a painting because, as occurs in most of Piero della Francesca's pictures, the actors are not represented as speaking even if one of them, the Byzantine figure on the left, is gesturing with his left hand; incidentally, exactly the same gesture as that made by the turbaned figure with his back to us, on the left side.

Be that as it may, it is a fact of the way we see that our eyes are constantly moving, constantly searching for or reacting to stimulus; in the case of the Flagellation and, for that matter, the Resurrection, the apparent 'contradiction' in the use of two viewpoints within the one image could actually be - or actually is - a means of accommodating this optical fact. To see Christ being whipped we must look directly at Him but to see the ceiling of that portico, we must shift our gaze from Him and look up; what a perspective representation does is combine numerous points of focus into the one seemingly coherent whole; it relies on our knowledge of our world, not on the strict reality of vision. By contrast, and speaking very generally, when our distant ancestors painted the figure of an animal or a hunter on a cave wall, they represented what could be taken-in in a single direct look; it is an interesting fact that it apparently never occurred to them to include trees, lakes, mountains and so on, as a 'setting': what they drew on the walls and rock faces - if not an abstract symbol - was what could be apprehended in reality while looking at one object, or one group of objects - and that normally from a distance.

Here we might mention that many attempts have been made to define the influences on Piero which led to his extraordinary composition, for it is, apart from the identification of the three figures in the right foreground, the composition itself which is of great interest to art historians. This is because generally and in Renaissance art in particular, in religious (and other) imagery, the subject or theme of the image is placed squarely in the centre, not to say in the foreground. Piero's placing of the putative subject, that is, the flagellation of Christ, off-centre somewhere in the background, therefore defies this long tradition. In fact though, the general layout of the composition does have precedents even if the subject in those remains in the foreground. Let's have a look at one which I think could have had some influence (I am unaware if others have remarked on this or not, although I imagine so): it is a large fresco at Castiglione d'Olona painted by Masolino (1383-1447) - one-time painting companion to Masaccio - showing the Banquet of Herod (at which Herod and others were presented with the severed head of John the Baptist).

The Banquet of Herod by Masolino da Panicale, fresco, 380 x 473cm

Baptistry, Castiglione d'Olona (Photo: Public Domain through Wikimedia Commons)

As we can see on the left, Masolino has constructed a very large and elegant, two-storey building which recedes abruptly into the fictive space (as does Piero's); on this side, in the elegant ground-level loggia 1, Herod appears to be discussing something with his courtiers and, I assume, Salome (the young blonde woman near the column), while on the right, in another elegant portico (receding sharply and deeply into the fictive space), the just-severed head is presented to Salome's mother Herodias, the person who instigated the whole affair. Four things strike me about this image in relation to Piero della Francesca's Flagellation: first, at circa 1435 it pre-dates his picture; second, the setting of at least one part of the story (on the left) in an open but covered area, with columns; third, the deep recession of the building on the right and its visual linking with the other, in the background; and fourth, the placement of figures outside Herod's palace. Whether or not it represents a palace, a loggia or some other structure is not important; the salient point is that the general structure could have influenced him ... had he seen it: something we don't know! Perhaps I should say that when historians speak about possible influences or sources for a particular artist's work, they do not always mean to imply that the later artist has taken over someone else's ideas holus-bolus, but merely that some elements - sometimes more, sometimes less - have been adopted, and usually adapted, by the later artist.

The Queen of Sheba paying Homage to the Wood of the True Cross (left) and The Meeting of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon (right), by Piero della Francesca, fresco, 1450s but date much disputed.

San Francesco, Arezzo (Photo: Public Domain through Wikimedia Commons)

But three other precedents can be found in the work of Piero himself, specifically the scenes concerning the Queen of Sheba, the Verification of the True Cross and the Annunciation, all parts of the fresco cycle (1452 - 55, or - 64?) of the Legend of the True Cross, at Arezzo. The first of these scenes (a pair) represents the queen paying homage to the wood of the Cross and the second, her subsequent meeting with King Solomon. Here also there are two distinct but related events separated by a deeply receding line of columns; the first scene is set outdoors while the second takes place inside a palace, or perhaps it is again a type of loggia. If it is actually inside the palace, we may note that 'removing' a wall so that viewers from the outside could see what was happening was not beyond Piero either (see Note 1)! By his time of course, artists were already placing the presumed viewer somewhere within the staged setting for indoor narratives, as opposed to placing him or her outside, looking in. On the other hand, his - to my mind - later Flagellation is a much-refined and subtler solution to the problem: placing the event in a semi-enclosed but logical space, a loggia for example, with a further true interior implied by the rear doors and the visible stairway beyond one of them. The exterior pavement in front of the loggia merely serves to strengthen the illusion that we are looking from the outside into a kind of porch beyond which is a rationally implied interior space - not visible to us except for the distant staircase. 

Again, in the Queen of Sheba episode on the right, as in the  left of the Flagellation, we are observing the scene from a low viewpoint, or, at least, we observe the building from a low viewpoint; the figures however, we seem to be on the same level with, as we are with the main figures in the left-hand scene - to which figures by the way, we would seem to be actually a little closer: here their feet are not visible whereas, on the right, we can see the feet quite clearly! On the left, we are quite near but, on the right, our viewpoint is somewhat further back. It might be said that generally in Piero's paintings, a low viewpoint pertains for the architecture where it occurs as a major compositional element 2, and human figures are normally represented at mutual eye-level, that is, our viewpoint is at the same height as the actors in the relevant scenes. In the case of the Flagellation - where incidentally, it might be argued that architecture is the de-facto main theme of the image (or at least, perspective drawing is) - this change of viewpoint is somewhat disconcerting. If we focus on the three outside figures and register the actually quite distant buildings behind them as concordant with them, and then quickly shift our focus to the left interior, the transition is abrupt and jolting; this is especially clear if we repeat the exercise with the Queen of Sheba frescos, where there is no major change of scale of the principal actors in the two scenes.

Also at Arezzo, the Verification of the True Cross scene is of particular interest in relation to our present topic. This image with its numerous foreground figures features a large temple-like structure immediately behind them; to the right is another urban street (in front of which are three figures), such as we see on the right in the Flagellation. These buildings are typical of what we can still see today in medieval and Renaissance cities such as Florence, Siena, Pisa and so on. Behind these buildings in turn are situated three towers, one of which is a bell-tower, as well as a cupola or dome, with its lantern on top. Again, our viewpoint is, as far as the buildings are concerned, from below and we seem to be placed more or less immediately in front of the temple; although Piero has suggested that we are ever so slightly to the left of it - judging from the inclusion of a deeply receding roof-line on that side - to all intents and purposes, given that he has shown the facade face-on, we must be in front of it. In fact, the left edge of that structure marks the division between this scene and the preceding one in the same manner that this occurs in the Queen of Sheba episodes, and in the Flagellation, that is, with architecture. As far as the temple facade is concerned, the pediment and massive architraves are clearly seen from below, however its three arches, visually at the height of the foreground actors, are shown as though seen from directly in front, with little underside; this would seem to suggest that Piero was accommodating, as mentioned already, the movement of the eye: directly ahead with no distortion and, as the gaze moves higher, noticeable change in the pediment and so on. Of interest is that the cross being used by the foreground actors shares its vanishing point with that of the temple, however the receding lines of the buildings on the right seem to go to a similar low point but situated further to the left, that is, in the preceding scene! 3

Finally, as far as the frescos at Arezzo are concerned, there is the Annunciation; once again, we find the same elements as in the images already discussed. A loggia with columns separating an exterior section - where the angel is - and an 'interior' section - where the Virgin is; the angel being represented in profile suggests that we are on the same viewpoint level as he is, but, again, we are definitely looking up at the building, a view this time accentuated by its being a two-storey structure and the arch of the window. Indeed, in this painting, we can see the pavement (looking down), the two principal actors (looking directly ahead) and the underside of the loggia's architraves and of the window above (looking up). These examples from Arezzo would seem to support the idea expressed earlier, that perhaps Piero was attempting to encompass the whole field of our vision, very specifically indicating our position as viewers and then allowing our eyes to survey the entire scene as though it were a 'real' one. Naturally, artists had been attempting this long before Piero della Francesca appeared but perhaps none had managed to do it so convincingly that, essentially, we have no question about what is represented, at least as far as the physical ambience is concerned. In addition, he constantly provides us with spatial dichotomies: inside versus outside, our space versus the picture's space, directly in front versus looking up; and often, the temporal and the divine.

Where does all this leave us then when studying these works by this great master? It does seem that his intellectual interest in accurate mathematical measuring - and rendering - of spaces and objects was a preoccupation which developed into a major component of his painting. As I have remarked elsewhere, the top portion of the Montefeltro (or Brera) Altarpiece could easily exist as a complete work on its own, that is, without the religious imagery of the lower portion; or simply have the entire painting as architecture and nothing else. Likewise, the Flagellation could quite happily satisfy us - speaking for myself of course - without any of its human (or divine) figures; admittedly, certain very subtle elements, such as the alternative light source around and above the figure of Christ, would lose their significance, but we would still have - for the 15th century and beyond - an extraordinary and extremely refined statement of the still-new intellectual tool of perspective.

This conception of the 'de-populated' architecture in Renaissance pictures is my own but the idea itself of architecture sans figures is not new, although still very unusual 4. Also in Urbino is the wonderful Ideal City, one of three such images, the authors of which are matters of dispute. The example in Urbino has been attributed to Piero, amongst others; to my mind, there may be an argument for considering Leon Battista Alberti as its author; it would seem to be in some ways a pictorial rendering of both his De re aedificatoria and his perspective theory as set out in Della pittura; however, some historians have pointed out that certain architectural elements in this large picture post-date his death in 1472, so possibly not. The Ideal City, a beautiful imagined Renaissance city, although it has several potted plants displayed in windows and so on, and at least two pigeons, contains no human life, no human figure; it is essentially an image of an architect's dream, his or her creation untroubled, undisturbed by human beings! Of course, the very idea, that of a city, implies the presence of human beings, not only to occupy it, but initially to build it. However, for the purist architect one imagines, the introduction of human activity into his or her creation, particularly such an ideal one, heralds the beginning of its decline: no longer an ideal in its pristine state as an idea in the mind - not to say in this connection, its neo-Platonic Ideal state!

Ideal City, author unknown, tempera and oil on wood, 67.5 x 239 cm approx., date unknown (c.1475?)

Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino (Photo: the author)

Again, behind glass or perspex and difficult to photograph: the real thing is light and airy and the dark areas at the top and sides are not part of the painting. Close to, it is possible to discern 'pentimenti' - that is, changes made to the design during the course of its execution - under the arches on the extreme right for instance.

A close-up detail of the portico on the extreme lower right of the Ideal City: note the pot-plant in the upper window and the doves on the ledge; but also, looking closely,  the incised curves of alternative arches are still visible under the first arch.

(Photo, somewhat distorted: the author)

A side view of the panel of the Flagellation: note the marked convexity of the wood. The lighter parts are examples of restoration work. (Photo: the author)

1 Masolino's loggia could in fact be a left-over from medieval convention (see Giotto for instance) where, even though an event took place indoors, inconvenient walls were removed to that the outside viewer (us) could see what was going on within. 

2 Here I am thinking of the Flagellation (Urbino), the Montefeltro Altarpiece (Brera, Milan), the top portion of the Sant'Antonio Altarpiece (Perugia) and the Annunciation, Queen of Sheba and Verification of the True Cross frescos in the Legend of the True Cross cycle at Arezzo. In other works, architecture provides a setting but is not a sort of, so to speak, independent actor: The Madonna of Senigallia (Urbino), Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta before Saint Sigismondo (Rimini), Mary Magdalen (Arezzo), the very late Nativity (London) and the Madonna and Child with Angels (Williamstown, USA). This point of view is of course open to debate since there is architecture (buildings) in all of these last-named pictures; but, in these, architecture is a backdrop and not really an enclosing space, with however, some flexibility as far as the Senigallia Madonna is concerned. 

3 Naturally, no discussion of this double panel can omit mention of the very famous view of Arezzo in the top left corner of the left side. Although obviously filled with buildings, it is a type of panoramic view and not a study of architecture per se. It is nevertheless a remarkable 'portrait' of that city, the very city in which these frescos exist!

4 See however the excellent drawings and models, pp 104-7, in the catalogue Piero della Francesca, La seduzione della prospettiva, published by Marsilio in 2018 on the occasion of the exhibition of the same name in Sansepolcro.

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.