My most recent painting, completed on December 30 last year (2022), is a still-life picture showing a large Italian coffee-pot (or, moka [sometimes moca] or caffettiera), a small coffee cup with saucer, and a glass of water. I painted this picture, and chose this subject, as I had not done any painting since the previous summer due to the exceptionally cold and wet winter - and then spring - last year. I simply wanted to get painting again and chose the things closest to hand, the objects necessary to compose a still-life. After completing the painting, I began to think about still-life pictures in general and my own in particular, painted over the decades of my life as a painter.
To begin with, the name 'still-life' is peculiar because the objects in such pictures are never alive (allowing for the occasional appearance of insects or little dogs), nor lively, that is, they are inanimate, they have no life or soul. In a sense, the 'life' the paintings do have as works of art is that given to them by the painter, and to some extent, it is that given life which viewers respond to. But even in some other European languages, still-life has a strange name: in Italian the equivalent term is natura morta, literally, 'dead nature'; in French, nature morte, again, dead nature; in German, das Stilleben, literally, the still-life; in Dutch, Stilleven, still-life, whence the English term. In all of these, including English, the significance is perhaps more that of '[drawn from] inanimate life, in other words, a (usually) careful study 'from the life' as we used to say, imitating 'nature' in the sense of copying something we can see.
Given that the objects in a still-life picture, as varied as they might be, are, as mentioned, inanimate, it is interesting that in a way, the objects portrayed, so to speak, 'come alive' under the gaze and touch of a painter. Good still-life pictures seem to have some kind of 'life' about them and the only source of that life is the work of the painter; the dynamic would seem to be that the painter's observations, his or her analysis of the subject, impart something of the painter's own life into the treatment of the inanimate objects which, in turn, are sufficiently 'lively' to attract and hold the interest of viewers.
Be that as it may, still-life is a type of painting which has its roots in antiquity; the ancient Greeks and Romans enjoyed still-life pictures, as numerous mural paintings and mosaics eloquently testify. With the advent of Byzantine art however, still-life seems to have gone into a decline (in mural painting) as it had no particular function in the religious and sometimes political art of the time. It did eventually make a cautious return as late-medieval art approached the Renaissance, with small still-lifes playing an inconspicuous role in grander religious and occasionally secular work 1. In both cases, still-life subjects are often 'hidden' in decorative dividing panels between larger narrative scenes; sometimes, still-lifes appear by default as it were, for instance, as the saddle of the ass in a Nativity, adding an element of work-a-day realism to the narrative but placed off to one side so as not to distract. It is obvious, to me at least, that the artist I am thinking of (Alessio Baldovinetti, see photo below) relished his opportunity to do something 'from life', a kind of relief from painting the mandatory characters of a religious image.
Slowly however, still-life came into its own, an image of a slice of reality, normally unassuming, mundane reality, devoid of religious and political connotations (at least, superficially). Since at least the mid-twentieth century however, various critics have seen in still-life paintings concepts of status and power, certain Dutch examples from the so-called Golden Age of Netherlandish culture being prime targets. Some of those observations are certainly pertinent in a social history context, although they do of course ignore the extraordinary artistic skill and imagination of the people (artists) who actually made those same images. As 'documents' of a certain tenor of life, of a certain status, they are undeniable - but also undeniable is their status simply as works of art: a characteristic which has outlived both the power and the status of the individuals - not to mention the individuals themselves - who commissioned or bought those pictures (happily, the critics referred to above should now therefore be able to rest easy in their beds! 2).
Note the high realism of the drawing of the fish above, all specific identifiable species; although not a still-life in the usual sense, the 'objects' not arranged on a table for example, clearly it belongs to that branch of artwork. This piece incidentally, demonstrates very well the wonderful capacity of ancient artists to draw what they could see.
This detail shows Saint Joseph leaning on a beautiful 'still-life' of a saddle, with two shepherds entering from the right. The fresco is large and the figures are perhaps half life-size; the saddle is a minor detail in the narrative but, nevertheless, Alessio has observed it closely and rendered it accurately. This fact in itself indicates a Renaissance attitude, one in which artists were encouraged to draw, and learn, from Nature. On the left of this painting is a broad panorama of Tuscan countryside, also drawn from life, from nature.
This exquisite detail, this time from another huge Nativity (or, Adoration of the Shepherds) by the Flemish painter Hugo van der Goes, shows what must be one of the most sublime still-lifes ever painted: the two vases of flowers, one ceramic and the other glass, have a 'background' of a sheaf of wheat; this de facto still-life sits at the base and in the centre of the central panel of this extraordinary triptych. The flowers of course have symbolic meaning, especially the irises. The whole work is astonishing but it is possible to isolate the 'still-life' in the centre foreground and enjoy it for being just that!
This wonderful picture by Donzello is another instance of a vase of irises appearing, front and centre, in an Annunciation; the flowers in this subject always separate the Angel and the Virgin. This painting exemplifies two important developments which occurred during the Renaissance: the first is the obvious and skilful use of perspective; the other is the gradual insinuation of realistic landscape representations into paintings - seen here in the far distance, beyond the architecture (which itself resembles that of the real space in which we find this painting). Renaissance art, both painting and sculpture, was extremely interested in the mastery of the human figure (although not so for Pietro here, who seems to have preferred an older style) and, in the case of Michelangelo for example, it was the only subject. Slowly at first, but inexorably, landscape began to appear in paintings - and even in some sculpture - until, quite a bit later, it became its own, independent subject; again, the ancient Romans already had landscape paintings on the walls of their houses but, as with many things of this nature, it (landscape painting) disappeared with the development of Byzantine art.
The walls of this fabulous small study in the palace of Federico da Montefeltro (1422 - 82), Duke of Urbino, are truly awe inspiring; the illusion of reality, albeit created with inlaid wood, is so convincing that one is continually in doubt about what is real and what isn't! In this example, apart from the open door (an illusion, as with everything in the photo) we see a number of objects, including books and some hanging beads; but the most extraordinary object is the so-called mazzocchio, the circular multi-faceted article often seen in perspective drawings of the time. It was a type of headdress (sometimes covered in cloth) worn by fashionable men of the period but is present also in works of art wherein it was a particular favourite of Paolo Uccello 3. He, like others investigating the 'mysteries' of perspective, loved the mazzocchio for the very difficulty of drawing it. It is seen here as a wooden object leaning against what seems to be a shiny surface where we can see its reflection! In any case, a very demanding exercise with pencil and paper, here absolutely amazing in wood; the whole image is of course, a still-life, which, unlike in painting proper at the time, was an acceptable subject for intarsia. Such illusionistic inlay work can be seen in many places in Italy, including in churches (choir stalls and so on).
This photo and the next, a detail of the decorative border surrounding the monument itself, show an example of still-life being, so to say, 'hidden' in peripheral areas (here, literally). The work is typical of the superlative skills of Renaissance artists, including in ceramics, a field Luca and his family specialised in. Although not related to the present topic, the painting visible in the photo is the remains of an earlier fresco, a wonderful work in its own right.
Jumping ahead to the Baroque period, still-life by then had established itself as an independent subject, that is to say, it was not merely a kind of anecdotal accompaniment to some more 'serious' theme. The influence of Caravaggio was at this time profound and consequently, many works - including still-lifes - are quite dark; a characteristic which contrasts them with both what existed before and what came later: many Renaissance pictures - not all - are quite light in tone, as are many from, say, Impressionism through to various schools of Modernism. Let's begin then with Ribera (1591 - 1670).
A medium-sized picture, in tone very typical of the period - and the place (Naples) - it is a classic example of Ribera's wonderful mastery, not only of his craft, but also of still-life. Ribera enjoyed popular favour with his similarly strong and dark paintings of saints; in this image, the extreme chiaroscuro (Italian, light+dark) of the mature Caravaggio is critical to this powerful treatment of food - if a little gruesome for modern taste. Food was (even in Roman times) and still is a common theme in still-life paintings and another great painter of the period specialised in food and her name is Giovanna Garzoni (1600 - 1670).
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Giovanna made many still-life paintings as well as other subjects; her light touch and colours were somewhat at odds with the prevailing preference for strong contrast between light and dark; her chosen media were also unusual as many of her works are done in water-based colours on parchment, as here. As is obvious, she was a master painter.
Chardin is regarded as one of the great masters of still-life but he also painted - also in pastel - portraits and homely interiors, often with working people at their chores; an interesting choice in France at the time, given that the decadence of the court and nobility was in full swing, so to speak 4. Chardin preferred the ordinary, the homely, the modest, themes he treated with a degree of gravitas normally reserved for more 'formal' subjects. He frequently made use of a darker background against which he contrasted not only his lights, but also his beautiful colours, as seen in the example above. His pictures in pastel are extraordinary.
Still-life paintings, such as the three just looked at, might be regarded as typical, even canonical, of still-life as understood right up to the present: a series of objects, including flowers and food of all sorts, and at times, (usually) dead animals, displayed or arranged on a table, sometimes in great profusion; sometimes, as in more recent work, more sparingly, with only a few objects - maybe only one - arranged more or less in a line, parallel to the picture plane. The definition of space was a given as, in realist terms, the chosen objects had to exist somewhere and naturally, that somewhere was in the fictive 'real' space of the painting, a concept with a history extending at least as far back as the Renaissance. In the Roman example at the beginning of this article, there is no 'space' of the type just described; in a sense, it was simply understood that the fish existed somewhere, but it was apparently unnecessary to specifically indicate that place. The development in early 15th century Italy of certain ideas concerning reality, or nature, meant that a picture, of necessity, had to be coherent in its imitation of the visible world, and that ironically included the invisibility of space itself (notwithstanding Alberti's comment that painters are only concerned with the visible 5). That is, any object (be it a person or anything inanimate) placed in a room for instance, had its space defined with the use of perspective - for the physical structure enclosing the object - and light, which was employed to model form; however, light - through the modulation of colour - was also used to suggest the air, the intangible space in which that object existed. Cubism of course, upset the apple cart so to say, and these earlier canons were rejected almost entirely.
And speaking of Picasso, above is a work by his contemporary and fellow-Spaniard, Juan Gris (1887 - 1927). Gris' works are a kind of intellectual refinement of the raw energy of early Picasso Cubism; interestingly, in the picture above we might notice hints, premonitions, of Mondrian and even Vasarely. But importantly, the canons observed in17th and 18th century still-life were now almost irrelevant and a new aesthetic was established, that of the priority of the painting per se, indeed, even the act of painting per se, that is, in opposition to its age-old function of replication of the visible world, of nature.
As a development of Cubism, the work of Léger (1881 - 1955) is one of the more sophisticated, with clear adherence to certain of the basic principles, but also obvious unique contributions of his own, most notably in his definition of layered space. In this example, there is an almost kinetic quality to the 'objects' depicted, with a sort of subtle to-ing and fro-ing, forwards and backwards, of the various components. A view of both space and form radically different from say, a Chardin.
Giorgio Morandi (1890 - 1964), a painter from Bologna, also began his professional life as a metaphysical artist but quite soon returned to two main figurative themes, landscape and still-life; he was so original in his treatment of both subjects - in drawings, prints and paintings - that it is difficult to decide to which he contributed more. The example here is a typical Morandi still-life, not only in its handling, in its distribution of the objects, in its colour, but also in the very choice of the objects themselves. Morandi painted over and over again the same small group of objects, humble house-hold objects (which he had painted a sort of neutral colour, that is, the physical objects themselves), arranged and re-arranged a myriad times, resulting in a sometimes sublime stillness, a quiet group of 'friends' interacting with each other, at one and the same time differently - each time - and yet oddly the same. As in this instance, occasionally one or two articles were allowed to exhibit some dash of 'personal' colour, but Morandi's control of tone assured that no-one got out of line, so to speak.
The English artist Ben Nicholson (1894 - 1982), once married to the important sculptor Barbara Hepworth, was a significant figure in pre- and post- WWII British art, at one time hosting Piet Mondrian while on his escape from occupied Europe to the USA. With clear attachment to Cubism and not without some influence from his Dutch guest, and his fellow-countryman Henry Moore, Nicholson brought to still-life an intellectual and aesthetic rigour all his own. After making abstract works, both two-dimensional and low relief, he returned to a highly formal figurative style developed out of his interest in the Constructive idea theory (as opposed to Russian Constructivism). Like Mondrian, he was also a theorist, perhaps most notably in his contributions to, and editing of, the book Circle: International Survey of Constructive Art (1937).
The picture in the Art Gallery at Perth is a fine example of Nicholson's sober, aesthetically highly-refined, formal style; it makes use of several media, favouring clean, precise line combined with areas of subdued colour. Like Mondrian's works, it is a rational statement which nonetheless conveys deep if somewhat private emotion; a twentieth-century, intellectually analytical gaze, so profoundly different from 18th century work for instance.
Finally, I imagine that some readers will question why certain of their favourite still-life paintings are not discussed here, such as those by Van Gogh or Picasso, or the world famous (without a hint of hyperbole) Basket of Fruit by Caravaggio; obviously, it would have been impossible to discuss every great still-life picture in an article of this length, and I felt that, precisely because such paintings are so well-known, it was unnecessary to re-state, yet again, their greatness. Instead, I wanted to illustrate how quite divergent artists had approached this subject-matter and also perhaps bring to your attention some names not so familiar but, in the end, just as wonderful.
I could not finish this article without including a fine example of a flower painting, and a Dutch one at that. Van Huysum (1682 - 1749) apparently got these flowers from his own garden but, wherever he obtained them from, his elegant, subtle mastery of every detail in this still-life is extraordinary.
1 I note that the plural form still-lifes used in this article may disturb some readers who might prefer the form 'still-lives'; dictionaries seem to opt for 'still lifes' (no hyphen) and so that's what is used here, except ... I have added the hyphen as I think the words joined in that way function better as a noun.
2 One of the problems with re-writing history with the aid of a politically focused rear-view mirror is that this often ignores another reality of the present situation: without the good, the bad and the ugly people who paid for particular kinds of artwork, we wouldn't have had it! And those same critics would then have had to find some other art form to get stuck into: perhaps literature or music. In fact, they already do so but, speaking personally, I'd rather have the ruins of a Greek theatre or a Roman temple than the remains of some bark-and-thatch hut any day!
3 The mazzocchio makes several appearances in Uccello's famous tripartite version of The Battle of San Romano (distributed among the National Gallery, London, the Uffizi, Florence and the Louvre, Paris); in the supposed 'middle' section, in Florence, there are at least three combatants wearing mazzocchi!
4 I should explain the obscure pun here, as one of the most well-known images of the French Rococo is that by Fragonard (1732 - 1806) in the Wallace Collection in London, The Swing (1767). This painting, as the name suggests, is of a person on a swing, a young noblewoman, richly dressed, and accompanied by two young men: a picnic pastime of the 'idle rich' of the period. The painting's French title, Les hasards heureux de l'escarpolette (The Happy Accidents of the Swing) alludes to its (typical of the period) voyeuristic implications.
5 Leon Battista Alberti (1404 - 1472) in Della Pittura (On Painting), 1436: see various articles in this blog concerning Alberti.
