In lieu of some of the art from the time, ranging from  Velazquez’s bodegón series,  to the work of the Frenchman George de la Tour, and some of the lesser known Bamboccianti from Italy and Northern Europe , this small corpus adds a striking new wrinkle of painterly development to the story of the late  Baroque.

As the predeliction towards Tenebrism and low-life scenes had taken hold of Western Europe in the wake of the revolutionary Caravaggio, this corpus is unique in its emotional resonance. While we do not know much about the life of the Master of the Blue Jeans yet, we can see that that this subject matter was intensely personal to him, as these paintings provide a moving and empathetic eye to the plight of the poverty stricken.  On the lighter side of things, it’s also hard not to cherish this man’s curious namesake, which as discussed in the catalogue, may have provided a historical argument to the origins of such a staple article of modern clothing, which had long been presumed to be born in the textile mills of Amoskeag, New Hampshire, in 1831.

OMNP sat down with Didier Aaron’s director, Alan Salz, for a loosely documented conversation to learn more:

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These pictures are all painted quite well, how is it that this guy managed to stay unrecognized all these years?

On one hand, you have advancements in connoisseurship, which link together works with vague attributions that had once been attached to more well-known artists and their studios, or simply labeled as the style or school of a particular period. On the other, this process can be subject to searching for a needle in the haystack, especially if works are in private collections. If there’s a Master of a Blue Jeans work that happens to be out in some country house in Milan, it can really be by chance that an owner would be notified that there’s a search out for such works, maybe by reading about it in the Burlington Magazine or hearing about it through their network.

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One would think that if the master was painting low-life scenes (not exactly the most marketable,) he would have commissions coming from elsewhere. Do you think these paintings were done for anyone in particular?

One of the intriguing things about this group of works is how similar they are in compositional structure, each displaying three characters, with one looking out at the viewer. Such a specific configuration would suggest that these were a part of a series of works, however it’s tough to say if they were for an individual or a number of patrons. Time will tell.

What was the key painting that discerned the Master’s style and set off the search for more works like it?

“Woman Begging with Two Children” (see image #3) which lends itself as to why this artist was only  recently discovered. This painting was housed in the Villa Airoldi in Albiate (a suburb north of Milan), from about 1850 all the way up until 2002, when it was bought by the noted collector Luigi Koelliker. Four years previously, the painting was reidentified in a survey of Italian Baroque painting, entitled “Da Caravaggio a Ceruti” at the Museo di Santa Giulia, Brescia, eventually being connected to “Beggar Boy with a Piece of Pie” (image #2) which both share the subject of the innocent yet street-smart child that can be identified with his tattered navy jean jacket and brown hat.

What types of politics are at play when it comes to soliciting owners to let such works be reattributed? For example, the exhibition catalogue mentions that “The Barber’s Shop” (image #4) came from the esteemed Wildenstein gallery, which originally had it attributed as a Velazquez.  Wouldn’t there be resistance to seeing a picture’s value drop or is it more like a courtesy amongst dealers to honor such academic breakthroughs?

People are obviously resistant seeing pictures get demoted, but in the case of the Velazquez it had already been downgraded to an attribution as an anonymous work of the seventeenth-century Neapolitan School, according to the catalogue entry by  Christie’s in New York, for their sale of Old Masters on January 23^rd, 2004.

Scholarship changes all the time, Look at the recent reattribution of Velazquez’s “Phillip IV” at the Met, or their acquisition of the Perino del Vaga’s at Sotheby’s this year (the painting’s attribution was the subject for debate). There are constantly disputes, in some cases you have owners holding on to works, waiting for the next generation of scholars to come along.

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That’s interesting to think of how paintings in the Old Masters field can experience a roller-coaster ride in terms of value, with attributions changing not once but several times. One wonders about how changes in taste can also be affected, in terms of how these works are presented. For example, this exhibition had the unique distinction of being linked with the fashion crowd, due to the title of its maker. While the reaction in NYC was reportedly subdued, there was a lively response to the show over in Paris..trumpeted by Marithe Francois-Girbaud’s foreword to the show in the exhibition catalog.

The history of denim being a long time subject of fascination to him, is this appeal to this type of audience an anomaly, or could more private Old Master shows be marketed around Contemporary themes today?

It’s wonderful to see Old Masters resonate on a more modern level and it’s important to preserve the integrity of the terms by which they are presented. There’s a beauty in seeing what these painters were illustrating hundreds of years ago and understanding them on a transcendent level.  At the same time, it’s also apt to see that not everything has to sing to us in a 21^st century fashion. Some things just aren’t the same now as they were then, and you don’t want to look to these shows as being gimmicks.

‘The Master of the Blue Jeans,” on view until February 18th [Didier Aaron]

Was the legacy of Charles-Joseph Natoire a case of unfulfilled potential or of yielding to the greater good? Here was a man who at the peak of his popularity as a painter, chose to take his talents to Rome and develop the next generation of great French artists. In retrospect, if his name suffered in his later years, the fall from grace certainly didn’t have much to do with the quality of his work.

At a time when most artists struggle to make ends meet, Natoire’s formative years were a smashing success. His career began auspiciously enough, winning the prestigious Prix d’ Rome from the French Royal Academy at the tender age of 21.

The prize propelled him to further greatness in the Eternal City, where he was known as one of the French Academy’s finest students. In 1725, his rendition of “Moses Returning from Sinai” would be awarded first prize at the annual salon of the storied Academia di San Luca. A triumphant return home would be marked by a reception from the Royal Academy in September 1730, and the beginning of a slew of high profile commissions.

By the turn of 1734, Natoire seemed destined for a long and illustrious career. In Paris, he reached the pinnacle of renown when King Louis XV, commissioned him to decorate the royal chambers of the Château de Fontainebleau, the royal library in Paris, and the palace of Versailles, among others. The submission of his masterful “Venus Commanding from Vulcan the Arms of Aeneas” (see image #7)- a challenge to a similar work completed by Francois Boucher (see image #8) a few years earlier, secured him a full-time membership within the Royal Academy. With the completion of an acclaimed series of decorative panels detailing “The History of Psyche,” he was easily one of the most heralded names at the summit of the Rococo age-the great Boucher as his chief rival.

So what exactly happened to marginalize Natoire’s reputation? In short, he became a victim of his own success. In a turn of fate in 1751, he graciously accepted an invitation to return to his old stomping ground in Rome, now as Director of the French Academy. It was then that he became best and most nobly known as a teacher. He tirelessly preached the practice of plein-air studies of the Roman countryside, which had a major subsequent impact on French painting, most notably in the work of some of his renowned pupils like Hubert Robert and the great Jean-Honoré Fragonard.

In exchange however,  Natoire’s own career as a painter suffered. He hadn’t exactly paid heed to the competition back home, and the whims of court life would prove to be detrimental. It would not be Natoire, but Carl van Loo and Boucher who would go on to the coveted title of Premier peintre du Roi during Natoire’s later years, at which point his creative output would go into steep decline.

How precious then, to come across a preparatory study of two mourning soldiers (image #1) done in the twilight of his career- one of the final glimpses of a virtuoso in full command of his powers? This study was to be transferred to the artist’s last major commission- a ceiling fresco of “The Apotheosis of Saint Louis,” (see images #3/4) which was to adorn the legendary chapel of San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome. (image #2)

Here was a big league opportunity unlike any other, to be included in a pantheon of religious masterpieces that included the likes of Domenichino’s frescoes for the life of Saint Cecilia, and most memorably Caravaggio’s “Calling of Saint Matthew” from his triptych series detailing the life of Matthew-a seminal masterpiece of the Baroque Age. (see image #5) Not exactly the worst company to be in.

And so in this drawing, we find the artist recapturing the glory of his youth and that charming blend of Rococo and Baroque that had once carried him to such lofty heights. Forget the vagaries of Neoclassicism, which by then  had made Natoire’s style unfashionable.  This work deliberately looks backward for posterity’s sake-a defiance of then current trends that was as eloquent as his draughtsmanship.

How confident was this man’s line- rationed off here to highlight details like the standing soldier’s helmet and forlorn face, his graceful staff and contrapposto pose; or the fuzzy coif of the accompanying figure to the bottom, as he kneels over in a state of drowsy bereavement.

One gets the feeling this was more than just an experience of St. Louis’ ascension. It was an eloquent reminder of a master’s own powers to himself.

FURTHER

Charles-Joseph Natoire

(Nimes, 1700 – 1777, Castel Gandolfo)

“Study of Two Soldiers: The King’s Comrades in Arms”

c. 1754

black chalk with white chalk heightening on grey paper.

(443 x 368 mm), watermark of an encircled fleur-de-lys.

Provenance: Collection of A. Hyatt Mayor, former chief curator of the print department of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, N.ew York.

Literature: To be published in the forthcoming catalogue raisoné of Natoire by J. Patrice Marandel.

This beautiful study from life, while known to its former owner the esteemed A. Hyatt Mayor to be by Natoire, is only now for the first time identified as a preparatory study for figures in the ceiling decoration of the principal nave in San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome. The subject of this fresco is the “Death and Apotheosis of Saint Louis.” For this very important commission, Natoire began putting his first ideas into drawings in 1754. By December of 1755, he had completed a large colored sketch; in April of 1756 he’d finished the full-size cartoon. [1] The fresco then took five months to complete, but it was not Natoire who executed the fresco. Rarely cited is the fact that the ceiling was frescoed according to Natoire’s cartoon by the little known Roman artist, Antonio Bicchierari, who unlike Natoire was experienced in the art of fresco.

The two soldiers depicted here represent the Comrades in Arms of St. Louis, King of France, who died in 1270 of the plague while fighting in the Crusades. They are weeping and mourning Louis’ death, one holding the standard or auriflamme, symbol of St. Louis.

In a modello conserved at the Musee des Beaux-Arts in Brest, the extremely foreshortened sleeping soldier whose head rests on his hands is eliminated. [2] Happily though, this figure is restored in the definitive version, the fresco. [3] The standing soldier undergoes only minor changes in his costume; his beautiful stance and gesture could not be improved. The only other known chalk study for this project is the figure of St. Louis now in the Louvre. [4] That figure is drawn in the same scale as the present figures and the medium and paper are also the same. A ricordo by Natoire of the entire composition of the “Death and Apotheosis of St. Louis” in pen & ink & wash is preserved in the Musee Baron Martin in Gray.[5] Recently, Pierre Rosenberg has reported that there are other autograph ricordi, such as the one in Weimar, shown in an exhibition in New York at the Frick Collection, Spring 2005. [6]

[1] “Charles-Joseph Natoire, peintures, dessins, estampes…..,” Nantes, 1987, p.99.

[2] op. cit. p.100, pl.69.

[3] op. cit. p.97, illus.

[4] op. cit. p. 99, pl. 68.

[5] op cit. p.101, pl. 70.

[6] See the exhibition catalogue for the Weimar version, Mandrella, Mildenberger, Peronnet and Rosenberg, “From Callot to Greuze, French Drawings from Weimar,” Berlin, 2005, pp.172-174.  The authors cite other ricordi as being at Waddeson Manor, Musee Baron Martin in Paris and in a private collection, as well as the one mentioned by Gray. They reproduce the one at Waddeson as well as the one at Weimar and also the modello in Brest.

Most of us are familiar with eradicating our defects around January 1. As Benjamin Franklin once said, “Be at war with your vices…and let every new year find you a better man.”

Two weeks into the month however, how many of us are keeping up with such resolutions? And if we are meeting our vices head on, at what toll does such a battle take?

The unsavory world of our shortcomings is where our demons reign, which only become stronger when run away from them. Self improvement practiced out of self-denial is merely a temporary refuge, cultivated amidst the barren land of an unhappy soul, where the flora of such chaste virtue is quick to wilt.

For the seeds of change to truly grow, we must shed light upon this netherworld, not to banish it, but to become more familiar with.

Jacob Matham’s engraved series of “Vices” is an eloquent step towards such personal salvation. Executed after the designs of the great Hendrick Goltzius’ (Matham was his step-son, and an assistant in his studio), these visions of human folly are atypical for the high drama of the Baroque age. We would expect something more disturbing; our Vices pictured as salacious and wicked. Instead, we find subjects very much like ourselves.

Say hello to the classy debutante that embodies Pride (image #1), glamorously adorned, save for the convex mirror she relies upon to present a distorted image of herself.

Anger (image #4) would just as soon be a model of valor, if it not for the slightly excessive sword that he yields in retribution, which will happily plunge its way into his hideous nemesis.

Gluttony (image #2) would be a particularly easy target today- the Recession’s rebuke of an era of greed and conspicuous consumption.  But this is not a fat or despicable figure. Instead, Matham focuses on the dish that he serves, which functions as a double entendre on the pitfalls of power. Our lustful appetite to wear the crown may soon affix our head upon the silver platter.

Aside from the grotesque toad that accompanies him, the figure of Avarice (image #6) inspires pity. His expression slightly turns downward, aware of the self-defeatism that comes from being so desperately attached to his material possessions.

These are humane reminders to be put up around one’s home- not to scare off the guests at your dinner party, but as a source of contemplation on the caveats within us. We become all the more empowered when we carry on with them in tow.

A chilling exception to the suite is Envy (image #5) a soulless, crazed Medusa who is about to engorge upon her own heart- a symbol of self-devouring egocentricity. Thinking of the time and place, it’s enjoyable to consider Goltzius coming up with a more severe design here, as something that he had no doubt encountered in his rise to the top. As his studio reigned supreme, perhaps he was taking a subliminal shot at his jealous competition.

FURTHER

“Pride (L’orgueil),” first plate from the series

A. Bartsch,  271 i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 271; Hollstein 284 ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Inscribed and numbered in plate lower center: “1  HGoltzius inue. et. ex.”; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Exerata Deis hominisque Superbia, nulli / Heu placeo, placeo dum nimis ipsa mihi.” A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins measuring around 1/8 inch.

“Gluttony, (La gourmandise),” second plate from the series

Bartsch 272, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 272; Hollstein 285, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “2″; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Lautra Gula facies, et Splendida menSa Lyai, / Heu quot praecipitus dat, dedit atqB dabit.” A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins measuring around 1/8 inch.

“Extravagance (L’impurete),” third plate from the series

Bartsch 273, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 273; Hollstein 286, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “3″; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Omnia peruertit veneris vaeSana Libido, / Fura fidem, patriam, feqB, SuoSoB, Deos.” Watermark along lower image. A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, scattered watercolor on verso, and rust stain in upper part of sheet, with margins measuring at least 1/8 inch.

“Anger (La colere),” fourth plate from the series

Bartsch 274, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 274; Hollstein 287, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “4″; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Fra ferox ratione carens, Stinulata Furore, / Quodlibet aggredior feruida atroxqB nefas.” Watermark along lower image. A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins measuring at least 1/8 inch.

“Envy (L’envie),” fifth plate from the series

Bartsch 275, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 275; Hollstein 288, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “5″; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Fnuidia atra lues SucceSSibus aSpera fauStis, / IpSa fit infaelix carnificina Sui.” Watermark along lower image. A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins measuring at least 1/8 inch.

“Avarice (L’avarice),” sixth plate from the series

Bartsch 276, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 276; Hollstein 289, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “6″; inscribed in plate along bottom: “Perdita Auarities, corraSis obruta, viuo / Magnas inter opes ( heu mihi ) Semper inops.” Watermark along top image. A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins measuring at least 1/8 inch.

“Sloth (La paresse),” seventh plate from the series

Bartsch 277, i/II (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate); Illustrated Bartsch 277; Hollstein 290, ii/III (Completely finished figures, with Goltzius’ complete address in first plate). Numbered in plate lower left: “7″; numbered and inscribed in plate along bottom: “Segnities enorme inalum JuuenumqB, SenumqB, / At Juuenum Syren blanda, querela Senum. 7.” Watermark along top image. A fine and strong impression in fine condition aside from very faint centerline crease, with margins trimmed just within platemark.

Plate 1: “Marriage Founded Solely on Pleasure, Presided over by Eros”

Why do people get married in this day and age? With divorce rates hovering around fifty percent over the long run, it seems to be more a leap of faith than an affirmation of love. Perhaps it’s a dim flickering flame of commitment in an era of personal freedom. Yet there are certain conundrums about its potential beauty and ugliness that have been around for centuries.

Jan Pietersz Saenredam, for one, a renowned engraver from the studio of Hendrick Goltzius, was ruminating on this back around 1600, in this charming series of prints, “Three Kinds of Marriage.” When couples therapy didn’t really exist, this was a blueprint to keep things steered in the right direction.

The first image, “Marriage Founded Solely on Pleasure, Presided over by Eros” presents seemingly enjoyable circumstances. Don’t both the man and woman here seem satisfied enough? Yet look at the way they are adjoined by Eros, his fingers clasping their wrists in a way that is faintly creepy. Here is a relationship started with good intentions, fired by lust, yet desperate to hold itself together in the long run.

The frailties of a “Marriage Founded on Wealth, Which is the Work of the Devil” are much more obvious. A rapidly aging maiden finds herself in a state of despair from her luxurious trappings. She is besot by the weight of her exorbitant ornamentation, and repulsed by the dank stench of greed breathing down on her from the devil beside her, who along with her shadowy suitor croon in a state of predatory anticipation.

After these two scenes, what good can possibly come out of such  commitment? Not to worry, as Saenredam brings about a peaceful conclusion with “Marriage Founded Solely on Pure and Chaste Love, Which is Blessed by Christ.” Here our lovers are not caught up with selfish pleasures or aggrandizement. They focus not on themselves, or each other for that matter, but gracefully upon their embraced hands,  symbolizing a peaceful future together. By the looks of the bulging bride to be, this is a union that will soon bring even more beauty into the world.

Further:

A fine late sixteenth or early seventeenth century  impression, close to the time of the engraving of the plate, in fine condition aside from trimming of the two-line Latin inscription along the bottom; trimmed within the platemark, just beyond the image borderline on top and sides.  Plate 1 is state i/III

Image #1

On February 6, 1799, at a perfume and liqueur shop at 1 Calle de Desagnanos (Street of Disillusions) in Madrid,  Francisco Goya put on display a new series of acquatints entitled “Los Caprichos”. The artist duly advertised the show on the front page of Diario de Madrid:

“A series of prints of whimsical subjects….among the multitude of extravagances and follies which are common throughout civilized society, and among vulgar prejudices and frauds rooted in custom, ignorance, or interest, those which he has believed to be aptest to provide an occasion for ridicule and at the same time to exercise his imagination.”

The price of each set, 320 reales (about two hundred dollars in our currency), came to a little less than two dollars and fifty cents per print, a fairly common price at the time. Yet only three days later, Goya withdrew his exhibition, having sold only twenty-seven of the three hundred sets he had printed.

Goya could have used a forerunner like P.T. Barnum in his corner – for Barnum would surely have spun the debut of such a groundbreaking work into a more profitable freak show.

Instead, to paraphrase Joyce Carol Oates, Goya’s masterpiece would be “consigned to posterity.”

Not that Goya needed the money. His distinguished position as the official court painter to King Carlos IV gave him the financial security to deliver art of his own, creatively unshackled from the concerns of patrons. With the Caprichos, he was giving the public a wake-up call.

Goya’s prints amounted to a visual manifesto decrying how regressive the so-called civilized society of Carlos IV’s “enlightened” Spain actually was. His nightmare images captured a depraved underworld that lay just beneath the surface of modern life.

Forget the preachy, sentimental propaganda of virtue and vice employed by the Church. Goya saw that disgust, horror, and humor were much more effective in capturing the attention of the Spaniards of his day. He had to create an entirely new iconography, one not of angels, devils, and saints, but of witches, goblins and the pathetic reprobates who had infested society.

Leave it to Goya to make such distressing scenes so intoxicatingly beautiful.

This is Plate Number 55 from the series, entitled “Hasta La Muerte” (“Until Death”). The themes here are vintage Goya satire: the utterly deluded vanity of the elderly and the alluring deception of mirrors. The old woman is oblivious to her decay, just as she is to the horrified snickers of those around her. Nothing can bring her to recognize reality; she will be this way until she dies.  Although some critics and art historians have suggested that Goya was caricaturing a specific person, the print far transcends any specific reference and depicts a universal human folly.

And yet, Goya is not callous. He added a commentary to the print that hints at a humane sympathy with the old woman, or at least with the pathos of the situation: “She is quite right to make herself look pretty. It is her seventy-fifth birthday, and her little girl friends are coming to see her.”

The Caprichos series is a masterpiece that has the rare distinction of being owned by every great museum in the world.  Here is your opportunity to join the club.

Further:

Goya’s commentary: “She is quite right to make herself look pretty. It is her seventy-fifth birthday, and her little girl friends are coming to see her.”

The third edition, made in the Calcografia for the Real Academia in 1868, is distinguished by an unbevelled platemark, strong absorbent wove paper measuring 310 x 230 mm, and a dark umber ink. Harris states: “This edition is well printed and the impressions are still generally good.”

A master’s portrait of an aristocrat can be vexing when viewed centuries later. The gravitas of the patron has long since been forgotten.  Instead, we are impressed only by the virtuoso’s imagination.

Hendrick Goltzius’ engraving “Captain of the Infantry” shows just how vexing – and delightful — such portraiture can be. The image dates from the early rush of Goltzius’ Mannerist outpouring during his stay in Haarlem during the 1580′s — a time when Goltzius was also perfecting his burin engraving method, the greatest advance in the medium since Durer’s work a century earlier.

One wonders how Goltzius’s subject, the Dutch count Jacob Ruckyhaver, felt about being captured in the artist’s whimsical style.

At one level, the picture is a salute to valor during the continuing Eighty Years’ War between Spain and the Netherlands. But that tribute pales beside Goltzius’ vivacious and even mischievous adventures in line. He literally fractures Ruckyhaver’s body into three distinct sections, a mix-and-match experiment in physiognomy with backgrounds to match.

In the upper third of the portrait, tiny, almost fingerprint-like impressions compose swirling clouds that echo the anxious expression on Ruckyhaver’s diminutive face, his head practically sitting on a platter.  Although he stares at the viewer, the captain is also facing the brewing storm of battle. In the middle section, the gaping expanse of the horizon provides the perfect backdrop to showcase an egg-shaped torso and a heavy, richly brocaded arm — the robust girth of a nobleman.

And at the bottom, things take an effeminate turn, as Goltzius gives his subject graceful legs and tiny feet — the daintiness of a ballerina set off against the massing infantry.

It is a puzzling visual feast, made all the more intriguing by Goltzius’s scintillating detail. To modern eyes, it could be the sixteenth-century equivalent of a fashion shoot, with the billowing drapery of the captain’s tunic and the varying textures of his regal garb. The captain looks more like an overweight dandy than a battle hardened soldier. But embattled he is.

This is an anti-heroic Mannerism in high pitch, substituting artifice for nature but with no glorification whatsoever. It is an Old Master’s work but with a sensibility that touches on the surreal. This is a gem from one of the most sought-after engravers of his time or any other.

About the Artist:

Hendrick Goltzius was one of the hallmark figures in Dutch art’s transition from the Northern Rennaissance to the Golden Age of the 17th century. Possessing an otherworldy adeptness with the engraving burin (thought to be the benefit of a grip gained from a childhood accident that severely mangled his right hand-see image #2), he was best known for his pioneering of  the “swelling line”, which would change in width based on various degrees of pressure applied to the tool. This technique gave Goltzius remarkable control of tone and shade, that of which the renowned curator A. Hyatt Mayor  proclaimed “the last professional engraver who drew with the authority of a good painter.”

By 1593, Goltzius was so renowned that prints from his workshop were reported to have spread as far as the North Pole. His abstention from political and religious allegiances allowed him to navigate the choppy currents of power during the time and gain many noteworthy patrons throughout Europe, including most importantly the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II.

His accomplishments would go on to influence many of the future greats of the Netherlandish Baroque, including a young Peter Paul Rubens (who subsequently employed many of Goltzius’ workshop assistants for his own studio) and Rembrandt van Rijn who found an eager market for his prints, based on the stage set by Goltzius and his contemporaries.

Further:

Bartsch 126; The Illustrated Bartsch 126; Hollstein 254; Strauss 252. Signed, dated, and inscribed in plate below image: “A1587 HGoltzius fecit / Præuius infractos reddo Dux Martis alumnos, / Spernere dum doceo cuncta perida, meo.”. A fine impression in fine condition with thread margins. Subject is Jacob Ruyckhaver of Haarlem.

Stumbling upon “Raiders of the Lost Ark” during late night channel surfing is a discovery serendipitous enough to actually put up with the commercial interruptions. The heart of many an 80’s baby can imbibe in that warm, fuzzy, pajama feeling patented by the Lucas/Spielberg dream team of yesteryear.

A recent viewing however did not produce nostalgic comfort so much as a recent flashback to an epic masterpiece by the 16^th century Flemish painter Jan Gossart, whose work is now on view in a much due retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

In one scene, Indiana Jones’ oft jubilant colleague Sallah (see image #19) suddenly turns ominous, concerned over the fire and brimstone soon to be unleashed upon unearthing the mysterious Ark of the Covenant. In his words:  “It is something that man was not meant to disturb. Death has always surrounded it. It is not of this earth.”  

Transgressions towards Gossart’s “Malvagna Triptych,” (see image #1) are likely to be along more benign lines, as taking a picture of it won’t incur the wrath of God, so much as the stern admonishment of the Met’s security guards. Yet there’s no doubt that this thing has an aura about it that is anything but worldly.

Jpegs do not do this work justice. You really need to see it in person to experience the deftness needed for the freakishly intricate gold cornice and haunting faces of the flanking angels-almost speaking to you while frozen in an epic biblical moment. It’s a feeling both astonishing and bewildering.

It’s also worth noting that like “Raiders..” the ingenuity of the “Malvagna Triptych” was also a noted collaboration, completed by Gossart and Gerard David, both then heavyweights of Renaissance painting in Bruges, in a practice that was fairly common for the time.  How amazingly well do the styles of both painters synthesize with one another? This has to be the penultimate duet of the era, second only to the “Ghent Altarpiece” (which was a prospective collaboration between Jan van Eyck and his brother Hubert, see image #17) for its transfixing power of piety.

Interestingly enough, “Stealing the Lamb”- a new study of the work’s tumultuous history by writer Noah Charney, provides recourse for art imitating life, when considering the aforementioned adventures of Dr. Jones and his perpetual nemesis, the Third Reich.  Charney explores how Hitler was taken by its occult allure, confiscating the altarpiece when he conquered Belgium, and storing it in a secret salt mine along with a slew of other priceless artworks that he planned to exhibit in kulturhaupstadt (a “citywide supermuseum”) in his birthplace of Linz, Austria.

From ART INFO’s Andrew Russeth:

“Obsessed with exacting vengeance for Germany’s losses in World War I, Hitler was quick to go after the work when he came to power in 1933. But while avenging the Treaty of Versailles was one motivation, Charney posits that another, impossibly far-fetched consideration may have been driving the führer: the notion that the altarpiece contained a secret treasure map that could lead him to the Arma Christi, the various tools used in the Passion of the Christ, including the Holy Grail.”  

Van Eyck’s groundbreaking influence was not lost on the Gossart show, where we learn of him as providing a stylistic blueprint for him and the rest of his Bruges contemporaries. In some cases, it’s literal-the Dora Pamphilj diptych (see image #5) was a faithful copy of Van Eyck’s “Madonna in a Church” (see image #10),while the video below finds the artist implementing elements of the “Ghent Altarpiece”  into “The Deesis” (see image #18)

Gossart may have been leaning hard on Van Eyck, yet one can also associate works like “The Deesis” and the “Malvagna Triptych” , with the spiritual function of other classic tabernacles  like Matthias Grünewald’s  “Isenheim Altarpiece” (see image #16).

This piece was originally installed in the hospital of a monastery for those suffering from acute skin diseases; a decaying Christ serving as an empathetic confirmation of their suffering and reminder that paradise could soon be theirs.

The conditions for the most heathen of hungover Manhattanites might not be as drastic, but a visit to the Malvagna over the next few Sunday mornings is sure to provide an uplifting remedy for the holiday excess of the previous evening.   

Credit the painter Joe Coleman, whose modern reworkings of the Northern Renaissance school pay respect to such numinous qualities, whilst transforming it into an archetype for his own unsettling visions. Invoking such a hallowed tradition is beginning to become tricky, yet “Auto-Portrait,” an exhibition of new work currently in its final days at the Dickinson gallery in New York, finds the fine balance between reckless appropriation and feckless appreciation.

If one has just visited the Gossart show and found themselves floating after the intimate eloquence of diminutive panel paintings like Van Eyck’s “Madonna and Child at the Fountain,” (see image #8) Coleman’s descendants “”What God Hath Join Together,” and the triple-entrendred “Pandora’s Box” (see image #12) are jarring to say the least.“The Child I Never Had,” an apparition of his aborted daughter in a state of apocalyptic dread could be tagged as taking advantage of this religious template, lending a weighted sense of gospel to credit the ramblings of a self-absorbed imagination.

Stick around however, and you begin to see the gracefulness that has gone into rendering such revolting scenes. Seeing beauty in the ugly and disastrous isn’t that new. It’s also something Coleman has been doing throughout his career, most markedly in his performance-based work, which as Artnet’s Carlo McCormick explains:

“ included such tropes as covering his body with explosives and setting them off, biting the heads off of live rats and throwing their bodies at the audience, and punctuating his rants with a loaded gun, was too radical for the avant-garde, as his comics were too nasty for the underground, his band too rude for Punk and his paintings too grizzly for the down and dirty East Village art scene where he first began showing them and just too damn crazy for the outsider art world where he subsequently found a temporary home.”

Yet in his paintings, we see that this isn’t so much about artistic shock and awe, so much as it is about honest self-acceptance. Coleman, doesn’t seem to try to be convince us of anything, so much as come to terms with the hellish spectrum of his imagination, and share it with the world. For such an unrestricted temperament, there’s a mature sense to how measured his process is, which at times includes painting with a single-haired brush.  In details from a work like “The Victory of Hell’ (not on view in this show, video below) we see him channeling the spirits of Bosch and Brueghel, where the sum of a work can be admired just as much as its parts. This is a guy with a lot to say about his life and the world around it, and has gone about organizing it to share with us in the most beautiful way possible.

FURTHER:

“Man, Myth, and Sensual Pleasures: Jan Gossart’s Renaissance” October 6, 2010–January 17, 2011 [Metropolitan Museum of Art]

Irresistible: How the Ghent Altarpiece Became the World’s Most Frequently Stolen Artwork [Andrew Russeth, ART INFO]

Joe Coleman- “Auto Portrait” [Artist Website]

COLEMAN’S ODDITORIUM [Carlo McCormick, Artnet]

Jean Antoine Watteau turned 326 this past Sunday, and we’ve put together an image retrospective of this seminal figure of the French Rococo age, who pioneered  the wildly popular fête galante (“gallant party”) genre that would be later be embraced by the ensuing generation of painters in 18th century France and define the lavish frivolity of the upper class during the reign of the infamous Louis XV.

The muted palette and fluid, enwrapped figures of works like “La Surprise,” (one of the greatest recent discoveries on the Old Masters Market) typify this intimate bubble world, yet Watteau saved his greatest  and most anomalous masterpiece-  “L’Enseigne de Gersaint (Gersaint’s Shop Sign)” for last. Completed in the final weeks of a life cut short by a lifelong struggle with various ailments, Watteau traded in his amorphous sensual gardens for an urban diorama with an ambiguous undertone to it.

The playground of the rich has been transferred from sensual, rural dreamscapes to the cramped, muddied surroundings of an art dealer’s quarters. Charm and desire continue to play themselves out in the spirit of commerce, albeit in a more restrained manner,  and we are left wondering if such idle pursuits are being celebrated by Watteau or satirized.

Image retrospective of Jean  Antoine Watteau [OMNP]

In this final installment from our three part study of Caravaggio’s life, OMNP takes a look at some of events and exhibitions surrounding the master this year.

Recalling the pathos of the Caravaggio legend in this anniversary year of his death has predictably led to an upsurge in interest in the media. The New York Times’ staff abroad paid due diligence  earlier this Spring, with two features on the artist; Elisabetta Povoledo retraced his life through the series of his works situated about Rome,  while Michael Kimmelman chalked  up the artist’s modern day appeal to that of a capricious libertine shrouded in centuries of mystique.

Kimmelman, from “Caravaggio in Ascendance: An Italian Antihero’s Time to Shine.” (New York Times, published March 9^th, 2010)

“That Caravaggio left behind no drawings, no letters, no will or estate record, only police and court records, makes him a perfect Rorschach for our obsessions. He was outed in the 1970s by gender studies scholars, notwithstanding the absence of documents to indicate he was gay. Pop novelists and moviemakers have naturally had a field day with his life. Exhibition organizers cook up any excuse (“Caravaggio-Bacon,” “Caravaggio-Rembrandt”) to capitalize on his bankability. Newly discovered “Caravaggios test the market every year.”

Kimmelman’s latter points were particular poignant in lieu of some the events surrounding the artist of late.  Recent exhibitions have included a landmark retrospective of his work at the Scudiere Quirinale, and Dora Pamphilj collections in Rome, and two shows at the Art Institute of Chicago. The past few years have also resulted in several discoveries of new works both legitimate-the British Royal Collection’s “Boy Peeling Fruit” and “The Calling of the Saints Peter and Matthew” (see image # 10) and dubious- like “The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence;” recently renounced by the art historical authorities of its owner, the Vatican (see image #8.)

If there was one item, however, that set the barometer for Caravaggio-mania this Summer,  it was the bizarre series of events taking place in Porto Ercole, where the artist died of sun-stroke. In early July, an investigative group of forensic scientists led by Silvano Vincenti, President for the Italian National Committee for Historical, Cultural and Environment Heritage, unveiled what they believe to be the bone remains of the artist from a local tomb (see image #7.)

Opportunistic  PR?  It seems that if new paintings by the artist can’t be discovered, the next best thing is the artist himself.  As Ms. Povoledo reported in regards to the ongoing research,

“So far..art historians have shown very little interest.

“Quite honestly, I don’t see why anyone would be remotely interested in finding Caravaggio’s bones,” Keith Christiansen, curator of Italian and French paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, wrote in an e-mail message. “I thought relic worship went out with the Middle Ages.” “

Conversely, it would be hard to dismiss the recently finished exhibition, “Caravaggio’s Friends and Foes”, (see image #9) at Whitfield Fine Art in London, as trivial. The exhilarating experience of the master’s works never really allows for a standard retrospective to become that perfunctory, yet it was the resourcefulness of this show that made it one of the most memorable in recent memory, which without a single painting on view by the master, invoked his disruptive presence in the works of his contemporaries.

Works by several familiar cast members from the Caravaggio legend made appearances here, for which Whitfield’s engrossing catalogue provides additional back stories and anecdotes to encapsulate the competitive cauldron of Roman painting at the time.

Most notable is a self-portrait of Giovanni Baglione (linked here), Caravaggio’s long-time rival. As the three time head of the Academia di San Luca- a distinguished institution of artists which had the strong backing of the Church, Baglione was in an eminent position for most of his career, yet was plagued by Caravaggio, the insolent and superiorly talented upstart, who defied the Academy’s tradition of study and prospered nonetheless.

You might think then that Baglione would paint a more flattering portrait of himself; a testament to self-devotion and resolve in the face of such adversity. To wit, we can see how he trumpeted himself as a cavalieri-a distinguished painterly emissary of the Church. One ornament of particular historical note from this painting is the gold chain of the cross that he wore as a trophy of sorts, awarded to him for his painting of “Sacred and Profane Love,” a rival work to Caravaggio’s “Amor Vincit Omnia,” to which the latter described in a poetic riposte as:

“The gift which he wears around his neck unworthily,

For I certainly think that-if I am not mistaken-

An iron one on his feet would be more fitting”^[i]

Amidst this veil of ostentation, however, lies a definite sense of insecurity. Despite his success, you get the feeling that this guy wasn’t very happy during his lifetime; his unevenly painted eyes and slight frown bear the expression of a sallow, anxious man.

This speaks volumes when considering some of the calamitous events that befell Baglione as Principe of the Academy. Aside from his public defamation by Caravaggio, the exhibition catalogue notes that Baglione also suffered a premeditated attack by the sword of Carlo’ Il Bodello’ Piemontese, a young painter who had been excluded from the Academy due to his age.  Suffice to say that heavy was the head that wore the crown.

Different aspects of Caravaggio’s influence are also explored; while any standard survey of Baroque art would mention the oeuvre of some of the more well known Carravagisti from Spain or Utrecht, what drove this show were some fantastic works by some relatively unknown followers, like Angelo Caroselli’s “Allegory of Love” (see image #1) and Piero Paolini’s “A Lesson in Astrology” (see image #2.)

Caroselli’s painting particularly stood out as an example of liberated subject matter that became employed in Caravaggio’s wake, as young artists began to experiment with the newfound possibilities of Rome’s street life. The claustrophobic nature of this composition channels the feeling of a late night inside a sweaty, overcrowded tavern. Here, a courtesan shares a moment of hustler’s levity with us, as she works her magic on a drunken suitor. It is a steamy scene of lascivious courtship that is as charming as it is arresting. As the catalogue notes, it was also a tableau later imported by the Dutch Golden Age, noting the similarity of the exchange taking place here to works like Vermeer’s “Procuress” .

Outside of the legion of works by Caravaggio’s devotees and detractors, a final painting of note entitled “Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife,” (see image #5) by Giuseppe Cesari, known as Cavalieri’ D’Arpino, distinguished itself as an example of a style that influenced the master himself. D’Arpino could afford not to be affected by the Caravaggio revolution, because he occupied lofty artistic heights- reserved in Rome as the leading painter of the time. He actually took the master in during his first years of struggle, letting him stay at his studio as an apprentice painting various ornamental motifs for his numerous high-profile commissions.

Predictably enough, egos clashed between the two, and Caravaggio left D’Arpino’s studio after a year to try to make it on his own. Yet for all of the high drama of his tenebrism that would define his career, D’Arpino’s softer, more etiolated palette had an influence in some of Caravaggio’s more intimate works such as “The Rest on the Flight from Egypt” (see image #6.)

NOTE OF CORRECTION: In part one of this series, OMNP mentioned that Caravaggio did not have a birth date, as cause for the anniversary celebration of his death. This was a mistake; the artist’s birth date Is recorded, taking place on September 29, 1571, in the town of Caravaggio, the name of which is the source of the artist’s nickname.

FURTHER:

Caravaggio Reconsidered (Slightly Revised) [stiftungleostrauss.com]

An Italian Antihero’s Time to Shine [Michael Kimmelman, NY Times]

Rome’s Soft Spot for Caravaggio [Elisabeth Povoledo, NY Times]

Vatican Reverses Itself, “The Martyrdom of St. Lawrence” Not a Caravaggio [ArtDaily]

‘Newly found’ Caravaggios on show [BBC]

Image archive of Caravaggio’s paintings [OMNP]

[i] Friedlander, Walter.”Caravaggio Studies,” (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1955.), p. 273

For it marks the birthdays of three contributors to its hallowed timeline.  Jacopo Robusti, better known as Tintoretto, that father of the Baroque and titan of the Venetian Renaissance known for his mastery of lighting and perspective turns 492. François Boucher, a most precocious and celebrated painter of the fête galante that defined the Rococo age in France turns 307.  And our current outlet of art historical wonkery:  psycho-savante Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,  turns 438.

More to come on this momentous occasion tomorrow.