Alberti’s Window

I recently came across a list that I have been compiling a list over the years, which indicate the number of children that artists had. It seems like I am so busy with two kids that it is difficult to get much work done! I can’t imagine how some of these artists were able to focus on their work in addition to their families, but perhaps there is a subtext about the amount of work that these artists’ partners shouldered. Here is what I have so far (in loose chronological order):

• Lavinia Fontana – eleven children (only three outlived her). Her partner Gian Paolo Zappi took care of the household so that she could focus on work.
• Artemisia Gentileschi – five children (but only one, Prudentia, survived to adulthood). Three children died in their first year and their second son died when he was five years old
• Caravaggio – speculations that he may have fathered an illegitimate child, but the baby was given up for adoption
• Gian Lorenzo Bernini – eleven children
• Francesco Borromini – one child (so opposite his rival Bernini!)
• Vermeer – fifteen children (although four died in infancy before being baptized)
• Monet – eight children (two of his own and six stepkids)
• Renoir – three children
• Matisse – three children
• Picasso – four children

Any other artists and their children that you would add to this list? I’m equally fascinated by large families by performers in the 20th century, and was very surprised to learn recently that singer/comedian Dean Martin had eight children!

I first came across the book Lost Masterpieces by Michael Collins at the library earlier this year, and I liked it so much that I bought a copy as a birthday present to myself. It is a small little green book and it is divided into four sections, focusing on art that has been either lost, stolen, damaged or destroyed. Some of my favorite topics, all in a portable volume! The entries aren’t long – only a page or two – but it is just enough of information to get me to think about a work of art or two for a few minutes during my busy day. And I’ve been surprised at the new things I’ve learned about works of art that already were familiar to me.

Tracey Emin, “Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995,” 1995.

One thing that I was surprised to learn is that Tracey Emin’s famous tent installation, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995, was destroyed in a 2004 fire at a London warehouse that was leased by Momart, a company which specializes in fine art storage.¹ At the time, the installation was being stored by its owner, the gallery dealer and collector Charles Saatchi. Many other artists lost their own works of art in the fire, including Damien Hirst and Chris Ofili. The value of the art that was destroyed in the fire is estimated to range from £30-50 million pounds. Many artists, auction houses, galleries and collectors sued Momart for negligence, and Momart counter-argued that those using their facilities should have had their own insurance.

The loss of Tracey Emin’s tent is an interesting one, since the tent was a time capsule of a specific period of time in Emin’s life. The tent is appliquéd with the names of 102 people that Emin had slept with over the course of two decades. And it should be noted that the title “slept with” is not always a euphemism for sex, but can literally just mean sleep: Emin includes the names of people like her grandma, explaining “I used to lay in her bed and hold her hand. We used to listen to the radio together and nod off to sleep. You don’t do that with someone you don’t love and don’t care about.”²

The impactful installation, which was intended to cause people who entered the tent think about their own lives, partners, and who they had “slept with,” as well as broader topics found in her work that include abuse, rape, sexual violence and poverty.³ The collector and dealer Charles Saatchi bought Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995 for £40,000, although he had to buy it from a secondary private dealer because Emin refused to sell it to Saatchi due to his advertising work for Margaret Thatcher. Perhaps Emin, who had originally sold the installation for only £12,000, felt like the fire was a form of karma? After the fire, Emin said that she wouldn’t recreate the installation, explaining that “I couldn’t remake that time in my life any more than I could remake the piece.”⁴ She further argued that the fire was not a total loss: “No one died and ideas continue.”⁵ The tent may have gone to rest in a metaphorical sense, but Emin’s ideas will not be going to sleep anytime soon.

1) Michael Collins, Lost Masterpieces (DK Publishing: New York, 2002), 179.

2) Barry Didcock, “The E spot,” The Sunday Herald, 30 April 2006.

3) Simon Hattenstone, “The radical, ravishing rebirth of Tracey Emin: ‘I didn’t want to die as some mediocre YBA,’” The Guardian, 29 May 2024

4) Collins, 180.

5) Ibid., 181.

Dorothy Napangardi, “Yuparli (Bush Banana),” 1993. Synthetic polymer paint on canvas (Australian, Warlpiri people, Western Desert, Northern Territory). Private collection

I recently found a video of the Australian Aboriginal artist Dorothy Napangardi at work: she is seated on the ground, sitting on top of the canvas, and carefully painting each line and dot. This process of working on a canvas has only existed for roughly about half of a century; before this point, Aboriginal artists would depict the ancient stories and symbols from the primordial Dreaming period on rock cave walls or in the dirt or sand. I’m reminded of how Navajo sandpaintings are somewhat similar in that regard, since they also are made on the floor. In fact, Jackson Pollock put his canvases on the floor because he was inspired by Navajo sandpaintings and their creation process. But despite the similarity that both artists paint on a canvas, Dorothy Napangardi is a reversal of Jackson Pollock: she is seated, collected and calm as she systematically works on creating lines and dots. This calm, reflective process also reflects Napangardi’s internal process. She said in 2002, “I really like painting. I really love doing dot paintings. While I’m doing my paintings, I always have my family in my mind, I have my country in my mind.”¹

I love having this visual of Napangardi working from above the canvas, too, because it helps me to think about the aerial perspective that is taken by the Dreaming paintings of Aboriginal artists. These paintings are kind of like maps, in that they can reference the landscape, the experiences of primordial ancestors across the landscape, and primary plants and sources of food that thrive within the land. The painting “Yuparli (Bush Banana)” is a subject that Dorothy Napangardi depicted more than once (one such example is shown and above and another example). Christine Nichols explained in 2002:

It was in Alice Springs in 1987 that Napangardi began painting… She began to paint the bush banana, a symbiotic plant, winding vine-like around shrubs or small trees. Yuparli leaves are large and rather long. The first flower of the bush banana vine is known as Big Sister, while the second flower is Little Sister or the follower. Sometimes older bush bananas are cooked in the hot ashes to soften them up, otherwise they can be a bit crunchy. Young yuparli are tender and sweet and are prized bush ticker.”²

Dorothy Napangardi, detail of “Yuparli (Bush Banana),” 1993. Synthetic polymer paint on canvas (Australian, Warlpiri people, Western Desert, Northern Territory). Private collection

I wonder if the Big Sister and Little Sister names might have had special meaning for Dorothy Napangardi, since her half-sister Eunice was also a painter who depicted the Yuparli banana plant. Dorothy began painting in 1987, after Eunice had already begun to paint and earn an income through her art.³ Both of the women lived in Alice Springs and the subject of the banana plant is part of an imagery and story that has been handed down in their family. Eunice also painted the bush banana plant (see one example below) and sometimes these women painted banana plants in same year (both examples in this post are from 1993). I wonder how often the women thought of each other, perhaps thinking of their relationship as sisters, when they painted the banana plant and its flowers.

Eunice Napangardi, “Bush Banana Dreaming (Ipalu)” 1993. Acrylic on canvas, 15 3/4 x 20 in. (40 x 50.8 cm.)

1 Kathan Brown, “Dorothy Napangardi and Contemporary Australian Aboriginal Art,” (San Francisco: Crown Point Newsletter, November 2004). Article available here: https://crownpoint.com/app/uploads/Napangardi-Overview099.pdf

2 “Yuparli (Bush Banana), 1993” (Seattle, Washington: Seattle Art Museum, October 3, 2020). Museum label.

3 Kathan Brown.

Standard of Ur, Battle (War) side view, 2550-2400 BCE. Image courtesy Smarthistory

It’s the beginning of the school quarter, and I’m interested in knowing what formal elements have an impact on my students. I’m really influenced by the composition of a work of art, and I know that this has to do with my own personality. I’m an organized and neat person, and so I think a lot about the way that things are arranged and ordered (both literally and metaphorically) in my life. As a result, I notice the arrangement of shapes and forms a lot, and I like to consider whether that arrangement is appealing or unappealing to me. I am drawn to the organized composition of the Standard of Ur (The History of Art: A Global View, p. 74), for example, due to how the trapezoidal-shaped object is visually balanced, since it has decoration on both sides of the object: one side has scenes relating to peace and the other has scenes relating to battle. Furthermore, the balance of the object is even more apparent because each side has the same layout with three registers (horizontal bands). These bands are also organized and neat, since each register is about the same size in its length and height. I like how the spacing of the registers is equal on both sides of the object; that visual consistency is appealing to me in its organization.

Some of the repeating figures are evenly spaced from each other, too, such as the soldiers in the central register of the scenes dedicated to battle. Another example of fairly even spacing is seen in the seated people on the top register of the peace scene. All of these compositional features suggest organization and neatness to me, and I personally am drawn to them for that reason.

Standard of Ur, Battle side (top), Peace side (bottom), 2550-2400 BCE

What formal elements are you drawn to? Does it relate to your personality or are you drawn to the formal elements for another reason?

Anna Bella Geiger, “Our Daily Bread (O Pão Nosso de Cada Dia),” 1978. Six postcards and screenprint on paper bag mounted on card. Tate Modern

I recently returned from helping to co-lead a study abroad program in London. Our group visited the Tate Modern and I became familiar with Anna Bella Geiger’s work, Our Daily Bread (O Pão Nosso de Cada Dia). The postcards on display in the museum document a performance in which Geiger ate bread to highlight the poverty in Brazil, as well as South America. The holes in the bread depict the outline of Brazil and South America, in addition to the outlines on the empty bread basket.

I’m struck by the title, which references the Lord’s Prayer from the Bible (“Give us this day our daily bread”). It evokes the strong Catholic presence in Brazil, which has roots in the colonial period and the evangelization efforts of missionaries. Geiger has explained how she was influenced by the Jesuit’s “systems” in teaching Native people about Catholicism, and I think that the visual example paired with Christian text ties into the system that she is referencing.

As discussed in this video, Geiger’s work often uses the imagery of cartography with untraditional artistic mediums to suggest a disconnect between belonging and not belonging to something. I think there is a disconnect suggested between how Christianity and its “daily bread” prayer are often seen as a part of Brazilian identity, but poverty and hunger is also very much a part of Brazilian identity too.

Ironically, bread-made-from-wheat was not always associated with Brazil. Ana Carolina de Carvalho Viotti has written about how manioc was nicknamed “bread of Brazil” in the colonial period. And the maps of the colonial period include imagery of brazilwood or sugarcane as the key exports that impacted the country’s identity. It was much later when wheat production began in Brazil, not until in 1919. Production has increased over the past hundred years and right now Brazil is on target to have a record wheat crop this year. It seems like the meanings of Our Daily Bread is changing in some ways, with this rise of wheat and its potential economic impact, although poverty in the country is still a major concern. Ironically, the record wheat crop in Brazil has been pitched as a way to end the wheat shortages in the world as a result of the invasion of Ukraine, so perhaps Geiger’s image of the country of Brazil now expresses solution to help combat hunger elsewhere in the world.